Nephi: Tree of Life

1 Nephi 8-11 includes Lehi's version of the Tree of Life followed by Nephi’s personal vision of same.

For nineteenth century readers, these chapters would have connected to the intense individualism within American thought in the early nineteenth century. 

The nineteenth century is the era of de Tocqueville, who arrived in the United States and observed separation of church and state in action. “Good golly,” he exclaimed (I am summarizing), “when religion is not imposed by the state, people are, what do you know, more religious!”

The American Revolutionary also supplied an ongoing narrative of intense individualism—rebellion against (or exodus from) the corruptness of the Old World. Even Puritan thought, which now strikes modern people as rather dictatorial, was about individual salvation, a single person coming to understand God’s grace through lifelong, intense personal analysis.

It is difficult to entirely capture—we are products of the early C.E. era, after all—the break here from communal sin and suffering that permeates social orders in antiquity. That urge remains, of course, what with Witch Trials and their modern equivalents: one bad apple rots the entire barrel! Twitter or whatever it is called now appears to be the ultimate expression of badgering everyone everywhere into some kind of compliant order.

But even Twitter is the product of individual offerings.

Individualism existed in antiquity and forms the basis of most legends and myths, but the social order—and therefore the social role—of populations was entirely presupposed. Kings were not scribes. Scribes were not peasants. Peasants weren’t anybody. If the king is saved, you are all saved. Might as well get on-board.

The Common Era concept of the individual as agent, who works out an individual salvation, is something that nineteenth-century readers would have entirely comprehended and embraced and that modern folks rather take for granted, even when they criticize the ideology.

Lehi’s Tree of Life rests on the premise of the individual agent. Although the “strait and narrow” path gives rise to images of intolerance and exclusivity, in Lehi’s dream it is a path that each person must walk alone, even if there are others ahead and behind: each of Lehi’s children and even his wife are referenced separately; at one point, he watches them struggle separately. The path is a person’s integrity or personal path in life—choice of profession, artistic endeavor, prophetic calling (see Joseph Smith)—whatever self-definition a person embraces and endures and sacrifices for.

The “great and spacious building”—on the other hand—is the ultimate collective. People get there individually but they stay in the “safe” Borg-like “in-group” that mocks individuals and scorns the difficult pathway that each individual treads.

Consequently, the “great and spacious building” houses detractors, sneerers, people who love labels, mockers, revilers, obnoxious cliques—those who prefer to watch others drown rather than make a life for themselves. (All members of the great and spacious building point in the same direction, as a mob would.)

There are other possible interpretations, of course, including the search for a single path to God’s grace, a search that was dear to the Smith family and many others. Although communal living was all the rage, early nineteenth-century readers still would have perceived such a search in individual terms, one that this group, this community carries out for the sake of each member. (Despite the Donner party haunting American mythology, many pioneers movements were quite successful: successful pioneers moved west within specific groups—religious groups, town groups, family groups.)

And few nineteenth-century readers would have balked at the fruit of the tree being happiness, love, and joy (as opposed to discipline, humiliation, and subjugation). Gotta love those Americans and their life, liberty, and pursuit of happiness mindsets! (Even the Puritans perceived the happiness and beauty of nature as the key to comprehending God’s grace.)

Darcy's Possibly Happy Childhood

Because Darcy is glum and untalkative, some fan fiction tries to suggest that he has trauma.

I don't agree (and neither does Darcy, actually).

Austen siblings often have close relationships.
Henry & Eleanor Tilney protect each other,  
& their rakish brother, against their father.

It is customary to give heroes and heroines difficult family relationships. After all, it is more dramatic! And, to be fair, a number of Austen's characters do have dysfunctional home lives: Anne Elliot, Henry Tilney, Edmund Bertram, and Elizabeth herself. On the other hand, Catherine Morland, the Musgroves, Elinor's immediate family, and Emma all have good relationships with their families.

Even those without good relationships rarely spend time agonizing over their family issues--not a lot of Freudians in this crowd!

Darcy is one of Austen's characters who had a very happy childhood. His own description follows:

As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoilt by my parents, who, though good themselves (my father, particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my own family circle; to think meanly of all the rest of the world; to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own.

In other words, Darcy's pride though partly the result of how he was raised is not in any way the result of poor treatment: neglect or abuse.

Not only is Darcy's pride not the result of poor treatment; it isn't even the result of deliberate brainwashing: "Son, you are better than anyone else; don't you forget it!" Darcy's pride is actually much closer to that described by C.S. Lewis in The Screwtape Letters. In a letter to Wormwood, Screwtape suggests how to exacerbate (spiritual) pride:

[She makes the] quite untroubled assumption that the outsiders who do not share [her beliefs] are really too stupid and ridiculous...it is not, in fact, very different from the conviction she would have felt at the age of ten that the kind of fish knives used in her father's house were the proper or normal or "real" kind, while those the neighboring families were "not real fish knives" at all. Now the element of ignorance and naivete in all this is large...

Screwtape then goes on to discuss how Wormwood can use this perspective to push the cliquey idea of "us versus them."

The attraction of a clique or set to someone like Darcy is not the attraction of being superior to others ("We are so much more beautiful, successful, likable than you"), which is the Crawfords' type of pride in Mansfield Park. For Darcy the attraction of the clique lies in MY family, MY friends, MY people versus Mrs. Bennet, Mr. Collins, Lady Catherine, etc. etc. etc. 

Darcy's "MY" extends from his happy childhood.

Don't Entail Smentail, Me! The Difficulty of Entails in Persuasion and Persuadable

Money plays a big role in classic English literature, from Austen to Trollope. And it matters. Money may be about greed. It is primarily about survival, marriage prospects, and identity. In addition, money isn't a simplistic matter since money matters are complicated by debt, inheritance, financial opportunities, financial risk, and entails.

The ending of my book Persuadable is a rebuttal to the ending of the Persuasion (2007) film.

At the end of Persuasion (2007), Captain Wentworth buys Anne's family home. The film correctly indicates that part of Anne's attraction to Mr. Elliot, or at least her attraction to marrying him, is that she will be able to live in her family home. By buying her family home, Captain Wentworth resolves that dilemma (Anne doesn't have to give up anything for love!).

Unfortunately, having Captain Wentworth buy Kellynch Hall makes mincemeat of the plot.

If selling Kellynch Hall was this easy, why didn't Sir Walter sell it to begin with? That would be the easiest way to clear his debts.

