"Badly Done, Indeed!"

An Examination of Etiquette in the Age of Austen

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Welcome to “Badly Done, Indeed!”

Hi everyone! Whether you’ve stumbled across this blog accidentally or you’re my British literature professor grading this project, welcome. 

For my commonplacing project, I decided to select passages that served as examples of characters in Jane Austen’s works behaving badly (hence the title). Austen wrote some great heroines, but she certainly gave me plenty of bad behavior to draw from as well, both in her secondary characters and sometimes in the heroines themselves.

I wrote these posts in the order we covered the novels in class, beginning with Sense and Sensibility (Austen’s earliest novel) and ending with Persuasion; they appear in the opposite order I wrote them, since most recent posts appear first on Tumblr. I wrote only one for S&S, but two each for the remainder of Jane Austen’s novels.

This is a finished project, so I probably will not continue to post once this semester has wrapped up, but who knows? Whether you’re new to Austen or you’re a self-proclaimed Janeite, once again, welcome. Happy reading!

-Marissa

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Austen, Jane. Persuasion. Edited by Linda Bree, Broadview Press, 1998.

Mary Musgrove, Anne Elliot’s married younger sister, will find anything and everything to complain about; it’s pretty much part of her personality. I’m of the opinion that reading Persuasion is a better experience when one tunes out most of what Mary says, but every now and then she says something worth thinking about. Let’s look, for example, at her disgust for their relatives the Hayters:

It suited Mary best to think Henrietta the one preferred on the very account of Charles Hayter, whose pretensions she wished to see put an end to. She looked down very decidedly upon the Hayters, and thought it would be quite a misfortune to have the existing connection between the families renewed--very sad for herself and her children.

‘You know,’ said she, ‘I cannot think him at all a fit match for Henrietta; and considering the alliances which the Musgroves have made, she has no right to throw herself away. I do not think any young woman has a right to make a choice that may be disagreeable and inconvenient to the principal part of her family, and be giving bad connections to those who have not been used to them. And, pray, who is Charles Hayter? Nothing but a country curate. A most improper match for Miss Musgrove of Uppercross.’” (volume I, chapter 9, page 108)

My favorite bit from this quote: “I do not think any young woman has a right to make a choice that may be disagreeable and inconvenient to the principal part of her family.” What a loaded statement! It’s true enough that most young women of the time did not in fact have the freedom to make a choice her family disagreed with, namely in their choice of partner. Women had little legal autonomy; they could not, for example, own property or (for the most part) make their own income. If a woman’s parents decided they disapproved of a potential match and the woman continued to pursue it, she could be disinherited and left penniless. 

Mary’s husband immediately disagrees with her after this passage, declaring that the Hayters, while perhaps not as rich as the Elliots or the Musgroves, are a perfectly respectable family; he seems to think she’s just finding something to complain about, as usual, but there is some rare truth to her statement. The heroines of Austen’s novels all meet pretty lucky ends; many of the other women in her texts -- and many women in real life during this period in history -- were not so fortunate.

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Austen, Jane. Persuasion. Edited by Linda Bree, Broadview Press, 1998.

When two former lovers reunite after a seven-year separation, things are bound to be awkward. This holds true for Anne Elliot and her former love Captain Wentworth. They can hardly speak to each other, so painful is their reunion. To make matters worse, Anne’s family behaves horribly toward him:

“After a short interval, however, he came towards her, and spoke again. Mutual enquiries on common subjects passed: neither of them, probably, much the wiser for what they heard, and Anne continuing fully sensible of his being less at ease than formerly. [...] It did not surprise, but it grieved Anne to observe that Elizabeth would not know him. She saw that he saw Elizabeth, that Elizabeth saw him, that there was complete internal recognition on each side; she was convinced that he was ready to be acknowledged as an acquaintance, expecting it, and she had the pain of seeing her sister turn away with unalterable coldness.” (volume II, chapter 7, page 194)

To be fair, the “coldness” Elizabeth shows to Captain Wentworth is exactly in keeping with her character. She is the female carbon copy of her father, with all his concerns about status and appearances, and Sir Walter did not approve of the initial match between Anne and Captain Wentworth. Sir Walter, in particular, has a lot of disdain for soldiers and sailors, so it would make sense that this attitude would be copied and pasted onto Elizabeth’s personality and that she would treat him as beneath her.

