On February 14, 1998, I bought a card because it had an enchanting quote from Jane Austen on the front:
“Expect a most agreeable letter, for. . . having nothing at all to say, there shall be no check to my genius from beginning to end.”
I still have this card. (I also have the receipt, which is how I know the date.) For 11 and a half years, I’ve been looking for the right occasion to send it! But there is something so intimidating about having to follow this essentially Austen opening bid, shall we say, that I never have. Clearly, ironically, an ordinary occasion would not be good enough. One can’t claim to have nothing to say, then cheerily write “Happy Birthday! Love, Mrs. Fitzpatrick” as if nothing had happened. Assuming one likes one’s friends and wants to keep them, I mean.
So it would need to be an occasion of love or friendship only: where you were writing to the person solely for the enjoyment of their conversation; because they love you and they’ll laugh at your jokes. And the good old tradition of writing nothing-saying notes about what happened in church yesterday, and who was wearing what, and why, has moved almost completely to email, texting, and IM-ing. (I’m too old to convert Jane’s fillip of inspiration to lol-speak, but any readers who can have my full support.) So I could see this as the opening line in an email I wrote to my best friend at 1 A.M. But generally speaking, I only write lettery cards at Christmas, when someone gives me something, and to relatives of a certain generation. These are not witty letters (shame on me). I feel, and here is the nub of the situation, that my ability to write “mere lively chat” has been sadly underused and diminished of late. I mean, you’d have to sit up all night to be witty enough to follow Jane! (Not that, AHEM, that doesn’t stop a lot of people from trying!) Alas, do we now only write about serious or boring things in our own hand? I want to say, “No!” but who has the time for writing witty nonsense? Or, ha, there’s the rub, rather than confining our wit to one close friend, we blog it out for the world to see. The strangely public lives we lead. . .
I am now convinced that this card is nearly useless, but that the quote could be adapted to a wide range of situations. Really, “Having nothing to say, there shall be no check to my genius from beginning to end.” might be the mantra of modern times. I mean that in a completely good way, of course.
Special Halloween note: Check out our limited-time-only Halloween header! (You may have to refresh or clear your cache to see it.) Zombies, man? You are so old-school! Clones is where it’s at for the horror this year! Would Jane kill Jane? We’ll never know for sure.
Photo credit: ©2009 by Heather Dever. All rights reserved.
If we in the twenty-first century have learned nothing else from Jane’s works, I like to think we’ve picked up a few things about the silent connection between a man and a woman—namely, that the wink wink nudge nudge telepathy route never, ever works. Romance by osmosis sounds good, sure, but the pitfalls (and the casualties) are many and varied: What? You think he likes you? You think he wants to marry you? Too bad you accidentally scratched your nose at the wrong moment, and now he’s scamming on your rich-but-dumb-as-a-brick cousin. Off to the poorhouse with you and your male-heir-less family!
If only the denizens of Austenland could learn a few communication skills—say, a few well-known (if nonsensical and/or blatantly sexist) phrases to start the conversation and get everybody on the same page. Not enough to betray real emotion or actual devotion, of course—what kind of sap do you take me for?—but enough to signal clearly the moment when a young man’s fancy turns to love (or at least an appreciation of those surprisingly low-cut gowns). What these people need is a healthy collection of pick-up lines.
To wit:
“You must be tired—you’ve been doing laps around my brain all night in an attempt to show off your figure (but, you know, you can’t do that and appear secretive at the same time).”
“Did you clean your gown with silver polish? For I can see myself in your muslin.”
“Pardon me, miss. Do you enjoy balls?”
“Do you believe in love at first sight, or shall I rescue you from another thunderstorm?”
“Would you care to come back to my place and see all the furnishings so graciously provided by Lady Catherine de Bourgh?”
“I’m sorry, but I seem to have misplaced the calling card I send before arriving at friends’ homes for unannounced social visits. May I borrow yours?”
“I may be a retired sea captain, but you should see my telescope!”
“I haven’t seduced any very young women, refused to marry them, and left them disgraced and penniless.”
And the all-time most successful (or is this just us?) pick-up line in all of Austenland:
“Hello, I’m Mr. Darcy.”
What do you think, readers? Hit us with your best (and by “best” I mean “worst”) shots!