An argument could be made that Sir Walter's vanity won't allow him to give up the manor; the solution still begs the question: Why would he suddenly be willing to sell at the end of Persuasion (2007)? (There is a possible explanation; the film just never supplies it.)

A possible Kellynch Hall from JASA.

In Austen's tome, Mr. Elliot wants Kellynch Hall because he is tired of being "Mr." and wants to try out being "Sir." He will be "Sir" without Kellynch Hall, but not to the same degree. And, in the book at least, there's no financial reason for him to give up the hall.

To explain Mr. Elliot's behavior, many movies make him (relatively) poor/in need of funds. This, of course, begs the question of why a poor Mr. Elliot would be chasing after women with small dowries and an estate encumbered with debt. However, even if we assume that Kellynch Hall, unencumbered, could bring in a decent income, there is still an underlying problem:

 

THE ENTAIL

Sir Walter's vanity is not the sole block to a sale anymore than Mr. Bennet's passivity is the sole block to his disposing of Longbourn. Both estates are entailed; they can only be passed on to the nearest living male relative: Mr. Elliot or Mr. Collins. And entails in the 19th century were rather difficult to break.

They can be broken, which the passage below discusses in some detail. However, Persuasion (2007) makes no effort to explain how the entail was broken, leaving the viewer to wonder what everyone has been fussing about for 120 minutes. Captain Wentworth just, you know, walked into an estate office one day and, like, said, like, "Oh, hey, I'll buy that."

My primary problem with Persuasion (2007)--which does have some redeeming points--is this assumption of dumbness by viewers. The writers come across as people writing for Austen fans, not as fans themselves: Oh, those Austen fans are silly airheads who only read Austen for the cutesy romance and the girl-talk and don't pick up on anything else.

Sites like The Republic of Pemberley and JASA (above) disprove this cynical painting of such fans. Jane Austen fans (and romance writers/readers) are remarkably well-informed.

I would have preferred Persuasion (2007) to have been written by true fans rather than by people-trying-to-make-the-fans-happy.

Setting aside the film, if you want to know how to really break an entail, read the following passage from Persuadable!

Captain Wentworth eyed [Will and Penelope] as they entered [the drawing room of their house]. Anne curtsied; Penelope responded quickly. Will returned Captain Wentworth’s curt bow, then stood behind Penelope’s chair. His stance mirrored Captain Wentworth’s. His use of mimicry, Penelope had learned in the last three years, was a protection against outsiders. She was an insider.

“You received my letter,” Captain Wentworth said to Will.

“You wish to discuss breaking the entail to the Kellynch Hall property.”

“Sir Walter’s health is failing. He has moved permanently to Bath. He is willing to break the entail for his daughter’s sake.”

Penelope scarcely believed it—the man’s self-love was so bound up in his ancestry—but then she realized that his self-love had always been as much for the form as for the substance. All said and done, Kellynch Hall was a means to an end.

Besides, attempting to break the entail would spite Will: Better his daughter in Kellynch Hall than the despised cousin.

“Are you committed to inheriting Kellynch Hall?” Captain Wentworth asked Will.

“It’s a pleasant area,” Will said.

“You don’t strike me as a countryman,” Captain Wentworth said.

No. Will was no countryman. After all, Penelope remembered, Captain Wentworth manages men on his ship; he isn’t lacking in perception.

Captain Wentworth continued: “Are you sure you would be accepted in Kellynch?”

His eyes didn’t flicker towards Penelope, but Will said sharply, “I believe the populace would be well-satisfied with the Hall’s lord and lady.”

Across from Penelope, Anne tilted her head. For the first time in their acquaintance, she looked at Penelope with real interest. Her eyes drifted to Will who had slouched to a half-seat on the arm of Penelope’s chair. So, her gaze seemed to say, you are not just opportunists.

Penelope said smoothly, “Town life certainly has more to offer.”

“We are country-folk,” Captain Wentworth said and settled into one of the armchairs. Apparently, he had decided that Penelope and Will were sensible people who would listen to reason. “Once I leave the navy, my wife and I would prefer a country residence. Kellynch Hall would be very much to our taste. We want to acquire it.”

Penelope silently applauded Captain Wentworth. Any other husband of a baronet’s daughter would have kept up the pretense of a friendly, non-financial visit for hours. The horror of appearing vulgar!

Captain Wentworth continued, “Since the entail has to be renewed in your lifetime, Mr. Elliot, this is a chance to review your options. And since renewal may not be possible—”

Because Will and Penelope currently had no son, and Jennie [Will and Penelope's daughter] could not inherit. The Wentworths weren’t fools; they were going to press their advantage now, even if it meant dancing around their dislike of Will and Penelope. At least, Captain Wentworth disliked them. Anne seemed more curious than disgusted.

“My husband will not give up the title,” Penelope said.

She felt Will’s bright gaze on her, but she didn’t look away from Captain Wentworth’s speculative stare.

“Do you think of yourself as a baronet?” Captain Wentworth said to Will in a tone that suggested he didn’t think Will merited any title, including “captain.”

“Of course Sir Walter’s cousin should inherit the title,” Anne said quickly. “You are my father’s heir, Mr. Elliot.”

To give the Wentworths credit, Penelope doubted they cared about the title. In the City, however, a title could open doors for Will. And Penelope saw no reason why he should give up what was rightfully his.

Will said, “Penelope’s father, Mr. Shepherd, should be kept on as manager.”

“He’s too good to let go,” Captain Wentworth said. His tone added: Despite his daughter’s scandalous behavior.

Penelope resisted rolling her eyes. She knew how to play this game. Everyone brought deficiencies to the table and every deficiency had a cost. My scandalous behavior versus Anne’s non-male gender. Anne’s lack of maleness cost her more than scandalous behavior ever cost Penelope; Penelope didn’t see why she should allow anyone to forget that.

She said, “Since only my husband can break this entail, we expect to be compensated. The property is nearly disencumbered of debt. It will make a tidy profit in a few years’ time.”

Anne leaned forward, her eyes filled with the quiet speculation that marked this middle Elliot daughter. Anne knew that Penelope had no real tie to or love for Kellynch; Anne would remember how quickly Penelope left it behind the first time.

For Will, Penelope might endure it. But Will had no interest in playing squire. However much he liked the idea of a country estate, he’d never bother with the day-to-day. He would hire a qualified agent (who only skimmed slightly off the accounts) and move on to another endeavor.

