“Pride and Prejudice”: Jane Austen’s Vision of Reformed Gentility and Loving Matrimony
The following essay is one I have written for a recent graduate class. Though much longer and more formal than the previous pieces I have published, it might interest enthusiastic readers who share my appreciation for Jane Austen, whose masterful command of the English language remains unparalleled.
Reading her novels as a young adult, I came to associate, if not directly equate, Jane Austen with the term drawing room. My image of the great novelist was drawn from the spinsterly portrait that every reader has seen — modest dress, frilled cap, forehead curls, and composed expression — but also from the traditional and popular understanding that has effectively reduced Austen to the setting of her famous tête-à-têtes. Published about forty-five years after Pride and Prejudice, G. H. Lewes’s influential essay categorized Austen as a provincial thinker. Lewes pronounced her artistic achievement remarkable given “the limitations of her genius,” by which he meant her narrow and unsophisticated subject matter, the feminine sphere of the daily and domestic (qtd. in Moe 1078). Rather than “stir[ring] the deeper emotions” or “fill[ing] the soul with a noble aspiration” — presumably the qualifications of high literature — Austen’s fiction “only teaches us charity for the ordinary failings of ordinary people, and sympathy with their goodness” (qtd. 1078). The focus on the local and familial, combined with “the absence of breadth, picturesqueness, and passion” — qualities Lewes would likely apply to Sir Walter Scott’s political and military dramas — rendered Austen’s novels pleasing but not provocative (qtd. 1078).
Over the past one hundred and fifty years, feminist scholars have challenged Lewes and the critical tradition that classified Austen as either apolitical or unconsciously conservative and her work as unambitious, even commonplace (Moe 1078; Johnson xv-xvi). Margaret Kirkham, Claudia Johnson, and Alison Sulloway have all persuasively linked Austen’s fiction to the moral, philosophical, and political debates of her day, particularly the work of Mary Wollstonecraft and the feminist movement of the late eighteenth century. Assessing Austen as a political figure, Johnson points out that “[a]ssertions about her ‘Tory conservatism’ are based not on statements by or about Austen in her novels or letters — no such statements exist — but rather on the belief that because she was a member of a certain class she reflexively accorded with all its values and interests” (xviii). Such a perspective assumes that her “politics were rather intuitive than self-conscious, more a matter of unexamined class style and female complacency than critical engagement with contemporary ideas and events” (Fraiman 60). Confronting this portrait of Austen as passive and undiscerning, feminist critics have argued for her active engagement and undertaken the “radicalization of Jane Austen, in which the discovery of radical tendencies does not make Austen a starkly polarized figure, but [rather] demonstrates how her overall politics evade the categories of ‘conservative’ or ‘radical’” (Moe 1101). Though not as outspoken and revolutionary as Mary Wollstonecraft, Jane Austen was neither a recluse nor a simple conformist. For example, by “centering her novels in the consciousness of unempowered characters — that is, women,” Austen — like “unequivocally radical novelists … [including] Wollstonecraft” — was able “to expose and explore those aspects of traditional institutions — marriage, primogeniture, patriarchy — which patently do not serve her heroines well” (Johnson xxiv). In Pride and Prejudice alone, she addresses the issues of female education, propriety, agency, and mobility, as well as male authority, responsibility, and virtue, in both conservative and progressive ways.
To some extent, the enduring popularity of Austen’s fiction, as well as the fruitful scholarship it has furnished, can be attributed to this political and ethical complexity: her characters are both flawed and admirable, her narrator satirical and compassionate, and her world vision challenging and conciliatory. Even on matters of principle, Claudia Johnson describes Austen’s style as “exploratory and interrogative” rather than “hortatory and prescriptive,” enabling widely divergent critical readings (xxi). In order to explain the moral intricacies of her novels, Johnson and Alison Sulloway have turned to her historical situation. In the wake of the French Revolution and Godwin’s scandalous biography of Wollstonecraft, British society acutely feared that women and the lower classes would stage a rebellion at home. In this climate of anxiety, female novelists recognized the need for “thematic and rhetorical caution” in order to find a willing publisher and escape “ugly notoriety” (Sulloway 4). At least in print, they tended to be “highly informed and often distinctively flexible, rather than ferociously partisan, in their sympathies” and were forced to “smuggle in their social criticism, as well as the mildest of reformist projects, through various means of indirection — [such as] irony” (Johnson xix, xxiii-xxiv). Of course, one of Austen’s most distinctive traits and potent weapons is her satire, which she brilliantly wields against young and old, rich and poor, male and female.
