...let me in-a your window-who-ho-ho

Over at The Pursuit of Harpyness people are discussing their favourite  19th century novelists (such as the Brontës and Jane Austen) - and especially their favourite male characters in these books.  Most deny that they have ever spent breathless hours reading about  (or even better, making up) the exploits of Heathcliff and Mr. Rochester. Mr. Darcy, on the other hand, is much more warmly regarded; many feminists would be ready to set their cap at good old Fitzwilliam - and rightly so, for he's the only one of the three who hasn't got dark secrets cluttering up his past (or indeed his attic at Pemberley).

I have to make a confession: for me, the Brontë heros (especially Heathcliff, but also Mr. Rochester) were the stuff of teenage fantasy; Mr. Darcy, on the other hand, has always left me cold. However, having developed a somewhat maturer look on life and relationships, I can now wholeheartedly agree with the commentators of PoH: Messrs. H and R are complete gits.

Deep and dark and broodingly sexy as they might be, their world revolves around their own needs and desires - and anything (be it a mentally unstable wife or a completely innocent bystander) that gets in the way of these must be removed, usually by force. They have unhealthy obsessions, and unnaturally strong passions, which are taken out on other people (again). And yet, they attract perfectly sensible, self-possesssed women who seem to think they can bring out the best in these men. Whatever that may be.

Maybe it was the corsets. Anything that restricts your circulation can't be beneficial to your mental processes, either.
 

It's impossible to say what kind of protagonists Emily Brontë would have chosen for her next novel, but her big sister didn't show much improvement in her taste in men -  Villette for one has another bullying despot as its male lead, and another forgiving lady willing to prop up his ego. I don't know if anyone has ever has the hots for M. Paul - at least Mr. Rochester has the good manners not to patronise Jane Eyre so blatantly  (and as a reward only gets blinded and has his arm chopped off, whereas M. Paul - at least according to my reading - doesn't survive the old Brontë treatment).

Anne Brontë was perhaps the most sensible of the three - at least when it comes to the representation of men in her work. Hark! A Vagrant illustrates this beautifully: Dude Watchin' with the Brontës, ladies and gentlemen.

As to Jane Austen men, I can't say that I've been much moved by any of them (unless we're talking about the film versions. If so,  Colonel Brandon is my man). Perhaps it's got something to do with the stiff manners and the stilted sentences of the period, or the slightly stock-like nature of Austen's heroes (the protagonists have to get married in the end, after all); thus, while reading Sense and Sensibility, Emma, or Northanger Abbey, my attention mainly remains with the thoughts and feelings of the female characters.

Persuasion is the exception here: Captain Wentworth is a very intriguing character (with his Past and all), and a worthy equal of the poised Anne Elliot; he's made his mistakes in the past, and is not willing to be swayed by anyone's opinions (at least when it comes to choosing a wife). He's a bit gruff, but at least I get the feeling that he can also laugh at himself (a trait Mr Sourpuss Darcy certainly doesn't possess). And he's got a big ship.

Although P&P is undoubtledly the most sparkling of Austen's novels, Persuasion has got a quiet dignity that I like, and also some  brilliant insights into human nature. The final conversation between Anne Elliot and Captain Harville is a gem:

"Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything." 

"But how shall we prove anything?"

"We never shall. - - It is a difference of opinion which does not admit proof. We each begin, probably, with a little bias towards our own sex; and upon that bias build every circumstance in favour of it which has occurred within our own circle - -." 

And in case you've no idea what the title of this post refers to, I can only say that you've missed one of the finest pieces of popular music ever written: