I think, in reading Pride and Prejudice, that one of my favorite characters is also one of the most—if not the most—ignored. Poor Kitty Bennet spends most of the novel as basically an afterthought: she’s not as flighty as Lydia and not as didactic as Mary, and all anybody remembers about her is her (not-on-purpose) cough. (This is true to the point where I had completely forgotten who even plays her in the 2005 version; IMDB reminds me that it is, in fact, a not-yet-famous Carey Mulligan!) It’s a tough life, being Kitty, but I think Jane made it that way on purpose, for two reasons:
I like Kitty because she represents the phases that we all go through—the ways in which we’re susceptible to other people. The truth is, Kitty’s not a very strong personality, and she follows Lydia’s ridiculous example without a fight, or even (and I think this is generous) very much thought. But don’t we all do this (not me, of course; I’m talking about the rest of you!)? Don’t we (I mean you) find, in hindsight, times where we weren’t ourselves, or when we did things that we’d never have thought of on our own—all because somebody else looked like they were having fun? I like that Jane includes this subtle socio-personal detail among all the prideful and prejudicial behavior going on. Not everybody, it seems, is either Elizabeth Bennet-smart or Mrs. Bennet-vapid one hundred percent of the time. I like that Kitty’s a regular girl going through a slightly obnoxious period in her life. Just like 80s bangs and wearing leggings as pants, right? We’ve all been there.
I also like Kitty because she represents the ways in which people can grow up and change—Mary will probably always love a good truism, and Lydia’s unlikely to come to her senses anytime soon, but I always like to think that Kitty’s going to turn out okay. With Lydia gone, even the end of the novel feels like she’s coming out of some sort of fog of silliness (she will, of course, now be left at home with Mary and Mrs. Bennet, but one hopes Mr. Bennet will reach out to his second-youngest daughter as a potential island of sense). In an odd, side-plot kind of way, it’s thrilling! For probably the first time since Lydia arrived on the scene, drama-queening it up ostensibly from the womb, Kitty’s on her own—it’s the end of a small, subtle character arc, but we’re assured that things will continue in a positive manner. That Jane! She sure does know people.
And that is why, although one of the most important novels in the English language is packed with memorable and intelligent (though flawed) characters, I have a soft spot for one slightly obnoxious teenage girl—I hope that one day she’ll become one of them.
Recently I’ve been pondering this quote from Northanger Abbey, which is surprising full of clothes.
It would be mortifying to the feelings of many ladies, could they be made to understand how little the heart of man is affected by what is costly or new in their attire; how little it is biased by the texture of their muslin, and how unsusceptible of peculiar tenderness towards the spotted, the sprigged, the mull, or the jackonet. Woman is fine for her own satisfaction alone. No man will admire her the more, no woman will like her the better for it. Neatness and fashion are enough for the former, and a something of shabbiness or impropriety will be most endearing to the latter.
Do women like their friends to look shabby, worse than them? Obviously, women these days fall on a broad spectrum of caring about their appearance, but I think the more a woman cares about her appearance, the more she cares about her friends’ appearances, and the more she wants them to look fashionable (whether goth, moth, preppy, etc), so as not to embarrass her. I think wanting to look better than your friends is on a different axis altogether, one more to do with self-confidence and all that. We probably need a graph or a Venn diagram to settle the question, and an Internet quiz you can take. Maybe later.
Having come to that conclusion, I think Jane Austen was there ahead of me, and she was talking about a frivolous b-word like Isabella Thorpe, and not any of us. Oh no. We are nice girls, and not being as innocent as Catherine Morland, we know quite well what men want to see in our clothes. Jane Austen, for all her delicacy, is perfectly clear about it, and so is Mrs. Bennet of all people. I present to you, in fact, what Mr. Wickham was no doubt thinking when Lydia “tucked a little lace.” Note, this is NOT safe for work!
This week, world-wandering elder brother Mr. Ball has hung up his top hat and arrived at the family country house for a much-deserved furlough from the competitive world of international diplomacy. The whole clan is sequestered away, in fact, for a period of long carriage rides, late-night Whist (aka Scrabble), and the kind of family togetherness that only a trip to the country can bring, for better or for worse.
As any young lady returned to her family after a season away will find, there’s something about suddenly having parents and an elder brother very present that makes one’s role in life perfectly clear: come hell or high water or long periods of living independently, little sisterhood is forever.