By claiming Jane Austen as a political figure, feminist scholars have emphasized rather than denied the domestic content and context of her work, asserting that the private is political (Johnson xx). For example, Margaret Kirkham frames Austen’s focus on the domestic as a valorization of female spaces and, by extension, female emotions, intellect, and moral character (xxi). In terms of romance, Nancy Armstrong argues that “stories of courtship and marriage offered their readers a way of indulging, with a kind of impunity, in fantasies of political power that were the more acceptable because they were played out within a domestic framework where legitimate monogamy — and thus the subordination of female to male — would ultimately be affirmed” (471). In other words, “domestic fiction could represent an alternative form of political power” — female influence over the home and male family members — “without appearing to contest the distribution of power that it represented as historically given” (471). With regard to Pride and Prejudice, Austen’s second published work and most famous love story, we see how she crafts “an imaginative experiment with conservative myths, and not a statement of faith in them”: over the course of the novel, these “myths become so transformed that they are made to accommodate what could otherwise be seen as subversive impulses and values, and in the process they themselves become the vehicles of incisive social criticism” (Johnson 75). Defying social and financial pressures, Elizabeth Bennet, the novel’s witty and unconventional heroine, rejects the first proposals she receives for two significant reasons: she neither respects nor loves Mr. Collins or Mr. Darcy. The conduct of the latter is particularly offensive to her because, despite the privilege of his status and breeding, he does not behave in a “gentlemanlike manner” (Austen 191). Out of all the criticisms with which Elizabeth rebukes him (and there are many), Mr. Darcy finds these words the most surprising and disturbing since they challenge his very identity and foundational world view. Elizabeth compels Darcy to not only rethink his attitude and assumptions but also, in the process, grow into a better man — a true gentleman. Thus, in accordance with Elizabeth’s advice and in order to win her approbation and love, Darcy becomes a proper member of the nobility, a structure that she and her marriage enrich and reinforce, morally as well as physically. The novel’s conclusion may celebrate Elizabeth’s assimilation into the aristocracy, but in so doing she realizes Jane Austen’s vision, both traditional and liberal, of reformed gentility and loving matrimony.
Though Pride and Prejudice may be the most conservative of Austen’s novels, Elizabeth Bennet is one of her most progressive characters. Throughout Austen’s lifetime, the genre of conduct books, which dictated the proper views and manners of young women, flourished along with fears about revolution. Associating rebellious women with weak men and social disorder, these books called for humility, docility, and tenderness in women and condemned reading as an activity that would stimulate their minds and bring them into conflict with male authority (Sulloway 23–4, 33). Lacking education and the habit of self-reflection, such well-behaved women would presumably seek out male relatives’ advice and submit to their guidance without question. But Elizabeth is an avid reader with an active conscience and a sure confidence: her curiosity, eloquence, and boldness involve her in moral dilemmas that she resolves based on her own judgment and principles, proving herself to be a woman of independent rational and ethical thought (Kirkham 83–4). Johnson points out that in “endowing attractive female characters like Emma Woodhouse and Elizabeth Bennet with rich and unapologetic senses of self-consequence, Austen defies every dictum about female propriety and deference propounded in the sermons and conduct books which have been thought to shape her opinions on all important matters” (xxiii). Indeed, Austen subtly reveals her disapproval of such books by having Mr. Collins, the novel’s most obsequious, obtuse, and repugnant character, recommend — unsuccessfully — Fordyce’s Sermons to Young Women to the Bennet sisters.