This behavior is noticeable because ignoring someone like this simply wasn’t done in Austen’s time. I discussed in one of my Northanger Abbey posts that one was contracted by politeness to honor past engagements; this held for acknowledging past acquaintances, too. If you came across someone you knew, etiquette dictated that you stop and have a small conversation with them. Even a simple “how do you do” like the one Elizabeth condescends to give Wentworth later in the text was better than flat-out ignoring someone you were obliged to acknowledge.

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Austen, Jane. Northanger Abbey. Edited by Claire Grogan, Broadview Press, 2002.

Fanny Price could certainly take some lessons in backbone from Catherine Morland. Torn between her first group of friends and her newer and more respectable ones, Catherine begs off from plans with the former, stating that she already has plans with Edward and Eleanor Tilney. Wanting his own way, John Thorpe seeks out Miss Tilney and lies that Catherine had a prior engagement with his group of friends, effectively letting her out of her plans with the Tilneys. When Catherine finds out, she’s furious:

“Thus passed a long ten minutes, till they were again joined by Thorpe, who, coming to them with a gayer look, said, 'Well, I have settled the matter, and now we may all go tomorrow with a safe conscience. I have been to Miss Tilney, and made your excuses.'

‘You have not!’ cried Catherine.

‘I have, upon my soul. Left her this moment. Told her you had sent me to say that, having just recollected a prior engagement of going to Clifton with us tomorrow, you could not have the pleasure of walking with her till Tuesday. She said very well, Tuesday was just as convenient to her; so there is an end of all our difficulties. A pretty good thought of mine—hey?’

Isabella’s countenance was once more all smiles and good humour, and James too looked happy again.

‘A most heavenly thought indeed! Now, my sweet Catherine, all our distresses are over; you are honourably acquitted, and we shall have a most delightful party.’

‘This will not do,’ said Catherine; ‘I cannot submit to this. I must run after Miss Tilney directly and set her right.’

Isabella, however, caught hold of one hand, Thorpe of the other, and remonstrances poured in from all three. Even James was quite angry. When everything was settled, when Miss Tilney herself said that Tuesday would suit her as well, it was quite ridiculous, quite absurd, to make any further objection.

‘I do not care. Mr. Thorpe had no business to invent any such message. If I had thought it right to put it off, I could have spoken to Miss Tilney myself. This is only doing it in a ruder way; and how do I know that Mr. Thorpe has—He may be mistaken again perhaps; he led me into one act of rudeness by his mistake on Friday. Let me go, Mr. Thorpe; Isabella, do not hold me.’

Thorpe told her it would be in vain to go after the Tilneys; they were turning the corner into Brock Street, when he had overtaken them, and were at home by this time.

‘Then I will go after them,’ said Catherine; ‘wherever they are I will go after them. It does not signify talking. If I could not be persuaded into doing what I thought wrong, I never will be tricked into it.’” (volume I, chapter 13, page 115)

This is my absolute favorite Catherine scene. She stands up for herself so ferociously and adamantly that there can be no arguing with her. Her conscience prevents her from enduring any thought that she might have wronged someone, and I think that’s very admirable -- a trait that those she is currently surrounding herself with could stand to develop.

The slipperiest thing about this encounter is that Thorpe’s conversation with Miss Tilney was likely all politeness. In Austen’s time, if you made plans with someone and something else came up that you’d rather do, politeness dictated that you had to honor the first engagement. Miss Tilney, then, probably wasn’t at all offended that Catherine had “forgotten” her previous engagement when making plans with her; she was probably perfectly gracious and understanding, because she is a good sort of girl. On Thorpe’s part, though, this maneuver was completely underhanded and uncalled for. Even if he knew how to talk about something other than himself and his own desires, Catherine never could have ended up with such a poor excuse for a man -- I don’t think her conscience would have allowed her to do that, either.