Penelope could direct his energies better elsewhere. The Wentworths would get all the unpleasant noblesse oblige of being estate landlords while Will and Penelope stayed in London and watched its neighborhoods grow. The Wentworths would thrive, Penelope assumed. Kellynch Hall was their type of place.

She thought fiercely: I want Will to thrive.

She turned back to Anne. Anne, still leaning forward, gave her a seraphic smile, and Penelope realized, Sir Walter’s unappreciated daughter is getting everything she wanted. Well, well, Miss Anne Elliot. Good for you.

Captain Wentworth said, “It is still encumbered, however. That should be a consideration.”

Will laughed. He tapped Penelope’s shoulder, rose, crossed to the decanter, and poured himself a glass. He held out another to Captain Wentworth who took it after only a slight pause.

Détente.

The Awful Elliots in Persuasion and Persuadable

Speaking of villains...

In Persuasion by Jane Austen, the Elliots have to rent--or retrench (cut their budget)--because they are in debt. This does not mean that they are poor. But it does mean that they are living in the red.

This state of affairs has come about due to gross overspending by Sir Walter and Elizabeth. Of the family, however, only Anne appreciates what her father and sister have done. Even Lady Russell is more concerned with the Elliots' prestige than with the consequences of their actions. But the consequences of their actions to their community are huge.

Basically, Sir Walter and Elizabeth have created a state of affairs where they can no longer put money back into the estate; that is, as landlords, they can no longer repair their tenants' cottages, hire extra workers, or invest in any new technologies, developments, or expansions. 

Based on Austen's original text, there is reason to believe that Mr. Shepherd has at least prevented Sir Walter from raising rents. Even so, the Kellynch tenants--who would have far less control over their livelihoods and employment than people do today--are now stuck working for the equivalent of a bankrupt company. The 1995 Persuasion film does an excellent job capturing the unimpressed faces of those tenants as Sir Walter and Elizabeth regally ride off to Bath.

Consider Pride & Prejudice when Elizabeth visits Pemberley and hears how much Darcy's tenants respect him; these glowing positive reviews means a good deal more than that Darcy is a nice guy. It means he is a good boss, a wise manager, a smart investor, an up-to-date farmer, etc. Darcy is the kind of estate owner that tenants want to get.

Mr. Shepherd, Sir Walter's estate attorney, and Mrs. Clay, Mr. Shepherd's daughter, are well-aware of Sir Walter and Elizabeth's perfidy. Although Mr. Shepherd and his family are members of the growing middle-class--and fundamentally town or city people--they are in a better position even than Anne to see and hear how the Kellynch estate affects their neighbors. When the main source of income for a community--agriculture--is materially damaged, everybody pays.

Consequently, Mrs. Clay in my tribute Persuadable has little pity for Sir Walter and his so-called problems. (The possible ambiguity of Mrs. Clay's remark about sailors' and workers' looks exists in the original text.)

Penelope [Clay] felt no sympathy for Sir Walter’s desperate financial straits, which had steadily worsened in the last few years (“Sir Walter is not a, ah, moderate man,” Penelope’s father had explained on the carriage ride over.) Why should she feel sympathy when the gold watch Sir Walter currently handled could pay several weeks of board and room and the bracelet on his daughter Elizabeth's wrist could pay a month’s worth of butcher’s bills? Only his middle daughter Anne dressed like a person who knew the value of a disappearing pound.

Penelope watched Kellynch Hall’s residents through half-lidded eyes. Sir Walter was an easy man to sway emotionally. Praise made him preen. Mockery of others made him puff out his chest. If she could tackle him absent his family and neighbors, she would have him to the altar in a fortnight.

Unfortunately, the friends and family were never absent. Penelope could handle Elizabeth, but she’d noticed a growing wariness from Anne: long, sideways glances when Penelope complimented Sir Walter; knit brows when Penelope extolled the beauties of Kellynch Hall.

In addition, the family’s great friend Lady Russell continued to treat Penelope like a clod of dirt tracked into a clean parlor.

This will be a long campaign, Penelope counseled herself. I should regard this as a chance to become acquainted with Sir Walter’s moods before marriage.

Currently, Sir Walter was blustering about having to rent Kellynch Hall while he and his daughters removed to Bath.

“The alternative is to retrench,” her father pointed out for the sixth or seventh time. Retrenching would mean staying at Kellynch Hall but seriously cutting expenses—no more four-horse carriage; fewer sponsored balls; no extraneous purchases. The entire neighborhood would witness Sir Walter’s and his daughters’ humiliation.

Sir Walter sighed and looked profoundly troubled. Sir Walter never stopped appearing astonished by the vagaries of life. It struck Penelope as an exhausting way to approach the world; luckily, being Sir Walter’s wife wouldn’t mean adopting his world-view.

“And there are currently many naval officers returning to England who would greatly appreciate a house like this.”

“A naval officer!” Sir Walter was aghast. Apparently, he was unaware that the navy had won the last war. “Such a man wouldn’t know how to behave in a manor like Kellynch Hall.”

“He would look over the premises and bless his good fortune,” Penelope said.

She caught a faintly resigned look on Anne’s face and smiled to herself. Anne disliked sycophancy.

“But,” Penelope continued, “I quite agree with my father that a sailor would be a desirable tenant. They are so neat and careful in their ways.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps. But the navy has brought persons of obscure birth into undue distinction. And life on the open seas terribly ravages the features.”

Sir Walter, in his mid-fifties, could justify a comparison based on appearance. He had straight shoulders and a patrician head that was only marred by a more button than beak-like nose. He was handsome, even if Penelope found his features rather dull—there was nothing memorable about so much regularity.

Elizabeth was nodding agreement with Sir Walter’s vapid criticisms. Elizabeth’s features were even more regular. The youngest daughter Mary was pretty in a shallow way. Only Anne, the middle daughter, made a person look and look again: puzzled by her seeming plainness, caught by the fineness of her bones.

But of course a woman like Anne was far more difficult to flatter.

“We are not all born to be handsome,” Penelope said to stop Sir Walter’s insipid, cruel comments about sailors’ looks. “All professions make their mark whether the physical labor of a soldier or the mental stresses of a lawyer. Only those of property continue to look personable after the flush of youth.”

Sir Walter beamed. Elizabeth nodded. Penelope’s father shook his head and rustled his papers. Only Anne gave Penelope a long bemused look. There had been as much criticism as praise in those words: what were Sir Walter’s cares and concerns (despite the horror of renting Kellynch Hall) compared to those of real working men?