Far from being meek or mild, Elizabeth is distinguished by her “lively, playful disposition” and “great spirit” (Austen 14). She voices her witticisms and social criticisms to Charlotte and Jane and is not afraid to disagree with her father, Mr. Collins, or Mr. Darcy. Though in possession of a bold tongue, she does not lack sensitivity: her character is described as a “mixture of sweetness and archness” that prevents her from being vulgar, offensive, or cruel (52). Nor does Elizabeth’s sense of humor reflect a superficial character since, as she herself explains, “I hope I never ridicule what is wise or good,” though “[f]ollies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, do divert me, I own” (57). These qualities of exceptional intelligence, integrity, and independence distinguish Elizabeth among her peers and fascinate Mr. Darcy. Admitting that “her manners were not those of the fashionable world,” he is nonetheless “caught by their easy playfulness” (24). Darcy admires the “liveliness of [her] mind” (367) and remarks that her countenance is “rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes,” thereby uniting her intellectual and physical appeal (24). Indeed, Elizabeth exemplifies his ideal woman, who, as he says, must possess “something more substantial [than ornamental acquisitions], in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading” (40). Voicing such a definition of the truly accomplished woman, Darcy implicitly rejects the conventions of conduct books and “emphasizes standards which place him closer to the Wollstonecraft tradition of feminism” (Brown 331). In a move highly reminiscent of Genesis, Fordyce and similar conduct book authors connected knowledge to female immorality: educated women were considered more likely to be sexually deviant, either by committing adultery or clinging to a sterile virginity (Sulloway 26, 38). Darcy, however, links female education to both virtue and desirability. In his perspective, a lively mind and conscience elevate a woman and enhance her physical attractions, making her more appealing as a companion and as a lover.
In addition to her uncommon intelligence, the unconventional Elizabeth attracts Darcy because she enjoys a physical vigor that is decidedly unladylike. On her way to care for the ailing Jane, Elizabeth makes her way alone, “crossing field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing over puddles, with impatient activity, and finding herself at last within view of the house, with weary ankles, dirty stockings, and a face glowing with the warmth of exercise” (Austen 33). Elizabeth’s muddy hems, rosy cheeks, and clear enjoyment of her jaunt shock and disgust the Bingley sisters, who condemn her “abominable sort of conceited independence” and “most country-town indifference to decorum” (37). Though Darcy does wonder if propriety justifies “her coming so far alone,” he is captivated by “the brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion” (34). Here, Elizabeth’s physical beauty cannot be extricated from her lack of refinement, yet Darcy finds himself enchanted nonetheless. (It is significant to note that Elizabeth’s vitality is never reprehensible like Lydia’s “high animal spirits”: the latter leads her into danger and disgrace, while the former mirrors the liveliness of the heroine’s mind and affirms her independent spirit (46). Unlike Lydia’s unthinking and unrestrained sexuality, Elizabeth’s erotic vigor and defiance of convention are not morally suspect since both are regulated by reason and principle. Quite simply, daring to take a solitary walk through inclement weather cannot be compared to eloping with a man and living with him for several weeks before marriage.)
Yet despite Darcy’s progressive perspective on female education and intense attraction to Elizabeth’s boldness and vitality, he cannot conquer his conservative classism. Though “Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her,” he at first does not consider himself in any “danger” due to the “inferiority” of her connections: her father descends from the landed gentry, but her mother’s family is involved in trade, making them decidedly bourgeois (Austen 52). Ironically, Darcy is also distasteful to Elizabeth because of his class — to be precise, the pride and insensitivity he demonstrates due to his internalization of it. When she rejects his proposal, she explains herself in these passionate words: “From the very beginning, from the first moment, I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that groundwork of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike” (191–2). The qualities Elizabeth mentions — arrogance, conceit, and selfish disdain of others — all stem from Darcy’s belief in his greater social and intellectual importance. He defends himself by claiming “a real superiority of mind,” revealing that his disdain for others stems from a belief in their inferior class status and mental capacity (or, at least, cultivation) (57). He is therefore surprised (but charmed) that despite her inferior education — understandable in terms of class and gender — Elizabeth’s intelligence is equal to his own, enabling her to respond to his comments with confidence and cleverness. Expressing conservative values, Charlotte Lucas defends Darcy by arguing that “he has a right to be proud” given that he is “so very fine a young man with family, fortune, everything in his favour” (21). But Elizabeth’s response — “I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine” — reveals that Darcy’s true offense is not confidence but rudeness (21). His status has granted him justifiable pride, but his discourtesy is unpardonable. Like the Bingley sisters, Darcy’s entitlement to think well of himself has led him to think meanly of others (17).