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Austen, Jane. Northanger Abbey. Edited by Claire Grogan, Broadview Press, 2002.

Catherine Morland has had some pretty good luck in being invited along to Bath and, from there, to visit the Tilneys indefinitely at Northanger Abbey. Her luck runs out, though, as luck tends to do, and patriarch General Tilney ends Catherine’s visit to the abbey so unceremoniously that Catherine is left reeling after her best friend Eleanor Tilney delivers the news that she must go home in the morning:

“Catherine’s swelling heart needed relief. In Eleanor’s presence friendship and pride had equally restrained her tears, but no sooner was she gone than they burst forth in torrents. Turned from the house, and in such a way! Without any reason that could justify, any apology that could atone for the abruptness, the rudeness, nay, the insolence of it. Henry at a distance—not able even to bid him farewell. Every hope, every expectation from him suspended, at least, and who could say how long? Who could say when they might meet again? And all this by such a man as General Tilney, so polite, so well bred, and heretofore so particularly fond of her! It was as incomprehensible as it was mortifying and grievous. From what it could arise, and where it would end, were considerations of equal perplexity and alarm. The manner in which it was done so grossly uncivil, hurrying her away without any reference to her own convenience, or allowing her even the appearance of choice as to the time or mode of her travelling; of two days, the earliest fixed on, and of that almost the earliest hour, as if resolved to have her gone before he was stirring in the morning, that he might not be obliged even to see her. What could all this mean but an intentional affront? By some means or other she must have had the misfortune to offend him.” (volume II, chapter 28, page 219)

Catherine has no idea what she’s done wrong, only that it must have been something pretty awful for her to be kicked out in this manner. Eleanor is unable to provide her with any explanation, and General Tilney will not so much as see her before she is shuttled off the next morning. The key thing I’d like to highlight here (it isn’t included in the passage, but it follows shortly after this section in the text) is that Catherine is sent home in a carriage completely alone. She is seventeen years old and is not given so much as a servant to chaperone her home; girls of this age did not travel alone at this time, and that General Tilney is so unwilling to make even this small provision is not far short of abominable. Any number of things could happen to her while out on the road, and while none of them do, it would have been General Tilney’s fault if they had.

We learn by the novel’s end that Catherine has committed no offense but being of lower birth than General Tilney was led to believe by no other than the odious John Thorpe. (He’s definitely in my top three least favorite male Austen characters, if that tells you anything.) In love with Catherine, Thorpe talks her up to General Tilney, saying she’s from such a great family and is the best kind of girl; rejected by Catherine, Thorpe later runs into the General again and says he was mistaken, that she’s no one worth any attention. The General is embarrassed to have treated Catherine so hospitably and expels her from the abbey as soon as he returns home from London. His son Edward, who loves and is loved by Catherine, feels (correctly) that she has been wronged and follows her home; he proposes to her there, and the General responds by cutting him off. Once he realizes how misled he has been as a result of Thorpe running his mouth, he makes reparations for his actions, but he’s still on pretty thin ice in my book.

I think if I had to pick between treating someone better than they deserve or worse than they deserve, choosing the former would weigh less heavily on my conscience; I hope that how the General has behaved weighs plenty on his.

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Austen, Jane. Emma. Edited by Kristin Flieger Samuelian, Broadview Press, 2004.

https://youtu.be/1R_wzGrOLFs

As I mention in my other post about Emma, unlike the rest of Austen’s heroines, Emma is of the upper class. As such, she has some pretty strong opinions -- though maybe not as strong as Lady Catherine de Bourgh’s -- about the relationship between class and marriage. Here’s Emma’s internal monologue when Harriet confesses that she is in love with Mr. Knightley:

“Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—It was a union to distance every wonder of the kind.—The attachment of Frank Churchill and Jane Fairfax became commonplace, threadbare, stale in the comparison, exciting no surprize, presenting no disparity, affording nothing to be said or thought.—Mr. Knightley and Harriet Smith!—Such an elevation on her side! Such a debasement on his! It was horrible to Emma to think how it must sink him in the general opinion, to foresee the smiles, the sneers, the merriment it would prompt at his expense; the mortification and disdain of his brother, the thousand inconveniences to himself.” (volume III, chapter 11, page 354)

Emma is almost offended by the thought of how much Harriet would benefit from this marriage; it’s as though she believes her friend is unworthy of such good fortune. If the reader has up until this point deluded themselves as much as Emma has, they might have some questions: does Emma want the best for Harriet or doesn’t she? Didn’t she take her on as a pet project for the purpose of improving her? Does she want Harriet to reap the benefits of that improvement or not?

Class and fortune are occupying Emma’s mind right now, but her thoughts are pretty much the opposite of Sir Thomas’s when he finds out Fanny intends to reject Henry Crawford. Sir Thomas is appalled that Fanny is even considering rejecting him, because, as he makes plain to her, she is unlikely to come across another offer half so good in her life; he thinks she is throwing away her shot at bettering her position. Harriet’s situation is similar, but Emma views it quite differently -- Harriet loves Mr. Knightley, but he has not proposed to her. Emma therefore considers it a massive presumption that someone like Harriet, a parlor boarder from unknown parentage, would think herself worthy of someone like Mr. Knightley, a property-owning gentleman with some money to his name. 

Maybe the reader isn’t clueless, though. Maybe they’ve figured out before Emma herself has that she is in love with Mr. Knightley. Her anger and indignation that Mr. Knightley would be debasing himself with such a match is misplaced and somewhat problematic, but it provides insight into a fantasy she has probably repressed for a while now -- herself and Mr. Knightley, the perfect match, each suited to the other in wealth and class. 

I have provided a link to the scene in the 2020 adaptation of Emma in which Harriet confesses her love for Mr. Knightley. Much of the free indirect discourse that takes place in Emma’s head is lost in this scene -- we see her grappling for words and trying to get a handle on her emotions, but it is Harriet rather than Emma who explicitly states that she is not good enough for him.

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Austen, Jane. Emma. Edited by Kristin Flieger Samuelian, Broadview Press, 2004.

In Jane Austen’s Emma, we have before us a very different sort of heroine: a wealthy young woman who does not need to marry to ensure financial security. What a change from Austen’s first three novels! She is probably the heroine who is the highest in social class, comparable only with perhaps Anne Elliot of Persuasion, who is the daughter of a baronet (who never shuts up about the fact that he’s a baronet). 

Something I mentioned a few posts back while discussing Pride and Prejudice is that the upper class are often allowed to get away with breaches of decorum that would otherwise be unallowable. Emma finds herself included among this number. She has a mostly good heart, but her upbringing has made her spoiled and disinclined to put up with things and people who do not please her. In the novel’s third volume, Emma and Frank Churchill devise a game to amuse themselves at a picnic with their acquaintances, and Emma forgets to filter her speech and says something very unkind to spinster Mrs. Bates:

“‘Ladies and gentlemen—I am ordered by Miss Woodhouse to say, that she waives her right of knowing exactly what you may all be thinking of, and only requires something very entertaining from each of you, in a general way. Here are seven of you, besides myself, (who, she is pleased to say, am very entertaining already,) and she only demands from each of you either one thing very clever, be it prose or verse, original or repeated—or two things moderately clever—or three things very dull indeed, and she engages to laugh heartily at them all.'

'Oh! very well,' exclaimed Miss Bates, 'then I need not be uneasy. 'Three things very dull indeed.' That will just do for me, you know. I shall be sure to say three dull things as soon as ever I open my mouth, shan't I? (looking round with the most good-humoured dependence on every body's assent)—Do not you all think I shall?'

Emma could not resist.

'Ah! ma'am, but there may be a difficulty. Pardon me—but you will be limited as to number—only three at once.'

Miss Bates, deceived by the mock ceremony of her manner, did not immediately catch her meaning; but, when it burst on her, it could not anger, though a slight blush shewed that it could pain her.