As far as Jane goes, I think I’m doing all right. So far, I’m pleased to report that I have not yet run off to Scotland or to the seashore with any older men, only to need rescuing/marrying at gunpoint, nor have I injured myself and fallen head-over-heels for any dreamy scoundrels on horseback. I haven’t played the pianoforte in an inappropriate manner. I haven’t become “often a little unwell,” nor have I become (more so than usual) “always thinking a great deal of my own complaints”. There may have been a little bit of running wild—of which the Morlands surely approve—but have we mentioned we’re at the country house? Who do you think I am, Mary Bennet?
On the other hand, my brother hasn’t bought me any pianofortes, nor has he leapt up to defend my honor. To be fair, though, he hasn’t forced me out of my ancestral home and into a pauper’s cottage, either.
I say we’re even…as long as he lets me call shotgun on the way home.
Lovely Jenn over at Citivolus Sus asked us whether she was the only Austenite who like beer. Well, I hardly think so. She even posted recommendations on which beers go with which books. I am, sadly, allergic to beer, but I do like to eat and drink (and travel), so here are my own recommendations on the right ambiance for each book. I won’t insist on Regency dishes. I won’t even go into the hardback/paperback split, and how the musky odors of old books bring out the woodier notes in certain pinot noirs, changing the whole dynamic. Just imagine Giles twittering on in the background, and making you read your Kindle only on the airplane, eating airplane food.
Northanger Abbey has a hard feeling, and such sharp edges and corners. So I see it as going well with Chinese food. I’m not particular as to the dish. Something spicy hot, perhaps with fermented black beans in it. You should drink lots of jasmine tea and get a really surreal Jane Austen fortune cookie afterward. Try to be in a restaurant that at least has Chinese people in it. No P.F. Chang’s, please. If the people are speaking Mandarin or some other form of Chinese, this is a bonus.
Sense and Sensibility: What a weird book, foodwise. There’s no doubt it can be unsettling to the stomach. I think a nice butternut squash soup. Or maybe Welsh rabbit. Orange food is called for, apparently. Orange juice? Sure. Maybe you should be in Orange County, too, whatthehey. Or in any one of these fine Orange places.
Pride and Prejudice: There is no wrong thing to eat or drink with Pride and Prejudice, right? And no wrong place to read it. For all that I have to say: No junk food. Do not insult Miss Austen with McDonald’s, or I will kill you. There are some things beyond even irony. If you must have a specific setting, I seem to see you in a wonderful Belle Epoque patisserie in Alexandria, sipping your tea and eating French/Egyptian sweets. It’s probably sunset or something, too.
Mansfield Park: Somehow, I see Mansfield Park as going best with Indian food. A good rogan josh and a steaming cup of chai make a nice counterpoint to the sometimes startling flavor of this book. You should be somewhere rainy. By the ocean.
Emma is a summertime book. Think a picnic lunch on the lawn, with strawberry shortcake. Please be nice to Miss Bates. Do try the cheese-and-pickle sandwiches, and make the Assam tea strong, with plenty of cream. As long as you sit in the sun, you may be anywhere you like.
Persuasion: This is also a book that makes me want to feel cozy and warm. It has, yes, autumnal overtones. A traditional Irish dinner followed by a really good whiskey, and some chocolate cake, maybe? Please curl up on the couch and enjoy a roaring fire while you read.
Lady Susan and The Watsons: You really should be absolutely drunk to read these, and possibly high on opium as well.* I don’t mean this in a bad way! Absinthe, I think, is the way to go. If you want to smoke a hookah and be in Istanbul as well, just to get the feel right, we’re down with that.
Sanditon: With its emphasis on health fads, I do see Sanditon as a breakfast book. You can do the straightforward hippie thing with yogurt and granola, or go all ironic with croissants and coffee. I seem to see you doing this in Paris, I don’t know why. Can you even get granola in Paris?
As a final note, I feel that all Jane Austen is most properly accompanied by chocolate. Dark, rich, delicious chocolate. Any other suggestions are optional. Readers, what do you think?
*Austenacious does not endorse the use of illegal drugs, even if they are picturesque. Note that absinthe is not illegal in the U.S. anymore. Yay!
Photo credit: ©Ed Yourdon. Used under Creative Commons licensing.
We open on a multiplex movie theater. MISS BALL and MISS OSBORNE sit in the audience, watching the movie raptly. On the screen, CILLIAN MURPHY sits in a hotel bar, talking with a blonde woman in an unnecessarily complicated cocktail dress.