Indeed, Darcy distinguishes himself by his incivility as he simultaneously enters the novel and the ballroom at Netherfield. The narrator remarks — not without satire — that Mr. Bingley’s “friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and the report, which was in general circulation within five minutes after his entrance, of his having ten thousand a-year” (Austen 12). With such advantages as these, “he was looked at with great admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud, to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his large estate in Derbyshire could save him from having a most forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared with his friend” (12). Darcy’s cold disdain is so pronounced and off-putting that it overpowers the company’s goodwill and materialism, a value system that is rather forgiving of personal failings.
Nor is Elizabeth inclined to excuse Darcy, who, when he first lays eyes on her, dismisses her as only “tolerable” in appearance, unconcerned that she is within earshot (Austen 13). His first proposal is only slightly more flattering. To begin, his opening words frame the matter as one almost entirely concerning himself. “In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed,” he announces, without asking what hers might be (188; my emphasis). He goes on to demand her attention and acceptance: “You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you” (188; my emphasis). Elizabeth observes with indignation that “he had no doubt of a favourable answer. He spoke of apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real security” (188). Darcy’s conceit leads him to assume that any woman would be delighted to receive his attentions, especially one inferior to himself in both status and wealth. His privilege also causes him to treat Elizabeth in objectifying economic terms as a person unwilling and unable to refuse him — and unworthy of doing so. Certain of her acceptance, and oblivious to the pride a person below him may possess, he dwells with a “warmth” stemming from a sense of his own “consequence” on his “sense of her inferiority, of its being a degradation, [and] of the family obstacles which judgment had always opposed to inclination” (188). Elizabeth refuses to submit to such an affront. With fierce dignity she replies, “I might as well inquire … why, with so evident a design of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character?” (189). Such blatant disregard for her family, her feelings, and her worth convinces Elizabeth that Darcy lacks the very nobility of which he is so proud. “You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy,” she informs him with quiet anger, “if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner” (191; my emphasis).
Elizabeth’s antipathy toward Darcy and belief in his lack of gentility are partially due to her regard for and attraction to George Wickham. Darcy is as handsome as Wickham, but the dashing soldier exhibits a cordiality that is distinctly absent from the landed aristocrat. In stark contrast to the disagreeable Darcy, Wickham strikes Elizabeth as the “model of the amiable and pleasing” (Austen 152), displaying easy manners, “happy readiness of conversation” (73), and a skillful ability to charm the company he is in (77). Comparing the two men, Elizabeth makes the error of equating manner with character. Because Wickham wishes to please and to gain her good opinion, Elizabeth assumes that he cares for other people and for her; likewise, she is convinced that Darcy does not care for others because he does not care about their opinion. Remembering his arrogant and insensitive behavior, Elizabeth considers Darcy capable of insulting and harming those deemed beneath him and therefore credits Wickham’s tale of injustices. From his habit of “despising his fellow-creatures in general,” she readily believes that he could treat Wickham with “such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!” (81).