'Ah!—well—to be sure. Yes, I see what she means, (turning to Mr. Knightley,) and I will try to hold my tongue. I must make myself very disagreeable, or she would not have said such a thing to an old friend.’” (volume III, chapter 7, 322-323)

What a horrible thing to say to someone who’s been nothing but nice to you your entire life, right? Mrs. Bates talks a lot, and usually about things “very dull indeed,” in Emma’s opinion, but she is always kind to Emma. Everyone parts ways very awkwardly after this encounter, and Mr. Knightley comes after Emma to call her out on how inappropriately she has behaved, saying the joke was “badly done indeed” -- the source of the title for this project. Emma rejects his criticism at first, saying it was just a joke and that Mrs. Bates had taken it the wrong way, but Mr. Knightley is having none of it. He knows what she meant. So does Mrs. Bates, and so does Emma.

Fortunately, Emma does grow from this experience. Through no shortage of tears, she laments that she has in fact behaved horribly, and she makes amends with Mrs. Bates afterward, who is all too happy to forgive her. The way this was portrayed in the 2020 film adaptation of Emma made me feel extra sorry for Mrs. Bates. Not only does Emma make Mrs. Bates cry at the picnic, but Mrs. Bates forgives her so immediately, ready to be on good terms with her again. Mrs. Bates really doesn’t have any friends, so even though Emma has wronged her, she quickly gets over it, or at least seems to. 

I was bothered by Emma’s haughty, spoiled, better-than-everyone-else attitude for much of this novel. I commented to a friend that I really hoped she had a moment of clarity that would make her grow up a little bit, because I really wanted to like her -- and this is that moment. I’m really proud of her for being able to own up to her bad behavior and learn from it.

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Austen, Jane. Mansfield Park. Edited by June Sturrock, Broadview Press, 2003. 

In last week’s post, I criticized Fanny Price for not having a backbone. I maintain that position, but something interesting happens as we move toward the novel’s close: Fanny starts developing the backbone she has been lacking, and she is criticized for that, as she is criticized for everything. Below is her uncle Sir Thomas’s explosive reaction to Fanny’s refusal of Henry Crawford’s proposal of marriage:

“‘I had thought you peculiarly free from wilfulness of temper, self-conceit, and every tendency to that independence of spirit which prevails so much in modern days, even in young women, and which in young women is offensive and disgusting beyond all common offence. But you have now shewn me that you can be wilful and perverse; that you can and will decide for yourself, without any consideration or deference for those who have surely some right to guide you, without even asking their advice. You have shewn yourself very, very different from anything that I had imagined. The advantage or disadvantage of your family, of your parents, your brothers and sisters, never seems to have had a moment’s share in your thoughts on this occasion. How they might be benefited, how they must rejoice in such an establishment for you, is nothing to you. You think only of yourself, and because you do not feel for Mr. Crawford exactly what a young heated fancy imagines to be necessary for happiness, you resolve to refuse him at once, without wishing even for a little time to consider of it, a little more time for cool consideration, and for really examining your own inclinations; and are, in a wild fit of folly, throwing away from you such an opportunity of being settled in life, eligibly, honourably, nobly settled, as will, probably, never occur to you again. Here is a young man of sense, of character, of temper, of manners, and of fortune, exceedingly attached to you, and seeking your hand in the most handsome and disinterested way; and let me tell you, Fanny, that you may live eighteen years longer in the world without being addressed by a man of half Mr. Crawford’s estate, or a tenth part of his merits.’” (volume III, chapter 32, pages 323-324)

Now, we don’t have time to unpack all of that, but let’s try. First and foremost, I think it’s laughable that Sir Thomas is so convinced that Fanny has all these good and virtuous personality traits. Do I think she’s a good sort of young woman? Sure -- she’s arguably the most morally upright and conservative of Austen’s heroines. But who in this house, excepting perhaps Edmund, can claim to know Fanny at all? She rarely speaks unless spoken to (which, disgustingly enough, was a positive trait at this time), and she certainly doesn’t speak up to contradict anyone when she does get the courage to speak. Functionally, she’s a doormat, and Sir Thomas has assigned these virtues to her because she has never given him any reason to suppose her otherwise -- but she has never given hardly any of her family the chance to know her true self at all.