Before any Austen heroine brings home the right man to Mother or Father, she always brings home the wrong one! The dashing libertine, the suavely dangerous man who seduces all the women in the household to some degree. Did Austen have a thing about libertines? Because sometimes, you know, they’re a lot more interesting than her good-boy clergymen heroes. Just saying. These men don’t make good rest-of-life fodder, but oh, I think she felt their charm. And of course, what better villain than one who can ruin your life?
So here I present a completely unbiased rundown of the Austen bad boys. Ladies, gentlemen, are they believable? Would you fall for them/let your friends date them? On a scale of 1 to 10, now. 1 = “no, what a dork! I never liked him.” to 10 = “sign me up here and now!”
Mr. Willoughby: A classic, truly, Mr. Willoughby recites poetry at the drop of a hat, rides to any damsel’s rescue, and carelessly seduces innocent young girls. He’s funny, irreverent, and, the kicker, we learn he really does love Marianne after all. Without this touch of heart, I don’t think modern audiences would give him a second thought, but remember, in the book Colonel Brandon is pretty boring. It took all Alan Rickman’s Alan-Rickmanness to make him into a mysterious romantic figure, and satisfy us that he’s a fitting mate for Marianne. With this touch of heart, I’m always left with the vague dissatisfying feeling that Marianne will never be happy without Willoughby.
Mr. Wickham: Chatty, flattering, sly Mr. Wickham. He gets at Lizzie by taking her into his secret and making her feel smart and special. We can all fall for that from time to time. After his unmasking, he’s so annoying I always find it hard to believe I liked him at the beginning of the book! (Lydia, of course, would run off with anyone.)
Henry Crawford: I always do fall rather for Henry Crawford, and regret him his fate. He’s the opposite of Wickham—he starts out bad, obviously and proudly bad, and so gradually becomes good. In fact I think Jane Austen rather liked him too, and had so convincingly reformed him that she didn’t know what to do but have him run off with Maria Bertram AKA Mrs. Rushworth. Do I believe he’d do that? I’m never sure, that’s the thing.
Mr. Elliot: He’s a bad boy, all right, but thoughtful Anne is never in any real danger. Her own Captain Wentworth is dashing enough to satisfy all that. Even more than with the others, with Mr. Elliot Jane Austen really seems to be pointing out how someone can say all the right things and look proper, and not mean a word of it. Mr. Elliot is suave and flatters Anne’s intelligence and looks, but he never caught my eye. Like Jane, I like guys who sometimes act without thinking. (Just ask Mr. Fitzpatrick!) Mr. Elliot is too measured—and more truly a villain than any of the others.
Non-starters: I haven’t included John Thorpe, Mr. Elton, or Frank Churchill in the running. Sure, they deceive people, but either not us, or not much, or they aren’t really bad when you get right down to it. Feel free to differ, of course!
I’ve just realized what separates the charming Austen men from the boring ones! The charming ones, good or bad, sometimes say or do an unconsidered thing—they are natural. Even the bumbling gentle heroes achieve charm when they do that.
Several weeks ago, I was appalled to hear that a publisher had reprinted Wuthering Heights with a cover that was clearly mimicking the Twilight book covers. (And in case we didn’t make the connection, the cover spells it out: “Bella and Edward’s Favorite Book.”) Fine. I’ve never actually enjoyed Wuthering Heights anyway, so let the legion of Twilight fans be sucked in by the marketing schemes of HarperTeen.
Sadly, the trend didn’t stop there. They’ve Twilight-ified Pride and Prejudice.
Bastardos! Now, I’m down with vampire lore, old and new. Buffy, Angel, the original Dracula novel, Elizabeth Kostova’s The Historian, Interview with the Vampire, The Lost Boys (Jason Patric, boys eating maggots, Edward “Lorelai Gilmore’s Dad” Hermann, does it get any better than that?) . . . bring it on! I just don’t see why Pride and Prejudice needs to look like Twilight to get girls (or boys) to pick it up and read it. And what, what, does this cover have to do with the style of Jane Austen? It’s soppy, cheesy, and over-simplified. It has no sense of humor. Do we see Lizzie and Darcy throwing flowers at each other in the dark? No, we see them in a duel of wits on the dance floor. A pair of crossed swords would have made a better, albeit still too romantic, cover for our beloved Pride and Prejudice.
Maybe it’s that I produce books for a living, but I have strong feeling on the subject of book covers. My favorite Jane Austen cover designs are from the mid-1990s, published by State Street Press (an imprint of Borders). I like the clean look, the modern type with the old fashioned images. And, because I am a production dork, I love that the images are glossy on a matte background, making them pop.
I also like the new illustrated cover from Penguin Classics. Slightly Edward Gorey-esque style (though true Ruben Toledo fans might not like me referencing another artist), but clean and fun. You can almost see them flirtatiously throwing insults at each other the moment before.
What’s your favorite cover design for a Jane Austen book, and why?
Well, Charlotte, you’ve won.
The Brits—who, of course, invented romance, what with all that sweeping around the moors, plus Charles/Diana and the classy trysts we see in Hello! magazine—have voted Jane Eyre‘s Mr. Rochester the most romantic man in literature, bumping our Mr. Darcy down to number-three status. In an impressive display of gracious victory, Andrew McCarthy of the Bronte Parsonage Museum at Haworth called Darcy (and everybody else in Jane’s world, which is a nice touch) “irritating.” We love you, too, Bronteites!
They’re not wrong, of course. As a romantic hero—and especially as a Romantic hero—Rochester’s brooding and breathy ways wipe the floor with Darcy, who is only awkward and devoted and does not lie about keeping a crazy wife locked in the attic. Rochester, after all, has the choice of wealthy and accomplished ladies, and turns his back on all of them to marry the plain and earnest governess—and acts as if she’s everything he’s ever wanted, singlehandedly turning her from dreary and dutiful orphan to love-story heroine. Darcy comes around eventually, but the grand gesture and love for the sake of love (flying in the face of social convention) isn’t what he’s about—and I’d propose that Jane (Austen, not Eyre; this is getting confusing) wouldn’t have him any other way, not being one for the Brontes’ brand of gushiness in the first place. In any case, does Lizzy hear Darcy’s supernatural voice echoing through the Lake Country, calling her back to her true love when she’s homeless and sleeping under a bush? No. No, she does not. So case closed, really.
Incidentally, Jane Austen’s contemporary Lord Byron comes up a lot in these conversations, which I suppose is all well and good if you want a “mad, bad, and dangerous-to-know” Sixth Baron poking about in your love life. Personally, I’m on the fence about this.
What I’m not sure about is whether they should be asking us about romance at all—if this list is any indication, we sure know how to pick ‘em. Clearly, we like the bad boys, and not without—let’s just say it—a bit of a masochistic bent. Rhett Butler? Heathcliff? I’m almost surprised Darcy’s ranked so highly–the good guys, the ones you’d eventually take home to meet your parents, are most definitely towards the bottom of the list (this, of course, being the crux of the issue—if they’d do okay at brunch with Mom and Dad, to paraphrase Harry Burns, perhaps “humpin’ and pumpin’ is not [their] strong suit”). What do we think about this, readers? Does romance generally equal a certain sense of choosing to be dominated? Is our love of exotic literary men our safe way of indulging the desire for a romantic (but not particularly kind or respectful) hero in our lives? Do we really think Heathcliff is that hot?
In any case, Bronte fans, congratulations—truly. But if we catch you outside our windows, moaning our names in the night, we’re taking the trophy back. You’ve been warned.
Mrs. Fitzpatrick knows a lot of stuff, useful and useless alike, and Miss Ball and Miss Osborne are fond of asking for her scholarly opinion on all sorts of things. Now you can too, using the contact form on the About page. Send us your questions! Ask Mrs. Fitzpatrick will answer anything related to the world of the books, the books themselves, P.G. Wodehouse, math, or Star Trek. Jane Austen (deceased) will comment on your personal problems in What Would Jane Do? We’d love to hear from you!