The New Determinism: Unsettling Arguments in Popular Culture

It is troubling, though not entirely surprising, to realize that not only was Thomas Jefferson less than willing to practice what he preached--an end to slavery--but that a fundamental part of his being believed that slavery was justified: that by their nature, blacks were inferior to whites. Less progressive. Less able to nobly advance.

And one shouldn't forget the long-held belief in English society that servants were  inherently inferior to their masters. When Pamela by Samuel Richardson reached Twilight-acclaim among its readers, its detractors hurried to point out that Pamela, bride of the squire, had been--gasp, gasp--a servant! Was it really possible, asked the detractors, for servants to have the sense of self ascribed by Richardson to his creation? Weren't servants . . . well . . . little better than cattle? Capable of speech certainly. But not capable of extensive thought.

The above examples have their roots in environmental determinism, the belief that a "character of a entire peoples is decisively determined by their geographical location." The link to slavery or servitude is that (1) due to their environment, such a people are conquerable; (2) once they are conquered, they "acquire a slavish personality unfit for life in freedom" and can never change back. Hence environment and lineage are linked, reflecting the underlying assumption that "the essence of a person is almost exclusively determined by his ancestry and far less or not at all by his own deeds and choices in life" (Isaac).

What astonishes me is not that these theories have fallen out of style--as well they should. [Unfortunately, the inherently racist-to-everybody version of CRT currently being touted by the left has brought these theories back into style. I've pondered whether determinism is the bête noire humans are fated to always fight.] What astonishes me is how rapidly human beings have switched the same rhetoric to the discussion of genetics [or anything else].

Writers like Steven Pinker and Judith Rich Harris arguably needed to make the general populace aware of the impact of genetics and, more basically, the wiring of the human brain.  In The Blank Slate, Pinker argues against the idea that humans are born into the world as empty globs of clay--which parents, environment, and culture then mold into people. He uses the acquisition of language as the obvious flaw in the blank-slate theory: children are born with the ability to acquire language. They are not taught how to acquire it.

Developmentalists (advocates of nurture over nature) challenged (and still challenge) the impact of genetics/biology. At their most extreme, developmentalists in the 1950s and 1960s traced mental illnesses like autism and schizophrenia to parental behavior, specifically the "refrigerator mother." These arguments are no longer common currency, but the dependence on environment/nurture explanations remains.

As Harris illustrates in No Two Alike: "Many [developmentalists] had spent their entire professional lives doing research designed to show how parents mold their children's personalities. Not whether parents mold their children's personalities but how they do it. That parents have this power was something the developmentalists simply took for granted."

Harris goes on rather wryly, "Developmentalists are still plentiful but...over time they have become more modest in their claims and less strident in their denunciations."

It has taken literal decades for the role of genetics to be appreciated within mainstream and popular culture.

And yet the moment it became accepted . . .

About blacks, Jefferson argued:

They seem to require less sleep. A black, after hard labour through the day, will be induced by the slightest amusements to sit up till midnight, or later, though knowing he must be out with the first dawn of the morning. They are at least as brave, and more adventuresome. But this may perhaps proceed from a want of forethought, which prevents their seeing a danger till it be present. When present, they do not go through it with more coolness or steadiness than the whites . . . In general, their existence appears to participate more of sensation than reflection. To this must be ascribed their disposition to sleep when . . . unemployed in labour. An animal whose body is at rest, and who does not reflect, must be disposed to sleep of course. Comparing them by their faculties of memory, reason, and imagination, it appears to me, that in memory they are equal to the whites; in reason much inferior, as I think one could scarcely be found capable of tracing and comprehending the investigations of Euclid; and that in imagination they are dull, tasteless, and anomalous.

If the above passage makes your skin crawl, it should. What amazes me is when people who would turn from Jefferson's declarations in disgust spout something like the following:

That boy requires less sleep. Have you met his family? His father is exactly the same. It must be in the genes. After a hard day's labor, he will be induced by the slightest amusements to sit up till midnight despite knowing he must be up at dawn. His brothers are just like him; they are also brave and adventuresome, so that must run in the family too. But this may be due to a want of forethought, which all the family has, and which prevents their seeing a danger till it's happened. When in danger, they do not exhibit the same coolness or steadiness as that other family down the block, but of course, that other family obviously has better genes. The first family isn't half as intelligent since they are disposed to sleep when unemployed like animals at rest. Regarding memory, reason, and imagination, in memory they are equal to that family down the block; in reason much inferior, as I doubt any one of them is capable of tracing and comprehending the investigations of Euclid (no getting into Harvard for them!); and in imagination, they are dull, tasteless, and weird--but oh well, that's the genes they were born with.

Perhaps the reader would like to argue that because Jefferson's statement if about an entire race and

Henri-Baptiste Gregoire, the priest who disagreed

with Jefferson. As Ferling points out, "Many of

Jefferson's contemporaries...more zealously opposed

slavery... [others] concluded that the perceived

character and habits of blacks were attributable to

the malicious environment of slavery, not to race"

(my emphasis).

the second statement is (only) about an entire family, the argument about the family is not rooted in determinism. Except Jefferson was perfectly willing to propound his argument despite his treatise being refuted by a French priest with a broader knowledge of the world than Jefferson. In other words, Jefferson was perfectly willingly to create a racial or geographical deterministic argument based on very little knowledge. How is that better than people with only a rough understanding of genetics--which is most of us--declaring that they know why a person or a family are the way that they are?

In Culture Map, Erin Meyer tries to elucidate the differences between various cultures' management styles. Hers is a pragmatic and necessary exploration of environmental, cultural, and (perhaps) genetic differences. But Erin Meyer is not telling us why these differences exist. Although she makes a cursory and self-deprecating attempt in the forward, she admits that it is futile. She honestly doesn't know why. She honestly doesn't know how environment, culture, genetics--and hey, remember free will?!--come together. And she doesn't pretend to know what will happen in the future. She is not declaring that "this is so because . . . and hence will remain so." She is arguing, "This is so, so how does one deal with it?"

In other words: there is a tremendous difference between pointing out genetic puzzles and giving those puzzles meaning.

Deterministic rhetoric focuses on meaning. And the rhetoric surrounding that meaning is often dogmatic, self-sustaining, and relentless in its search for so-called related outcomes. (In No Two Alike, Judith Rich Harris points out with devastating specificity the problem with pinpointing actual correlations, not merely perceived correlations, within the social sciences.)