I think it’s also important to talk about money here. Sir Thomas seems to measure happiness only in wealth. He cannot fathom why Fanny wouldn’t immediately accept this match with Henry Crawford that would prove so advantageous to her family. Fanny is a smart woman, so I’m sure that most of what Sir Thomas is saying has crossed her mind during the process of Henry Crawford trying to woo her, even before he formally proposed. But because she is smart, she knows that Henry is not a man to be trusted, that he is only trying to win her affections to prove a point and does not genuinely care for her. He has charmed just about the entire Bertram family, and in Sir Thomas’s eyes he can do no wrong (at least at this point in volume III -- boy, is he in for a shock later!). Sir Thomas continues to rant about how disappointed he is in Fanny until she’s sobbing in front of him. 

A part of the reason Fanny rejects Henry, though I’m not sure how big a part, is that she is in love with Edmund. Her love for another coupled with her distrust of the one trying to win her heart for fun is a strong enough force to reject Henry. Would she have had the nerve to do it had she not been so attached to Edmund? Who’s to say? I’m not sure how strong Fanny’s backbone is at this point in the novel, but at least by its end she has one.

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Austen, Jane. Mansfield Park. Edited by June Sturrock, Broadview Press, 2003. 

Fanny Price, supposedly the heroine of Mansfield Park, often fades into the background and becomes almost as unnoticed as a piece of drawing room furniture. When the narrator bothers to pay her any attention, it is -- especially in the first half of the novel -- usually because another character starts paying attention to her first, rather than because she puts herself forward and asks to be noticed. Here’s an example from chapter 7, a trademark instance of Fanny being ill-used and ignored early in the novel: 

“‘Fanny,’ said Edmund, after looking at her attentively, ‘I am sure you have the headache.’

She could not deny it, but said it was not very bad.

‘I can hardly believe you,’ he replied; ‘I know your looks too well. How long have you had it?’

‘Since a little before dinner. It is nothing but the heat.’

‘Did you go out in the heat?’

‘Go out! to be sure she did,’ said Mrs. Norris: 'would you have her stay within such a fine day as this? Were not we all out? Even your mother was out to-day for above an hour.'

'Yes, indeed, Edmund,' added her ladyship, who had been thoroughly awakened by Mrs. Norris’s sharp reprimand to Fanny; 'I was out above an hour. I sat three-quarters of an hour in the flower-garden, while Fanny cut the roses; and very pleasant it was, I assure you, but very hot. It was shady enough in the alcove, but I declare I quite dreaded the coming home again.'

'Fanny has been cutting roses, has she?'

'Yes, and I am afraid they will be the last this year. Poor thing! She found it hot enough; but they were so full-blown that one could not wait.'

'There was no help for it, certainly,' rejoined Mrs. Norris, in a rather softened voice; 'but I question whether her headache might not be caught then, sister. There is nothing so likely to give it as standing and stooping in a hot sun; but I dare say it will be well to-morrow. Suppose you let her have your aromatic vinegar; I always forget to have mine filled.'

'She has got it,' said Lady Bertram; 'she has had it ever since she came back from your house the second time.'

'What!' cried Edmund; 'has she been walking as well as cutting roses; walking across the hot park to your house, and doing it twice, ma’am? No wonder her head aches.'

Mrs. Norris was talking to Julia, and did not hear.

'I was afraid it would be too much for her,' said Lady Bertram; 'but when the roses were gathered, your aunt wished to have them, and then you know they must be taken home.'

'But were there roses enough to oblige her to go twice?'

'No; but they were to be put into the spare room to dry; and, unluckily, Fanny forgot to lock the door of the room and bring away the key, so she was obliged to go again.'