Miss Osborne: Miss Ball’s recent Jane Austen Fight Club post got me thinking about duels in the Jane Austen world. Duels were going on during that time period (the Aaron Burr-Alexander Hamilton duel was in the early 1800s), so why didn’t Mr. Darcy call out Wickham for a duel? Clearly, Darcy had the right. Were most duels just between equals? Or are there other reasons why dueling would not be an appropriate response to Wickham’s treachery? (It’s not like Darcy had to worry about looking like a dork—á la Mark Darcy versus Daniel Cleaver in Bridget Jones’s Diary—when all he has to do is walk a few paces and pull a trigger.)
Mrs. Fitzpatrick: Ah, dueling. I was once hailed by a passing stranger as “the swordsman’s girlfriend,” so I’m well-fitted to answer this. And the swordsman himself dumped five books on the history of dueling in my lap the instant I mentioned this query. The romance of the sword lives to this day, even when the sword is a gun (if you follow).
By the time Jane Austen was writing, dueling in Europe was an upper-class game of machismo on its way out—it was a game only among equals, though, yes, and taken seriously as a show of honor among them, though ridiculed in the press. In America, actually, dueling was much more serious (we had the Old West to prepare for, remember), and people died a lot more, like poor Hamilton. As Alexis de Tocqueville put it in 1831, “In Europe one hardly ever fights a duel except in order to be able to say that one has done so. . . In America one only fights to kill. . .”
In Sense and Sensibility, Colonel Brandon fights just such a European duel with Willoughby over his seducing Miss Williams (Col. Brandon’s not-daughter). “‘I could meet him in no other way. . . We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad.’ Elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it.” Some people have seen this duel as the crux of the plot, and it is part of the 18th century side of the novel, along with the seduction itself, Marianne’s dramatic illness, and Willoughby’s drunken declaration of love.
In Pride and Prejudice, remember, there is a question of somebody fighting Wickham, but it isn’t Mr. Darcy—it’s the ironical Mr. Bennet, framed nicely by his adoring wife: “And now here’s Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight Wickham, wherever he meets him, and then he will be killed, and what is to become of us all?” Nine pages later, “Sure he will not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham, and make him marry her, if he comes away?”
Mrs. Bennet’s always so silly that I don’t think we’re supposed to take either proposition seriously. Pride and Prejudice has much less of 18th century flavor than Sense and Sensibility. Yet I really can’t tell whether Mr. Bennet himself would have wanted to duel Wickham or not, though I’m inclined to think not. He was too sensible, and the whole idea was to hush the thing up, anyway.
And this, I think is our answer to why Mr. Darcy doesn’t challenge Wickham over the honor of Georgiana. He did have the right, and he was of the class (and, I imagine, the temperament) to be dueling, but, he tells Elizabeth, on discovering the proposed elopement “You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my sister’s credit and feelings prevented any public exposure. . .” Unless this is a coded indication that they did fight (as the fanfic authors no doubt go off on), his love for his sister overcame his ideas of his station in that way, just as (guess what!) his love for Elizabeth later overcomes his ideas of his station in another way.
Plus, imagine the scandal if it all did come out—too shocking! Mr. Darcy never revealed anything to anyone if he could help it.
For more on dueling, see The Code of Honor, by John Lyde Wilson, 19th century governor of South Carolina and avid duelist.
Dear Jane,
I’ve enjoyed connecting with old friends on Facebook (and keeping up with my children). The trouble started when an old boyfriend friended me. At first I was flattered—we dated when I was in my thirties, which was, ahem, awhile ago! However, he seemed rather obsessed with me, always phoning, chatting, etc. And when I agreed to visit him (which I admit was a mistake) he not only posted status updates about how excited he was that I was coming, but berated me for not doing the same! Even before I went, I was remembering why I broke up with him, but now that I’ve seen him in person. . . ! He’s pompous, arrogant, he never lets me finish a sentence, and he simply doesn’t believe me when I tell him it can’t work between us. Please tell me how to convince this knuckleheaded “gentleman,” once and for all, that it’s OVER!
Disgusted
Dear Disgusted,
Reconnecting with gentlemen you’ve been attached to and quarreled with can be done, but it’s tricky work. There generally must be some change of mind on one side or the other to overcome the reason for the separation (such as the acquisition of a large sum of money by at least one party.) This can be true even though he may be using you as a standard which no woman, not even yourself, can reach.