In response to all this determinism, yet another generation has to battle for the philosophy of free will and the individuality of the human soul. (Haven't we done this already?)

As a proponent of free will, I consider the meaning of deterministic rhetoric to be the following: determinism is a powerful lingual coping mechanism. And many people choose it as a way to cope. After all, even Locke didn't intend tabula rasa to become an excuse for Freud--it was suppose to free people, not lock them into pre-determined roles. And yet that's how it got used.

Whatever comfort it brings to the individual, determinism is not and never will be good science.

[Update in 2022: My remarks about determinism here refer to genetics. Those remarks also apply to the most egregious fallacies embedded in CRT and other theories that insist that X people must exist in boxes and under labels in order for Y people to feel better: bullying is bullying, no matter how fancy it sounds. And defining any group by a theory, no matter how much that definition supposedly helps the group, is patronizing, reductive, and cruel. It is no better than Jefferson's passage.]

• Ferling, John. Setting the World Ablaze: Washington, Adams, Jefferson, and the American Revolution. Oxford University Press, 2000.
• Isaac, Benjamin. The Invention of Racism in Classical Antiquity.  Princeton University Press, 2004.
• Harris, Judith Rich. No Two Alike: Human Nature and Human Individuality. W.W. Norton & Company, 2006.

Thoughts on the Ending of Jane Eyre

Bicknell captures St. John's zeal.

Jane Eyre does not close with Jane Eyre's marriage to Rochester, the birth of their son, and their happily married life. It certainly mentions those things ("Reader, I married him") but it ends instead with several paragraphs about St. John. The passage is worth quoting in full:

As to St. John Rivers, he left England: he went to India.  He entered on the path he had marked for himself; he pursues it still.  A more resolute, indefatigable pioneer never wrought amidst rocks and dangers.  Firm, faithful, and devoted, full of energy, and zeal, and truth, he labors for his race; he clears their painful way to improvement; he hews down like a giant the prejudices of creed and caste that encumber it.  He may be stern; he may be exacting; he may be ambitious yet; but his is the sternness of the warrior Greatheart, who guards his pilgrim convoy from the onslaught of Apollyon.  His is the exaction of the apostle, who speaks but for Christ, when he says—“Whosoever will come after me, let him deny himself, and take up his cross and follow me.”  His is the ambition of the high master-spirit, which aims to fill a place in the first rank of those who are redeemed from the earth—who stand without fault before the throne of God, who share the last mighty victories of the Lamb, who are called, and chosen, and faithful.

St. John is unmarried: he never will marry now.  Himself has hitherto sufficed to the toil, and the toil draws near its close: his glorious sun hastens to its setting.  The last letter I received from him drew from my eyes human tears, and yet filled my heart with divine joy: he anticipated his sure reward, his incorruptible crown.  I know that a stranger’s hand will write to me next, to say that the good and faithful servant has been called at length into the joy of his Lord.  And why weep for this?  No fear of death will darken St. John’s last hour: his mind will be unclouded, his heart will be undaunted, his hope will be sure, his faith steadfast.  His own words are a pledge of this—

“My Master,” he says, “has forewarned me.  Daily He announces more distinctly,—‘Surely I come quickly!’ and hourly I more eagerly respond,—‘Amen; even so come, Lord Jesus!’”

Since I am not a fan of St. John's insidious bullying of Jane during the proposal, I've always shrugged off this part of the story as "spin"--Bronte's attempt to pacify her Victorian audience.

Buchan captures his honesty.

Recently, however, I rethought that idea. Victorians were domestic and pious (they were also earthier than we often imagine them to be; still, they thought of themselves as domestic and pious). Take Jane getting married and having a kid: Victorians readers wouldn't have been too happy about Jane's boldness in returning to Rochester before knowing for sure that his wife was dead and they wouldn't have been too happy about a lowly governess marrying the head of a household although Jane was of a legitimately good family and had her own inheritance. And they wouldn't have been too terribly pleased about her strong  physical response to Rochester's physical advances.

But, still, ya know, marriage and a kid isn't so bad.

St. John, however, for better or worse turned his back entirely on domesticity. Victorians, in resemblance to their beloved queen (who was far less motherly or wifely than she was portrayed: she image below), placed a high premium on loving God and supporting missionary work--from the comfort of hearth and home. Being religious was very, very important (no atheists here!) but in a restrained, civilized, non-weirdo American way (all those American cults!).

Queen Victoria and Prince Albert: Wedded Life

St. John is extraordinarily...Catholic in his response to his personal call to go abroad. There's a kind of fervor in his decision and in the outcome of that decision. The guy wanted to be a martyr and by George, he succeeded!

That is the furthest thing from the married, middle class, wedded bliss purported by the queen and her subjects plus Victorian painters and poets. And it made me wondered if Bronte was pushing the envelope in more than one direction--not just in extolling Jane's supreme self-confidence in her right to choose (rather than be guided by her male relative) but in praising St. John's supreme self-confidence in his single lifestyle that puts a cause above all else.

The St. Johns of the world make me mighty uncomfortable. I'm like Spike--I like the mundane fun of ordinary life. But I can certainly commend Bronte for knocking down all the fences in her path.

Getting Irritated about Assumptions about History

Twain is right--every historical event is unique to itself.

Human nature being what it is: patterns do develop..

One of my biggest irritations when it comes to the discussion of history is the assumption that "things were bad; now they are good" or (more commonly argued these days) "things were good; now they are bad."

There is a certain degree of truth to the former, simply because we live in a world where people have better medicine, more rights, and far more freedoms. I've written about this in detail elsewhere.

However, even the former argument bothers me a tad because it is predicated on the assumption that societal assumptions and expectations work on some kind of continuum or arrow--everything moves in one direction.

And it doesn't.

A good example of this is the concept of modesty. Every culture includes this concept--what constitutes socially, non-offensive clothing--but what constitutes modesty changes radically between cultures.

One is a hippie; one is a lord. For one, the hair style 

was indicative of rebellion; for the other, it was

just one style among many.

NOT because the concept of modesty works on a less-to-more (or more-to-less) pattern. It changes radically because culture changes and with culture, the assumptions and attitudes embedded within that culture.

There is little to no point comparing ancient Egyptians with Medieval aristocrats or high society Victorians with modern day working men and women. Each society has within it an idea of what constitutes modesty--how people should dress at work, in public, at school--and each society punishes those who violate those standards. However, what those standards are is unique to each society.