Miss Ball: This is awesome, but I feel like that chick is waaaay too nerdy for this.
The blonde continues to flirt.
Miss Ball: Why do I get the feeling she’s going to start spouting sermons?
The blonde gives Cillian her phone number.
Miss Ball: Does she play the piano?
Miss Osborne: SHHHHH.
Miss Ball: I don’t know why, but I get the feeling she wears contacts.
LEONARDO DICAPRIO arrives onscreen.
Miss Ball: Oh no. Ohhhhh, no. No no no no no no.
Miss Osborne: WHAT.
Miss Ball: This is suddenly a horror movie.
Miss Osborne: Why?
Miss Ball: MARY BENNET IS FAKE-SEDUCING A MAN IN A HOTEL BAR!
People, it’s true: if you’ve seen Inception—and I hope that you have—let’s take a trip down bit-part memory lane. Remember the woman in the hotel bar, who gives Fischer (Murphy) a fake phone number, just as Cobb (DiCaprio) shows up? That is one Talulah Riley…also known as Mary Bennet in the 2005 big-screen Pride and Prejudice. Think about it: dye the hair brown, switch out the dress, add some glasses, and hand the girl a book of sermons. Voila! Nobody wants your concertos here!
And you thought Inception was mind-boggling before.
Bookslut crushed my soul today, o readers of Austenacious.
It all happened during Siobhan Neile Welch’s review of Bring on the Books for Everybody: How Literary Culture Became Pop Culture, when Welch wrote:
“Pop culture implies that school has taken the joy out of literature, so in turn pop culture has taken literature out of the hands of the experts and into those with a true passion for reading.”
To quote that fine musical establishment, the Bangles, can you feel my heart breaking? Do you understand?
Yes: reading takes on less of a leisurely tinge when a grade hangs in the balance—but the idea that school reading isn’t real reading stings a bit. After all, I first discovered Jane in school, under the tutelage of a well-informed and passionate English teacher (and, I suppose, the California twelfth-grade literature requirements)—and what am I, chopped forcemeat balls? Is my passion for books, or for Jane, diminished because we first met on a by-semester basis? Clearly, Jane and I would have crossed paths eventually, but I say with great assurance that nothing about Pride and Prejudice was diminished for its association with the AP test, nor have I loved her other novels more for having read them on my own time.
In any case, aren’t “the experts” so called because they have “a true passion for reading” in the first place?
The truth is—and I know how much of a surprise this will be—I sometimes miss reading for class, not because I love being told what to read and when, but because reading with a) a group and b) a graded incentive sometimes makes for a more thoughtful and productive read. A little, er, external motivation, shall we say. Not that there’s anything wrong with reading for the joy of reading—Hi, I’m Miss Ball; have we met?—but I resent the implication that the reading we do in school doesn’t count, or is necessarily un-fun. I’ll have you know that Jane and I had a fine time in Mr. Rammelkamp’s class, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
(Also, if my reading the entirety of Moby Dick in eleventh grade is now invalidated, having not been exactly “for pleasure,” I will officially be one pissed bookworm.)
No, really. Are you?
Because you’re gonna want to see this—probably behind closed doors.
Couple of Extraordinary Taste Mr. and Mrs. Porter have brought to our attention lengthy videos of Joseph Fiennes reading from Sense and Sensibility, Dominic West reading from Pride and Prejudice, and Greg Wise reading from Persuasion—and now we can’t go back to the innocent ladies we were previously. We can’t unsee those impeccably set-dressed interiors and those perfectly crisp white shirts! We can’t unhear the seductively manly voices or the passion in Darcy/West’s proposal! We can’t unimagine…well, we wouldn’t tell you even if our mothers weren’t reading this site.
It’s just like we always say: the way to a woman’s heart is through the hilarious yet spot-on sexy reading of classic literature by hot and famous men. It’s a thing we say. Really.
(The only way this could be more perfect, naturally, is via an Old Spice Guy cameo. He is, after all, on a horse. Are you listening to me, advertisers?)
There was an article in yesterday’s Telegraph—an advice column, I think—that, quite simply, erases the entire section of the space-time continuum between the Regency and the twenty-first century. It’s easy: snip-snip, stick-stick, and here we are! The link has disappeared, but some inquiring British mind wanted to know:
How can I stop village gossips from talking about me?