When the gentleman has not overcome his faults, and you are no more willing to put up with them than you were, it’s a different story. You now have to re-crush his hopes, and this can be difficult. Many gentleman are knuckleheaded, and so full of their own importance that they can believe a woman to be accepting them even when she is refusing them in the plainest language. My first advice would be to refer the matter to your father, whose refusal may not be mistaken for the delicacy of an elegant female. However, if you don’t have a father or brother who can tell him to get lost, your best recourse is to ensure that he fancies himself in love with someone else. Have you no friends panting for such obsessive attention, who wouldn’t mind the annoyances you describe? Hook him up with an eligible spinster of your acquaintance. I promise you, if she is amiability itself, he will soon forget about you, or at least only remember you enough to constantly remind you what you have lost, and I’m sure you can bear that very well!
Sincerely,
Mrs. Fitzpatrick
pp Jane Austen (signed in her absence)
P.S. A further piece of advice: renewing old acquaintances is all very well, but you don’t know what these people have become, and their rapacious children may try to marry yours for their fortunes. Light chat and status updates can be deceiving. So, be careful!
Do you ever think that things would have been so much easier for Austen heroines had they been provided with a laptop and a broadband connection? We know: love is timeless, the perils of attraction never age; still, think of the time, stress, and humiliation that could have been avoided in Janeland with the power of a few good keyword searches (“handsome & unattached,” “not: cad”). (On the other hand, plenty of people write books about online dating that go mysteriously unread and unloved around Austenacious HQ. Coincidence?) Still, a little straightforwardness and the occasional unintentionally revealing personal statement might have gone a long way in Jane’s neighborhood.
Today, along the lines of love and technology in Jane’s world, we have a little game for your guessing pleasure. Below, we’ve provided basic dating-site profiles for five Austen characters; your job is to identify each character and the character’s eventual mate (bonus points if you write a corresponding profile!). Think you’ve got the answer? Leave it in the comments.
Here we go…
Profile #1:
Likes: Gardening, giving compliments
Dislikes: Singleness
Friendly, attentive clergyman seeks bright, beautiful girl to receive pre-determined compliments and perform wifely duties of all varieties. Must enjoy large estates (for admiring, not for living on), attending church, and cooking and eating exemplary vegetables, preferably with wealthy neighbors. Girls with single sisters encouraged to apply.
Profile #2:
Likes: Personal drama
Dislikes: Boredom, ordinariness, having to live actual life
Free-spirited girl seeks knight in shining armor to catch her when she falls, provide flowers and poetry readings at will, and graciously accept the tendency to swoon and/or faint. Must enjoy storms, large dogs, small children, and families full of females. Older men need not apply.
Profile #3:
Likes: Everything!
Dislikes: Dislikes
Nicest guy in neighborhood (no, really) seeks even nicer girl. I enjoy basically everything, but am especially fond of long rides through the countryside, rehearsing passionate proposal speeches with my BFF (not for him, ladies; for you!), and not working for my considerable fortune. I must say, this site is full of uncommonly pretty girls! Perhaps I shall write a letter to its proprietors telling them how very satisfied I am with their work.
Profile #4:
Likes: Shepherds, walnuts, flattery
Dislikes: Critical thought
Sweet girl seeks well-mannered man for moonlight walks, evening merriment, quality time with sheep, and personal guidance. I’m very affectionate and I follow directions well, for I am sure that you are correct in all situations.
Profile #5:
Likes: Long walks on the beach
Dislikes: Rejection
Good-looking, well-mannered sailor on leave (so to speak) seeks nice girl with whom to settle down. Looks relatively unimportant, though a shadow of former beauty is a plus; must know how to say “no” but also to reconsider previously held beliefs. Willingness to disobey neighborly advice not required, but will move things along.
Ready? Go!
Last night was the second episode of BBC 1′s new version of Emma. Reviews have been mixed. As Allison Pearson at the Daily Mail noted, the producers have been patting themselves on the back for taking the stuffiness out of Jane Austen’s characters and relationships to make them more palatable for a modern audience. (Whatever!) Apparently Romola Garai talks like a flapper and Jonny Lee Miller just isn’t man enough for the job of Mr. Knightley. So at least we Americans can rest easy being spared all this. (Ha! As if we wouldn’t love to pass judgment on our own viewing!)