Medieval aristocrats, for example, would have made little to no connection between privacy and modesty--a connection vital to modern Westerners. Even within the last 70 years in the West, privacy as a measure of modesty has increased ("I dress alone," "I bathe alone," "I breastfeed my baby alone," etc.) The Medieval era wouldn't even have placed privacy on the table. It truly is a modern concept.

So Medieval peasants and aristocrats dressed and bathed (when they did bathe) in public while aristocratic men thought nothing of pissing against the castle wall, behavior now reserved for perverts in subways. 
But Medieval men would not have been considered perverts.



Believe it or not, this dress is incredibly

provocative, even erotic--

at least it was to people at the time.

Not that they wouldn't have been considered louts--some Medieval writers do complain about the sheer plethora of public urination. And it isn't like nobody noticed the smell (they did). It is that the act didn't automatically violate "proper" standards.


But other things did.

And that's the point--it isn't that the Medieval era DIDN'T have standards for modesty; it's that their standards simply don't correspond to ours.

Here are a few examples of how standards can change radically between cultures and time periods:

However, the low bodice on this

Colonial-era dress would not have

been considered inappropriate.

• Nude bathing (men together; women together) was common in the United States through the 20th century. No more!
• In some societies, a woman going out in long, even loose trousers would immediately violate that society's code of modesty--something that is clearly not true in most Westernized societies, where a woman wearing long trousers can actually be perceived as MORE modest.
• The ancient Egyptians did not consider an exposed breast immodest. 
• Aristocratic ancient Egyptians, however, would never have gone out without their wigs.

It is easy to see changes as always on a trajectory, to complain--for example--that kids these days are SO immodest what with their low-riding jeans (which I actually find rather adorable) and their tube tops, etc. But this type of selective response ignores changes/differences that many Westernized Americans/Europeans would find rather disruptive--like having to always wear a hat or kerchief or veil outside--and changes/differences that other cultures don't see as particularly salacious, such as family members bathing together.

History changes, often for the better, and societies can improve, but understanding history is best accomplished by ignoring comparative statements. Or at least comparative statements that insist that everything works along the same continuum. "Teens are more disrespectful these days" ignores centuries of disrespectful, high energy, and occasionally destructive apprentices in England and America (and probably other places as well).

Without context, differences become interesting, not informative.

Lizzie Borden in Context

Check out the adverb "frightfully."

Joseph Conforti's insightful and delightfully wry book Lizzie Borden on Trial answers several questions I have long had about the Lizzie Borden case:

Why did so many newspapers support Lizzie while one of her hometown newspapers did not?

Despite what Lizzie supporters--and Bill James--may try to tell you, there was a decent case against Lizzie for the murders. Conforti does not tackle Lizzie's guilt or innocence; he is more interested in context. His objective relation of events consequently carries more weight than popular books which attempt to solve the case. As a subjective reader of popular texts, I have long considered Lizzie guilty of the murders (although I would agree that proving her guilt absolutely is somewhat problematic; where's Gil Grissom when you need him?).

I could be wrong. My point is that Americans love a good murder mystery and they love crazy killers! So why was Lizzie defended by newspapers like The New York Times? Nowadays, the pundits would be climbing all over each other to speculate as to Lizzie's extreme innocence AND extreme guilt (see JonBenet Ramsey case). Why were the newspapers outside of Fall River so consistent in their defense of a middle-class, Protestant, Yankee, Victorian lady?

According to Conforti, I've answered my own question. Lizzie's class and gender--the perception of how a middle-class, Protestant, Yankee, Victorian lady was supposed to behave--largely protected her with the jury. After all, if a middle-class, Protestant, Yankee, Victorian lady could go off the rails and murder the head of a household (alongside his second wife), who amongst the owners of American's newspapers would be safe!?

The local newspaper was operated and written by non-Yankees, the Irish, who had a political investment in gaining precedence over their Yankee neighbors. And had no very high opinion of said neighbors who controlled (though that control was fading) the city's major industries.

Why wasn't Bridget Sullivan, the maid, accused of the murders?

Apparently, she was suspected. And there was little affection between her and the Borden sisters, who insisted on calling Bridget "Maggie" after their previous servant (a standard if distasteful practice). Bridget clearly preferred the Borden dad and stepmom (whom Lizzie loathed) both of whom called Bridget by her real name.

Yet Lizzie never accused Bridget. In fact, it is evident that Lizzie told exactly as much truth as she needed to and no more: her class and gender, she believed, would protect her (Lizzie was right).

Despite Lizzie's silence regarding Bridget, I have always pondered why she didn't come under more suspicion, not because I believe her guilty (I don't) but because she was Irish, a member of the lower working class, an immigrant of ambiguous status. The Irish got blamed for so much. Why not this?

Turns out, Fall River had immigrants of even lower status than the Irish. The first scapegoats weren't the Irish but the Portuguese. Bridget herself initially blamed a Portuguese worker for the murders.

And the case was investigated by Irish cops.

As mentioned above, Joseph Conforti is not concerned with innocence or guilt as much as with the social underpinnings of the event. He recommends the following article by Cara W. Robertson, "Representing Miss Lizzie: Cultural Convictions in the Trial of Lizzie Borden." I double that recommendation. It is fascinating.

I refer to this ballet, Fall River Legend in a paper

that I wrote for the ANES program.

Yes, there really is a ballet about Lizzie.

Speaking as someone who IS concerned with Lizzie Borden's guilt or innocence, after reading Conforti's objective analysis, I am impressed--all over again--by my entirely subjective feeling that the police and the establishment would not have proceeded at all if Fall River had not felt very, very strongly that Lizzie was in fact, to borrow a non-academic term, super-guilty.

Of course, because people feel strongly does not mean they should find a member of their society guilty (and Lizzie was acquitted). But Lizzie being brought to trial supports what Victoria Lincoln argues: Fall River believed Lizzie was guilty across class lines; the establishment knew more than it said yet closed ranks around Lizzie; the Borden family situation was such that no one was really all that surprised by the possibility of Lizzie as a murderess--despite what was proclaimed out loud.

FYI: Joseph Conforti was one of my professors in the American & New England Studies program at USM although my paper on Lizzie Borden was written for a different professor, Professor Ryden. Professor Conforti was my advisor on my thesis. One of the best writing/research courses I took as a college student (B.A. and M.A.) I took from him.

Conan Doyle, Sherlock Holmes, and the Paranormal: It's All About the Atmosphere

Ectoplasm: one of the odder

variations amongst spiritualists.

The "ectoplasm" is cheesecloth.