Well.
First of all, you have village gossips? That’s so cool! Man, between Cadbury chocolate and this, England’s kicking our butts, awesome-wise.
Also, based on her experiences with people doing ridiculous things—or not—and then getting talked about, I think Jane might have some suggestions for you:
- If he seems cute and nice, run away. And we don’t mean with him—clearly he’s run off with some fifteen-year-old’s honor, lied about wanting to be a priest (avoid that lightning bolt), is drowning in gambling debts, and is also hitting on your sister.
- If you’re male, be poor. If you can’t be poor, don’t talk about your salary. For, you know, whatever it is you do all day.
- If you have sisters, try to be the least awful one. Do you really ever hear anybody talking about poor Kitty?
- Don’t marry a creep just for the sake of marrying, Charlotte.
- Don’t horn in on a rich old lady’s plans for her studly and equally rich nephew. News does tend to travel.
If these seem unmanageable, well, maybe you deserve a bit of chatter. Or you can just take the opposite tack: do what you want, see what happens, and get somebody to write a timeless novel about you.
That’s gotta shut ‘em up.
There’s a quotation in Pride and Prejudice that always gets me—it’s the kind that keeps me up at night.
It’s right at the end, when Bingley’s finally gotten everything straightened out and made an honest woman of Jane:
“‘I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!’ cried Jane. ‘Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed above them all! If I could but see you as happy! If there were but such another man for you!’”
To which Lizzy replies:
“‘If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your happiness.’”
Readers, put me out of my misery: Is this true? Is goodness a precursor for happiness?
To be clear, I don’t think Jane is telling us that Lizzy and Darcy won’t be happy. Of course they’ll be happy; they love each other and they respect each other and they’re going to go off to Pemberley and be dazzlingly content in their wealth and unnecessary virtue. I get that she’s talking about Jane and Bingley’s ability to be content, and about their ability to not pick fights with life, and about the way that they will be eternally relieved to have actually ended up together (no thanks to you, Darcy).
But no, really. Do we—and by we I mean I—have to be good to be happy?
Let’s look at Lydia, who is pretty definitely Not Good in the context of the novel. Is Lydia happy? She certainly gets what she wants. The last we see of her, she’s all bouncy and obnoxious and rubbing her sisters’ noses in her traipsing off with Wickham—and of course we’re meant to believe that what Lydia has isn’t real (no matter what she thinks in the moment), and that it won’t last, and that she’ll end up disgraced and alone, a washed-up groupie either for the military or, slightly less likely, Phish.
It’s true that, in Jane’s novels, the virtuous and the sweet-tempered generally end up winners; the snobs, the weak-minded, and the mean-spirited, not so much. (I wouldn’t call Lizzy mean-spirited; more like mildly and wonderfully acidic. I don’t think Jane would mind.) Outside of Jane’s novels, I’m not sure: I think there are plenty of happy people who aren’t necessarily good—but are they as happy as they could be?
Shed some light, readers?
Jane Austen died on July 18, 1817, of disputed causes, making this the 193rd anniversary of her death. Is it weird that we haven’t seen a book yet with Jane Austen as a ghost, ala Nearly Headless Nick in Harry Potter? We’ve been through swathes of the Austen undead without coming to this fairly obvious choice. Is it passe, perhaps? Rather than having a vampire Austen chomping on wine and chocolate, how about a ghostly Austen flitting through a Gothic story or setting, making sure all the mysteriously locked chests are only filled with laundry lists? I could go for that.
Or what about a banshee Austen shrieking when people misunderstand her take on marriage, again? Psst! Lydia and Wickham’s marriage was doomed because they got married out of lust and boredom, not because they got married quickly. And actually, it wasn’t all that quickly. Jane would have agreed that you should marry the “right” person (duh), but it’s a considerable leap from that to hustling to the church/registry office/destination wedding with any old man you happen to pick up. Quoth Charlotte Lucas, “It is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life,” and we all know how she fared at the marriage market.
Sorry, got a little sidetracked there. We were discussing sarcastic ghosts who make fun of the Gothic, and ironic banshees. Let’s see, what else has been missed? We could make a case for Jane Austen, Necromancer, raising armies of spin-offs, but I think my favorite glimpse of Jane Austen’s life after death comes from E.M. Forster, in “The Celestial Omnibus.” Jane drives a carriage to heaven. And it’s not a barouche-landau.