Edmund got up and walked about the room, saying, 'And could nobody be employed on such an errand but Fanny? Upon my word, ma’am, it has been a very ill-managed business.'” (volume I, chapter 7, pages 98-99)

Let’s unpack what’s happening here. The day has been ungodly hot, and Lady Bertram and Mrs. Norris have been lazing about in the heat, sending Fanny across the park more than once to do their bidding. Fanny does not have what one might call a hearty constitution, and by the time she gets back from her second trip to Mrs. Norris’s house, she’s got a raging headache from the heat. When Edmund and the others return to the house, Fanny seems to have been forgotten, but as soon as she is revealed to be lying down on the couch, she is scolded; Fanny cannot even take up space in her own home without being sharply criticized for it. Her aunt Lady Bertram’s entire personality consists of lolling around on the sofa, napping to ease her fatigue from doing absolutely nothing, but God forbid Fanny rest on the sofa after over-exerting herself doing her aunts’ bidding.

Fanny Price is my least favorite Jane Austen heroine. This is not to say that she does not have value, for certainly she has a place in Jane Austen’s vast literary world, but she does nothing to reserve that place for herself; she lacks backbone and must actively strive to develop it over the course of the novel. I’m not sure where Fanny would be if Edmund didn’t consistently speak up for her to be treated appropriately, as he does in this passage. 

Pictured: Mrs. Norris from Mansfield Park (1999)

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Austen, Jane. Pride and Prejudice. Edited by Robert P. Irvine, Broadview Press, 2020.

https://youtu.be/ONaPfzjl8qc

As we approach the end of Pride and Prejudice, Elizabeth Bennet has had a lot on her plate: navigating her older sister’s relationship troubles as well her own, and more recently, reeling from the aftermath of her youngest sister eloping with a soldier. The last thing she wants or expects is for an unpleasant upper-class woman to show up at Longbourne in the middle of the night to berate her, but that’s exactly what happens. Here’s an excerpt from the confrontation between Elizabeth and Lady Catherine (for clarity, we begin with a line from Elizabeth): 

“‘I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. You may ask questions which I shall not choose to answer.’

‘This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?’

‘Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible.’

‘It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his reason. But your arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation, have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You may have drawn him in.’

‘If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.’

‘Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world, and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns.’

‘But you are not entitled to know mine; nor will such behaviour as this, ever induce me to be explicit.’” (volume III, chapter 14, page 310)

This passage is strong evidence that the upper class can get away with behaving with a complete lack of decorum. It would be social suicide for Elizabeth to speak to Lady Catherine the way Lady Catherine is speaking to her, but Lady Catherine is allowed to speak as harshly as she pleases because she is protected by her rank. Lady Catherine heaps abuses on Lizzie, convinced that there is nothing about the second eldest Bennet sister that could endear Mr. Darcy to her, that it must be a selfish seduction attempt on Lizzie’s part, that she is pursuing him only to better her own station. She all but bashes Lizzie over the head with her belief that she is lesser than the Darcy and de Bourgh families.

Lizzie has the common sense to keep her sharp tongue sheathed in the face of Lady Catherine’s wrath, but that she remains resolute incenses Lady Catherine anyway. Lizzie refuses to be intimidated because of Lady Catherine’s high rank, and she admits aloud that because Lady Catherine is showing her no respect, she is not obligated to play by her rules.

I have always been amazed by Lizzie’s ability to keep her emotions in check here. You can sense emotion in her words (especially in the 2005 film’s representation of the scene, which I have linked above), but she never loses control, even as Lady Catherine calls her inferior in about fifty different ways. Lizzie is one of the few in this novel who is lucky enough to marry for love, and I was so relieved upon reading the novel for the first time that this boiling speech from Lady Catherine ultimately does nothing to jeopardize Lizzie’s chances of happiness.

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Austen, Jane. Pride and Prejudice. Edited by Robert P. Irvine, Broadview Press, 2020.