Books about Arthur Conan Doyle often read something like this: "But then, after creating the scientific Mr. Holmes, Conan Doyle proceeded to go off the deep end and invest in hunting for ghosts."

Along the same theme, several tribute authors have Holmes shake his head bemusedly at the sad mental decline of his friend/publisher, Mr. Arthur Conan Doyle.

Modern authors and critics make two mistakes here:

(1) Although Sherlock would have found Arthur Conan Doyle a far more bonhomous personality than himself, he would not have found his interest in spiritualism odd--not a Sherlock of the nineteenth century anyway. Spiritualism--at least initially--was greeted by the scientific community as a possible scientific advance. If humans could create a telegraph that communicated around the world, why couldn't humans create a device that communicated beyond this world? Scientific American offered an award to the first person to prove the existence of the afterlife.

Cottingley Fairies

To hugely summarize the Conan Doyle/Houdini relationship, Conan Doyle and Houdini investigated various spiritualists in America. From the beginning, Conan Doyle was admittedly more optimistic and Houdini was miles more skeptical but their mandate, at first, was the same: to uncover hoaxes and find the real thing.

They split when Conan Doyle thought they had found the real thing and Houdini continued to maintain that all spiritualists were frauds and hucksters (Houdini was right).

It is difficult to "get" Conan Doyle's intransigence in the face of what appears (to modern eyes) as obvious wackiness until one remembers that he lost a son and other family members to the horrors of World War I. In his dedication to occult phenomena, he supported the existence of the Cottingley fairies based on images that (to modern eyes) appear absolutely and obviously manufactured. It reminds me of a folklore class in which I showed the famous Patterson-Gimlin Bigfoot clip; a bemused student in the front row said, "And people thought that wasn't a guy in a suit?"

In "Possibility Two," Sherlock agrees to investigate

a man who has been "poisoned" by a genetic mutation.

The bee is his payment.

As our eyes become more sophisticated, our expectations for what comprises fraud increase. There's a reason that con artists generally stick to the abstract painters rather than earlier artists; it is one thing to fool people with a Mondrian; it is another to fool them with a Rembrandt. However, even with a Mondrian, a true expert can often spot the fraud. Most con artists rely less on the product and more on the mark's willingness to be defrauded. Conan Doyle was willing to be defrauded. Houdini wasn't.

Despite Conan Doyle going admittedly a little strange (with those fairies and all), his hunt for the paranormal was still in keeping with nineteenth century scientific thought. The connection between forensics and, say, palm reading was at that time closer than makes us empiricists comfortable. From this perspective, Elementary's occasional episode in which an extreme scientific discovery plays a role is in keeping with the Holmes' tradition.

I love them all--but don't forget, folks:

Brett is still the yardstick (I realize.

that statement is debatable :).

(2) The Sherlock Holmes' stories, despite their emphasis on forensics, are mainly and principally adventure stories, not CSI-type discourses on fingerprinting.  Grissom is not running around shouting, "Preserve the evidence!" Watson is running around shooting guns. Most importantly, the stories are filled to the brim with atmosphere. All Sherlock Holmes, especially BBC's 1980 series with Jeremy Brett, utilize this atmosphere. Brett/Burke/Hardwicke -- Downey/Law -- Miller/Liu -- Cumberbatch/Freeman, everything up to and including the modernized versions hark back to the dark, oil-lamp London of bygone eras.

Sherlock Holmes has lasted for many reasons and one of them, yes, is the forensics. The forensics alone wouldn't have been enough though. Neither would the adventure. Neither would the characterization. Other mystery writers of the same era were producing forensics and adventure and memorable characterization.

Conan Doyle put it all together into one perfect creation.

And I'm sure Paget's pictures didn't hurt.

It's Okay to Write About Marriage and Domestic Problems--Persuadable's Take on Mrs. Smith: Chapter 12

1995 Mrs. Smith--she does an excellent job

conveying Mrs. Smith's pleasure in life.

In Chapter 12 of Persuadable, Will Elliot visits Mrs. Smith.

Mrs. Smith is one of Austen's most interesting minor characters. She is a resilient widow whose once well-off late husband lost all his money to extravagance. Although her husband owned property in the West Indies, which could give Mrs. Smith a respectable income, that property is "encumbered" (used to pay off debts), and Mrs. Smith can't touch the "rents."

Based on this slim information, some literary analysts have criticized the Mrs. Smith character for her willingness to live off the slave trade (the West Indies property would likely use slaves); Jane Austen herself was not a supporter of slavery, and I was tempted to give Mr. Elliot noble reasons for not helping Mrs. Smith recover the property.

West Indies Map

That approach, however, would have been something of a cheat. One, Mr. Elliot is not the type of guy to invest himself in abstract causes overseas (anymore than he is the type of guy to lay out cash for what he considers an iffy proposition at best); two, Austen's text makes clear that Mrs. Smith's purpose is to convey information to Anne, not stand as a symbol of colonialism.

Of course, this brings up the issue of Austen's supposed ignorance of political and social issues. Frankly, this is such a stupid criticism of the writer that I have difficulty taking it even momentarily seriously; plus, at the risk of sounding like a ticked-off feminist, it is not an argument one often hears about male writers who focus on domestic plots. In any case, excellent biographies of Jane Austen, including Paula Bryne's The Real Jane Austen, have effectively disputed this characterization. Jane Austen was not only well-aware of currently political and social issues, she had immediate familial investments in many of them.

Setting aside the obvious refutation that fiction is deliberate creation and writers will focus how and where they choose, why do such analysts suppose wars and revolutions are carried out? Despite the unnerving and tunnel-vision attitudes of many activists, they are generally NOT carried out for the sake of more wars and revolutions. Rightly or wrongly, they are usually carried out to create a better life somewhere for someone. In other words, they are carried out so people can get married and not have to worry about soldiers cluttering up their living rooms.

In any case, I have always considered literary analysis that insists that all literature have an IMPORTANT MESSAGE to be trite to the nth degree. Well-fashioned prose has done more to keep the world turning than any so-called IMPORTANT bumper sticker.

A passage from Mr. B Speaks! addresses this issue from another perspective. An excerpt from Persuadable, Chapter 12 can be found on the Persuadable homepage. 

Gary (the literary analyst) rolled his eyes. “And, of course, romance novels always have perfect weddings.”

“Of course.”