By judging the virtue of Darcy and Wickham by their manners rather than their station, Elizabeth adheres to a radical principle — that character is not a function of class. The assumption that class dictates character may appear ridiculous to modern sensibilities, but it was a traditional belief among the aristocracy as well as a useful justification of social privilege. For example, when Miss Bingley defends Darcy’s character, she attempts to expose Wickham’s by invoking his low birth: “I pity you, Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite’s guilt; but really, considering his descent, one could not expect much better” (Austen 95). Elizabeth scorns such smug and faulty logic, replying with some heat, “His guilt and his descent appear, by your account, to be the same … for I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse than of being the son of Mr. Darcy’s steward” (95). Even when Wickham does turn out to be the story’s villain, Elizabeth attributes his reprehensible conduct to a lack of proper instruction. Comparing Wickham to Darcy, Elizabeth remarks, “There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it” (220; my emphasis). Here, not only does Elizabeth correct her previous error of assuming that amiable manners indicate a virtuous character, but she also claims that the blame lies in Wickham’s upbringing, not his birth. As her reasoning demonstrates, to “judge others in economic or social terms is the very sort of thinking Jane Austen would expose” as false (Morgan 56). But Elizabeth herself, even more so than Wickham, proves this logic false. By focusing on Elizabeth’s perspective and portraying her as the intellectual and ethical being I have demonstrated, Austen clearly emerges from the eighteenth-century tradition of female novelists whose fiction reframed the capacities and value of the domestic woman. “In place of the intricate status system that had long dominated British thinking,” Nancy Armstrong explains, “these authors began to represent an individual’s value in terms of his, but more often in terms of her, essential qualities of mind” and the “precise moral value” attached to them (467). From the beginning, Austen defines her heroine’s merit in terms of her perceptive mind and affectionate heart rather than her status.
Darcy ultimately redeems himself by coming to adopt this progressive view of status and worth. Unlike other members of the aristocracy (particularly Lady Catherine), he ceases to value social capital over individual merit and, due to his love and respect for Elizabeth, ceases to view her as an inferior at all. As a result, he is forced to re-evaluate his principles, his estimation of himself, and his treatment of others — no small matter indeed. When Elizabeth and the Gardiners encounter him on the grounds of Pemberley, she is surprised by his greatly changed demeanor:
Never, even in the company of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from self-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no importance could result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed, would draw down the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield and Rosings. (256)
Darcy not only refrains from acting condescendingly toward Mr. Gardiner (“a man who lived by trade, and within view of his own warehouses”!) but also finds himself enjoying such “well-bred and agreeable” company, proving that he is ridding himself of the snobbery he previously shared with the unpleasant and unredeemed Bingley sisters (139). At first Elizabeth is too humble to take credit for such a transformation, but eventually she concludes that such “a change in a man of so much pride” can only be explained by “love, ardent love” (258).
Darcy’s passionate confession soon proves Elizabeth right. Recalling his proposal and her severe response, he humbly admits, “What did you say of me that I did not deserve?” (Austen 355). He confesses, “The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is … inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: ‘Had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.’ Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me” (355). As Darcy himself acknowledges, it was Elizabeth’s charge that he lacked gentility — the nobility on which he founded his identity and justified his actions — that so affected him. Upon reflection, however, he realizes the truth of her reproaches:
I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoiled by my parents, who, though good themselves, (my father particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable,) allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond my own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was, from eight to eight-and-twenty; and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased. (357)
Comparing Darcy’s arrogance at the beginning of the novel to his humility at its end, only the word transformation does justice to such dramatic character development, proving the “power” that Elizabeth holds over him and his happiness (258). Due to his love for her, Darcy has not only submitted to the criticism (and insults) of a woman and an inferior, but has also modified his behavior accordingly. She has instructed him in virtue, persuading him that nobility and responsibility require kindness and respectful treatment of others. By dramatizing Elizabeth’s merit, Darcy’s initial incivility and self-importance, and his subsequent reformation, Austen eloquently argues that true gentility is measured by virtue and conduct, not rank and lineage.