In the latter half of Pride and Prejudice, fifteen-year-old Lydia Bennet runs away with George Wickham, who is charming but a scoundrel. It takes several people searching, nearly two weeks, and no small amount of money to find the couple and ensure their marriage. Mrs. Bennet, certainly the less decorous of the Bennet parents, welcomes Lydia with open arms when she and her new husband come to visit, as though they have not shamed the entire family with their actions; Mr. Bennet, however, is not so forgiving: 

“Lydia’s voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand, with an affectionate smile, to Wickham, who followed his lady; and wished them both joy with an alacrity which shewed no doubt of their happiness.

“Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their congratulations; and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and observed, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been there.

[...]

“[Elizabeth] then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with anxious parade, walk up to her mother’s right hand, and hear her say to her eldest sister, ‘Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a married woman.’” (volume III, chapter 9, page 280-281)

Austen writes that Mr. Bennet’s countenance “gained in austerity” -- that is to say, severity. I really sympathized with his character here. He has spent days combing every hotel in London and its surrounding area in search of his wayward daughter, and he came back home unsuccessful, though Mr. Gardiner and Mr. Darcy continued the search and ended up finding the couple after he left town. Mr. Bennet is obligated to pay such a small sum to the couple as their income that he’s convinced that Mr. Gardiner must have made a very generous offer to the new Mr. and Mrs. Wickham, so there’s now the added stress of being indebted to a family member on Mr. Bennet’s shoulders. He has gone through so much trouble and stress to find the couple and get them settled, and Lydia and Wickham not only carry on as if they have done nothing wrong, but have the audacity to ask for more money.

Mr. Bennet’s current behavior, as angry as he is, is an upgrade from several chapters before. Previously, he forbade Lydia and Wickham from even visiting the house and refused to give his daughter money to buy wedding clothes. I don’t blame him for this position, and I rather wish he had held it to spare the reader the dinner-table awkwardness of the newlyweds’ first visit.

I read this novel for the first time five years ago, and I still haven’t decided whether or not I feel sorry for Lydia. She has no idea of the implications of her behavior; she does what she pleases and seems to be genuinely shocked when there are consequences, whether those consequences are negative backlash from her family members or the reality that she and her new husband will never have a great deal of money. I’m not sure if it’s fair to expect a fifteen-year-old child to be completely aware of the gravity of the situation, and so I do feel sorry for Lydia’s future, at the very least; she’s ignorant of everything, from how to keep a household to her husband’s complete lack of genuine regard for her, and they are both guaranteed to be miserable.

[badly-done-indeed]

Austen, Jane. Sense and Sensibility. Edited by Kathleen Viola James-Cavan, Broadview Press, 2001. (volume I, chapter 3, page 53)

Toma, Monica. “Jane Austen's Idea of a Gentleman.” Synergy, vol. 16, no. 1, 2020, pp. 26–42.

The following excerpt from Sense and Sensibility relays to the reader the Dashwoods’ first impressions of Edward Ferrars: “Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any peculiar graces of person or address. He was not handsome, and his manners required intimacy to make them pleasing. He was too diffident to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome, his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart. His understanding was good, and his education had given it solid improvement. But he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him distinguished -- as -- they hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a fine figure in the world in some manner or other” (Austen I.iii.53).

Austen does not describe Mr. Ferrars as a gentleman in this passage, and in the light of Monica Toma’s article “Jane Austen’s Idea of a Gentleman,” I found this very interesting. Toma writes that in Austen’s time, there were only a handful of professions from which a man could choose if he wanted to be prescribed the label of “gentleman.” A college-educated man counted, for example, but only if he had attended either Oxford or Cambridge; doctors and clergymen of the Church of England were fit for the title, but not surgeons or so-called “Dissenters” (Toma 28).

When the reader first meets Edward, he is unemployed, but he dreams of taking orders and joining the church as a clergyman, an aspiration which would render him worthy of being called a gentleman. Despite this, Toma acknowledges that Edward “appears not to conform with any standard of gentlemanliness or even eighteenth-century masculinity” (Toma 30). Edward’s behavior is not rude or untoward -- or, for that matter, ungentlemanly -- by any means; his existential dread is simply manifesting as awkward and brooding manners as he tries to strike an impossible balance between fulfilling his family’s wishes for him and finding his own source of fulfillment.