“This whole novel [Pamela] is nothing but trite and shallow pandering,” Gary declaimed. “What about death, disease, poverty, slavery, racism—all the terrible issues of the eighteenth century? Hmm? I mean women couldn’t even vote! But no, we’re fixated on watching an inconsequential couple tie the knot.”

The judge glanced towards the characters’ table. Mr. B was still smiling faintly. He hadn’t flinched at being called “inconsequential.” Presumably, people of the eighteenth century were less obsessed with getting their “day in court” than people of the twenty-first.

The judge reminded himself not to chuckle at his own pun.

“People hid their heads in the sand,” Gary was still declaiming. “Just like they do today.”

The romance writer reviewer, Deborah, said, “That sounds like the end of a lecture,” and Gary reddened.

She was probably right—the man certainly loved to carp about stuff—but the judge didn’t want audience members giving the Committee for Literary Fairness any (more) reason to complain.

He said pacifically, “Different novels cover different topics.”

Leslie Quinn, the writer of popular non-fiction, agreed, “People in the eighteenth century still had to work, love, have children, get along. Those topics never go away.”

Dr. Matchel (another literary analyst) said, “But romance novels don’t deal with real domestic problems. They end with the wedding, giving readers the false impression that married life will be eternally happy. Escapist literature!”

"This novel doesn't end with the wedding," Mr. B's attorney pointed out, muttering, “What’s wrong with escapism?”

Deborah added, “Dark and depressing isn’t automatically profound.”

Darcy & Lady Catherine: Chapter 11

Chapter 11 of A Man of Few Words includes the famous scene between Elizabeth and Lady Catherine where Elizabeth provides the impressive retort, "In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's daughter; so far we are equal."

Of course A Man of Few Words doesn't show this scene directly; rather, it is related to Darcy by Lady Catherine.

Lady Catherine reporting Elizabeth's behavior

and giving her consent to the match.

The question I had to answer was why on earth would Lady Catherine rush off to tell Darcy exactly what Elizabeth said to her? Geez, is the woman so obtuse she doesn't realize she is simply tossing oil onto flames, exciting Darcy's already excited interest?

The 1940 film solved this problem by having Lady Catherine be one of those crusty sharp-tongue old ladies who secretly adore outspoken girls like Elizabeth. This is a classic type and can be used to good purpose. The 1940 film does use it to good purpose although the first time I watched it with my mother, she (a fan of the book) couldn't resist leaning over and saying, "Lady Catherine does not do this in the book."

What the original text makes clear is that Lady Catherine possesses a substantial degree of cluelessness. Her cluelessness isn't rooted in stupidity but rather in her entirely subjective version of reality. After all, only Lady Catherine could continue to tout a potential marriage between Darcy and her daughter Anne when no one, including Darcy and Anne, imagines this will ever happen.

In A Man of Few Words, I portray Darcy as not even realizing that anyone thought it would happen:

"Can you believe it?" Lady Catherine said. "[Miss Elizabeth] knows that such a connection would be improper, but she refused to deny the rumor. Yes, I can see that astonishes you." Darcy had risen and was gaping at his aunt. "An obvious falsehood, yet she refused to admit it. I explained about Anne--"

Darcy blinked, head cocked. What about Anne?

Lady Catherine coughed and waved a hand. "And she still refused to acknowledge that there is no attachment between you . . ."

But then Lady Catherine is this type of woman: enough of a hard-headed realist to avoid spouting pure fantasies but too far invested in her view of the world to invite too much challenge to those fantasies. Truth is, Mr. Collins is the best possible clergyman for such a patron!

Why It Matters That Elizabeth Likes Pemberley: Chapter 7

Chapter 7 in A Man of Few Words is the Pemberley chapter--ah, yes, that part in the BBC series where Darcy goes swimming.

Unlike the ridiculous statues in the latest movie, I consider the BBC swimming scene plausible. It does not occur in the original text, and I did not use it in A Man of Few Words. What I did try to convey--as the BBC series conveys--is how comfortable Darcy is on his own property.

Mr. Darcy shows off Pemberley.

This is so in-line with his overall behavior that whether Austen was working off observation or pure instinct, she deserves major major kudos for understanding how someone Darcy could be stiff and uncommunicative at the assembly ball and downright friendly and outgoing on his home turf.

Austen uses the housekeeper and Pemberley's grounds to clarify this; the BBC series uses the housekeeper, the swimming scene, and Darcy wandering about Pemberley with his dogs. I used Darcy doing his job as a landowner, the housekeeper, and my dad.

I've mentioned before that my dad, an introvert, is a prototype for Darcy. When Darcy and Elizabeth are waiting for the carriage to take her plus her aunt and uncle back to Lambton, my Darcy goes through the following:

"Would you like to step in?" Darcy asked, thinking he could show her the improvements he'd made to the flue in the drawing room fireplace, the latest expansion to the library. But she had already seen the house and declined. So Darcy stood beside her under the glowing summer sky and thought how marvelous it was that Elizabeth liked Pemberley.

Every time my mom reads the part about "show her the improvements," she busts out laughing.

After I wrote it, though, it did occur to me that I was making Darcy sound rather like Mr. Collins bragging about shelves in his closets; when Elizabeth visits Hunsford, Mr. Collins also shows off his house.

Mr. Collins' shelves in the closet.

And then it occurred to me that Austen never makes mistakes. Darcy does show off Pemberley just as Mr. Collins shows off the parsonage. Is Austen making a statement about men generally or is she making the comparison to tell us more about Darcy?

I think she is telling us more about Darcy. Although Elizabeth is half-joking when she says that she began to fall in love with Darcy at Pemberley, she half-isn't. As many critics have pointed out, Pemberley is Darcy. Everything and everyone about Pemberley has thrived due to Darcy's involvement, his character.

Compare this to Mr. Collins who uses his house not to illustrate his good sense (which he doesn't have) or his wife's good sense (which he doesn't appreciate) but his relationship to Lady Catherine. He also wants to make Elizabeth feel bad for "what she had lost in refusing him."

On the other hand, Darcy--who has also been rejected by Elizabeth at this point--uses the opportunity to rebuild his relationship with Elizabeth. I use the word "show off" about Darcy; it would be more accurate to say that Darcy puts his house/lands at the disposal of others. He suggests that Mr. Gardiner come and fish; he invites Elizabeth and the Gardiners in for refreshments; he eventually encourages Georgiana to invite them all for dinner. Pemberley is a place of interest and ease; it also exists in its own right as an entity. It is not there simply to bolster up Darcy's ego, something Mr. Collins would not understand.