It is impossible to appreciate Darcy’s extraordinary growth without giving due attention to his family — his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and his cousin and intended wife, Miss Anne de Bourgh. Lady Catherine desires a marriage between the cousins in order to consolidate the family estate and preserve their noble bloodline. With her egotism and staunch conviction that class defines character, Lady Catherine appears as an unreformed, more extreme and ridiculous version of her nephew. Pampered and incorrigible, she also represents the “corrupt side of [aristocratic] leisure and its symptoms of moral dissolution — luxury and indolence” (Howard xxvii). Despite their similar birth, Lady Catherine “lacks the genuine good-breeding and strength of character of her nephew,” proving that the belief in her own inherent superiority and that of her class is as unfounded as it is outdated (xxvii-iii). In addition to such flaws as these, she makes herself obnoxious with her evident love of flattery and Mr. Collins, as well as her habit of asking impertinent questions and involving herself in everyone’s business. She considers it her duty and an absolute necessity to interfere when rumors of Darcy’s attachment to Elizabeth come to her attention. Her opposition is based solely on class: Elizabeth is “a young woman of inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to the family” with “upstart pretensions” to improve her position (Austen 344). An alliance between her and Darcy “would be a disgrace,” and Elizabeth should expect to be “censured, slighted, and despised” by all of his aristocratic relations (344). Calling upon the conservative values of “honour, decorum, [and] prudence” (344; Johnson 86), Lady Catherine forbids Elizabeth from marrying her nephew and “pollut[ing]” (Austen 346) the moral and physical integrity of the nobility.
With her faith in the unity of superior birth and character, Lady Catherine readily believes that loose morals accompany low status, accusing Elizabeth of being a sly woman whose “arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation, have made [Darcy] forget what he owes to himself and to all his family” (Austen 343). Though this statement is both false and offensive, Elizabeth does possess an undeniable erotic appeal; as Susan Fraiman points out, “[m]arrying below oneself confesses to sexual feelings drastic enough to surmount social boundaries” (74). Compared to Elizabeth, Anne de Bourgh distinctly lacks physical charm. We need only recall the words of the infallible Mr. Collins: “Lady Catherine herself says that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex; because there is that in her features which marks the young woman of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has prevented her making that progress in many accomplishments which she could not otherwise have failed of” (Austen 68). First of all, this assertion clearly reflects a lack of logic: Lady Catherine assumes excellence without evidence and declares that exceptional beauty naturally accords with noble birth. Secondly, the latter claim is immediately refuted by Mr. Collins’s next remark, which is that Miss de Bourgh, far from being a rose in bloom, is actually ill and frail. Elizabeth’s own observation of Anne confirms her infirmity: describing her as “pale and sickly” and her features as “insignificant” (162), Miss de Bourgh stands (or, rather, sits) in stark contrast with Elizabeth, whose sparkling eyes, “light and pleasing” figure (24), and glowing health captivate Mr. Darcy. In fact, it well might be “the enfeeblement of his own class that encourages Darcy to look below him for a wife with greater stamina” (Fraiman 75). But Elizabeth Bennet, the “ambitious bourgeoisie who pumps richer, more robust blood into the collapsing veins of the nobility” (75), adds more to Darcy’s genteel family than health: as I have argued, she brings a female voice that is reasonable, honorable, and reformist. Throughout the novel Elizabeth has been witty and opinionated, but Miss de Bourgh remains utterly silent. Indeed, she is more of an idea than an actual character, and for that reason we know she will never win Darcy’s heart or his hand.
The fact that Elizabeth ultimately does accept Darcy has widely encouraged conservative readings of Jane Austen’s views on female fulfillment. Like that of all Austen’s heroines, Elizabeth’s story concludes in marriage. In response, Lloyd Brown points out that when “Austen does examine marriage as an institution she concentrates on the failures, and most of her parents are unsuccessful in their roles” (336–7). Moreover, she rejects the traditional view of women as possessions acquired through matrimony, as well as the prevalent practice of entering into marriage for social or economic reasons (337). (Thus Charlotte’s practical marriage to Mr. Collins appears so unreasonable, distasteful, and even mercenary to Elizabeth.) Rather than the culmination of a woman’s life or the realization of her purpose, marriage in Austen’s novels functions as a symbolic gesture, proving the compatibility of the lovers and the maturation of their relationship (337–8).
