On the subject of heroines

Generally, I find fictional heroines easier to like than heroes. Not surprising, perhaps: as a villain-lover, I will always measure heroes against villains and find them at fault, while heroines have an easier time of it. True, villainesses are often more interesting – Becky Sharp in Vanity Fair being the tried-and-true example of this argument – but I don’t harbour the same devotion for them as I do for the male of the species, which means I don’t necessarily feel the need to slag off their opponents. I see heroines and villainesses alike as potential objects of sympathy and identification and judge them accordingly. They don’t have to be fanciable.

I suspect, though, that quite apart from the villain-loving factor it’s easier to create a likeable heroine than a likeable hero. A bit of warmth, a sense of humour and some witty self-deprecation coupled with a sense of self-worth usually does the trick. I’m currently rereading Jane Eyre, which is very much a case in point. As in, say, Pride and Prejudice, you can see what the hero is up against. He must prove himself worthy of the lovely leading lady and show that he has a core of decency while at same time not appearing prissy or self-righteous. Mr Rochester in Jane Eyre wobbles when it comes to the decency qualification (not that this worries me one bit – the lack of a passable villain in the book, and no, Mr Brocklehurst does not count, works in his favour here) while Mr Darcy is impeccably decent but – sorry girls – considerably behind Rochester, or for that matter his chosen bride, in the warmth and humour stakes.

There are, however, plenty of times where the heroine has left me cold, and this is a graver disadvantage for a book than not caring for the hero (a circumstance which I have somehow factored in). I nearly gave up on Simon Montefiore’s Sashenka because I thought the title character was such a trial. The first part of the book takes place in St Petersburg in 1916, when the heroine is only sixteen years old. In spite of coming from a wealthy and influential family, she is recruited – quite easily – by her uncle for the Bolshevist cause. In no time at all, she is haranguing workers, spreading pamphlets and having the time of her life. The book opens with her arrest, whereupon her doting father – successful industrialist Baron Zeitlin – pulls every string he possibly can to get her out of jail. Meanwhile, Sashenka is naïvely proud of her “rite of passage”. When she’s released, she goes straight back to plotting revolution.

Perhaps you have to have been a sixteen-year-old rebel in order to appreciate one. In any case, I found the young Sashenka extremely tiresome. I would think that joining a political group that sees your parents as scum who had much better be exterminated is taking teenage revolt a little too far. It’s a poor way to repay her father, who had to bribe (and kiss) a cheerfully decadent Prince in order to spare her a sojourn in Siberia. What’s more, Montefiore never manages to make us understand the reason for Sashenka’s political ardour – one suspects, because he has little sympathy for her politics himself.

In Sashenka’s defence, though, her Bolshevism isn’t just some Tsarist-Russia equivalent to annoying her parents by getting her nose pierced. In the novel’s second part, we’re in Moscow in 1939, and Sashenka’s politics are unchanged – she is a loyal Party member, who has apparently done rather well for herself out of the Revolution. I found the more mature Sashenka easier to bear: in her new circumstances, her political beliefs make more sense. You don’t normally bite the hand that feeds you (a typical bourgeois, decadent argument, I suppose). Also, the novel picks up pace and becomes a breathless page turner as Sashenka’s idyllic home life starts to unravel.

Sashenka is still a silly goose (honestly, that affair?), but her mistakes are human enough, and she shows admirable bravery when it comes to protecting her children. I still couldn’t warm to her, though. It only goes to show that it is possible to enjoy a novel where you don’t like the protagonist much – but it makes it harder.