You know, though, Emma is kind of stuffy. She’s an interfering know-it-all who, as Jane Austen famously remarked, “no one will much like but myself.” And a lot of people don’t—Austenacious’s own Miss Osborne, for a start. And people get vicious about her, just vicious, like John Preston at the Telegraph: “You will want to kick her downstairs.” I identify with Emma. Sure, her life may be easy in a lot of ways, but she gets stuff wrong. All the time. In her, I hear myself giving friends advice on who did and who didn’t love them—and what the hell did I know about it? Some readers just can’t seem to forgive her for trying to improve Harriet Smith’s life, but you never hear a peep out of them about Mr. Darcy doing the same thing to Mr. Bingley and Jane. (Is this because we don’t see Bingley’s grief, or even Jane’s grief, as plainly as Harriet’s?) Why isn’t he branded an interfering know-it-all too?
Emma’s not your typical heroine—that’s Jane Fairfax, the lovely orphan destined for governesshood who miraculously marries a wealthy and devoted man. Emma gets to watch her heroinizing all over the place from the sidelines, and she’s human enough to admit she can’t stand her, for reasons that sound petty when written 200 years ago, but authentic when you think about people you don’t like.
And her little flirtation with Frank Churchill? Oh lord, let’s not even go there! I’m sure we’ve all had that experience in one form or another.
Emma’s a poor little rich girl, who has everything she wants, and never gets anything about anybody right. Maybe that’s why lots of people hate her, but we interfering know-it-alls, the ones who make snide, witty cracks without thinking and are deeply sorry afterward, who sometimes don’t say what we mean or mean what we say, but wish we could do both, and who, most of all, wish we had a clue about what was going on around us, we love our Miss Woodhouse. She is good peoples.
Okay, global publishing industry. Let’s talk. Put down that Chicago Manual; I want to see the whites of your eyes. I know we’re all having great fun (and by “we” I mean “you,” and by “having great fun” I mean “swimming in your Scrooge McDuck money vaults”) with the explosion of pseudo-Austen legal-fan-fiction goodness, but there’s a new sheriff in town, and her name is Austenacious, and she’s drawing a line in the fine English country soil.
Here’s the thing: go ahead. Sequels, mashups, reimaginings; call them what you will, and print them by the thousand. Live and let live, and all that. But have a little dignity; set some standards for yourself. We’d like the Austen fandom to be a lobotomy-free zone. Wouldn’t you? We’ll even help you out: here, for future reference, are the top five Austen derivatives that let you know you’ve hit the bottom of the acceptable barrel:
Relations and the Country
Four Austen heroines (spunky Lizzy, romantic Marianne, independent Emma, and dramatic Catherine) cavort about the countryside, discover all good-looking young men to be blackguards, and attempt to find true love in unexpected (older, previously disdained, sometimes grizzled, often related)places while also having brunch and attending balls. Critics complain that nobody actually wears muslins like theirs.
Sun-down
We already have Mr. Darcy, Vampyre; if our dear Fitzwilliam starts to sparkle, it’s Game Over. Period. End of story.
The Anglican Code: A Mr. Collins Mystery
What’s that you say? Mr. Collins is an operative of a secret anti-Church of England sect operating from within? And the secret numerological terrorist plan is hidden in the banisters and inlaid floors of Rosings Park, which (as we know) cost 500 pounds apiece? We’d name Charlotte Lucas as the intrepid love interest/detective, but she doesn’t get to come back in the second book. Hmmph.
Consume Consider Pine
Fanny Price travels the Home Counties in search of a spine, food that isn’t cold meat, and a guy who’d rather hang out with her than be in plays. Result: Enlightenment! Find a wealthy uncle to fund your spiritual journey today!
He’s Just Not that Attached to You
Having trouble attracting a man? These easy steps, inspired by the real women of Jane Austen’s novels, are sure to garner you a steady heart and an income of five thousand a year, at least! Ladies, never forget the magnetic power of repeated rejection, the sharpened senses that come from social misunderstanding, and the no-fail trick of falling down a hill in the rain! Guaranteed to find your knight in gaiters and top hat!
Now, don’t we all feel better? Publishers, like children, need boundaries. Now go and design us some pretty, matching editions of the originals, stat!