Susan Fraiman calls attention to Austen’s juvenilia, significant for their more explicit and subversive criticisms of men and matrimony (65). Since most of these stories were not submitted for publication, they never underwent the scrutiny and censorship of an editor and thus reveal a younger, bolder, and more rebellious Austen than the one we recognize from her published works. Her juvenilia are “grossly ironic [in their] treatment of heterosexual romance” and even portray “alternative narratives about girls becoming women, which in Austen’s later novels appear only under erasure” as “lost” and “lamented,” such as “love and friendship between two women that actually displaces the traditional courtship plot” (68). By looking beyond Austen’s published fiction, we discover her fictional worlds where women rely on each other and marriage is neither the heroine’s goal nor her fate.
Other scholars defend Austen’s consistent matrimonial endings as proof that, as a spinster relying on the financial support of her family, she well understood the physical vulnerability of remaining unattached. In letters to her niece Fanny, Austen admits that “single Women have a dreadful propensity for being poor — which is one very strong argument in favor of Matrimony” (qtd. in Sulloway 17). Yet she also advises Fanny, a young woman about to become a wife, not to enter hastily into an arrangement that has such considerable influence over a woman’s happiness: “Anything is to be preferred or endured,” she writes, “rather than marrying without affection…. and nothing can be compared to the misery of being bound without love … to one, and preferring another” (qtd. 17). Consequently, though marriage may appear as “an unquestioned necessity in Austen’s novels … it is never the first or only necessity, and the women, as well as the men, who pursue it as though it were never enjoy the full benefits of authorial approval, even if they are spared the burden of specific censure” (Johnson 92). For instance, Charlotte receives the disapproval of Elizabeth, and consequently loses her trust and friendship, because she accepts Mr. Collins purely for the sake of material security, as she herself admits with composure and without regret (Austen 125). Viewing marriage as simply the “pleasantest preservative from want,” she neither expects nor requires from Mr. Collins the emotional and intellectual companionship so essential to Elizabeth (122). Yet Elizabeth’s financial situation is no less dire than Charlotte’s. Thanks to Mrs. Bennet’s constant worries about her daughters’ futures (62–3, 66, 113, 130, 140, 223, 278) — as well as Mr. Collins’s blunt, rather detailed, ill-mannered, but nonetheless accurate acknowledgment of her likelihood of remaining single and poor (106–8) — neither Elizabeth nor the reader can ignore the potentially dangerous consequences of her almost naive adherence to pride and principle. When she rejects Mr. Collins’s proposal, Elizabeth indirectly acknowledges her vulnerability as a woman in general and as one in her particular circumstances: “I am not one of those young ladies … who are so daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second time” (107). Elizabeth’s meaning here is twofold. First, she denies any resemblance to the coquette that Mr. Collins assumes is the nature of most young women: she insists that she is an honest and straightforward woman who would never refuse a man when she actually welcomes his addresses and thus risk losing him entirely (since as a woman she could not initiate another proposal). Second, Elizabeth recognizes that in her circumstances she may never receive another marriage proposal from any man, in which case her future would inevitably be the uncertain and anxious one of the struggling spinster. However, like Austen herself, Elizabeth is willing to take such a risk because she cannot sacrifice her principles — and we admire and applaud her for it.
Rather than falling prey to materialistic motivations or economic exigency, Elizabeth is rewarded for her adherence to her ideals with a marriage based on mutual affection, admiration, and growth (Herman 216). Earlier in the novel, Elizabeth wonders aloud, “[S]ince we see, every day, that where there is affection young people are seldom withheld, by immediate want of fortune, from entering into engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many of my fellow-creatures, if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it would be wiser to resist?” (Austen 145). Here, Elizabeth seriously inquires whether one should privilege security over love when contemplating marriage — quite a radical sentiment, and completely opposite Charlotte’s calculus. Moreover, in stark contrast with Lady Catherine’s traditional convictions, Elizabeth argues that one should marry based on personal judgment and expectations of fulfillment, regardless of social politics. “If Mr. Darcy is neither by honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make another choice?” she asks the astonished de Bourgh. “And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?” (344). Independent and unintimidated, Elizabeth challenges her authority and interference by declaring, “I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without reference to you, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me” (346). In the face of Lady Catherine’s objections, Elizabeth’s choice to marry Darcy is a triumph of principle over prejudice, a victory of love, free will, and compatibility over convention.
Though Jane Austen’s depiction of Elizabeth and her marriage to Mr. Darcy constitutes no flag-waving revolution, feminist scholars have persuasively recuperated Austen as a “demure rebel,” a figure complex in her ethics and politics (Looser 174). By applauding the reformed Darcy and incorporating Elizabeth into the aristocracy, Austen upholds many of the values of the gentility, “particularly the sense of social responsibility and decorum that are implicitly endorsed by the narrator and main characters” (Howard xviii). Nor do Elizabeth and the Gardiners, despite their connection to trade, represent the bourgeois virtues of efficiency, frugality, and self-reliance (xxv). And though Elizabeth does climb the social ladder, its structure as a whole is not impugned. Claudia Johnson identifies Pride and Prejudice as Austen’s “most conciliatory work” since it “affirms established social arrangements without damaging their prestige or fundamentally challenging their wisdom or equity” (73–4). Austen does not question the validity of Darcy’s power or the appeal of his way of life; on the contrary, his paternal position as conscientious master of the estate and guardian of his sister is venerated (Fraiman 78). Even Elizabeth benefits from his fatherly attributes, admiring him as a lover whose instruction and example will improve her knowledge and make her less hasty in her judgment (Austen 302).
Yet by endorsing female education, arguing for a woman’s moral and intellectual life, advocating matrimony based on mutual love and respect, and reframing gentility as a matter of personal virtue, Austen offers a rather liberal — and liberating — perspective on some of the most heated philosophical and political issues of her age. Elizabeth’s assimilation into the aristocracy is, first and foremost, a victory of social mobility and moral reform. To begin with, Austen “imagine[s] versions of authority responsive to criticism and capable of transformation,” and places her two protagonists in “direct, extensive, and mutually improving debates” (Johnson 74). Elizabeth certainly benefits from Darcy’s virtues, but he undergoes a radical transformation that far outstrips her own character development. He only becomes worthy of Elizabeth after he “reviews the authority that he exercises as a wealthy man in a patriarchal society. In the absence of Mr. Darcy’s reassessment of power within the context of gender and class, their union appears improbable” — I would say, impossible (Sharma 5). Elizabeth would never have married the first Mr. Darcy, nor did we wish her to. Arguably, his most attractive quality is not his modified pride but his acquired humility.
In the end, Darcy is mended of his haughtiness and selfishness, Lady Catherine’s entitlement and insolence are punished, and Miss de Bourgh fails to keep the family line pure, weak, and insulated. Elizabeth accepts the reformed Darcy and becomes mistress of Pemberley, which strikes us as fit and just. From the beginning her intelligence and integrity convinced us of her individual worth and gentility, so we never doubted the probability or propriety of her becoming his wife. And though the conclusion may be swifter than we would like, Austen deftly persuades us that she has created “the happiest, wisest, and most reasonable end” imaginable (336).
Works Cited
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Sharma, Mridula. “New Masculinities, Old Conventions: Gender Divisions and Representations in Pride and Prejudice.” Persuasions: The Jane Austen Journal, vol. 41, no. 2, 2021, pp. 1–13.
Sulloway, Alison. “‘Pride and Prejudice’ and the Compensatory Equation.” Jane Austen and the Province of Womanhood, U of Pennsylvania P, 1989, pp. 3–50.
Works Consulted
Kies, Bridget. “Literary Culture Inside and Outside Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice.” International Journal of the Book, vol. 10, no. 3, 2013, pp. 27–32.
Miller, D. A. “Broken Art.” Jane Austen, or The Secret of Style, Princeton UP, 2003, pp. 57–76.
Nelson, Heather. “Elizabeth Bennet’s Proposal Scenes and Nonconsensual Consent.” Persuasions: The Jane Austen Journal, vol. 42, 2020, pp. 194–206.
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Woloch, Alex. “Narrative Asymmetry in Pride and Prejudice.” The One vs. the Many: Minor Characters and the Space of the Protagonist in the Novel, Princeton UP, 2004, pp. 43–124.
