Jane Austen’s novels are, in the present day, widely regarded as challenging or subverting the social conventions of her time. Based on the observations I’ve made during my current re-read of her complete works, I think this is only half true. Yes, Austen most definitely does take aim at customs and conventions that tend toward pettiness, insincerity, or injustice. But by and large, her novels are stories of learning to function healthily and happily within the framework of social norms. (I’ve got a lot more to say on that topic in a future post.)

And—surprise—despite a great deal of wisdom, she doesn’t necessarily get it right 100% of the time. There’s one point in particular where I wouldn’t agree with Austen’s reasoning; or perhaps more accurately her simple acceptance of a situation.

– plot spoilers from henceforth –

In our book club discussions, we’ve often returned to two seldom-noticed, extremely similar incidents in Austen’s novels. In Chapter 27 of Sense and Sensibility, Colonel Brandon—who, as we will later learn, already knows by this point that Willoughby has fathered an illegitimate child—chooses to remain silent and not to share this knowledge with the Dashwoods after he hears that Marianne and Willoughby are in all probability already engaged. And in Chapter 21 of Persuasion, Mrs. Smith remains silent regarding William Elliot’s true character as long as she believes he and Anne are engaged (or on the verge of being so), only revealing what she knows of him once she learns that there is, in fact, no engagement.

Is either of these instances of silence the action of a true friend?

“My dear,” was Mrs. Smith’s reply, “there was nothing else to be done. I considered your marrying him as certain, though he might not yet have made the offer, and I could no more speak the truth of him, than if he had been your husband. My heart bled for you, as I talked of happiness; and yet he is sensible, he is agreeable, and with such a woman as you, it was not absolutely hopeless. He was very unkind to his first wife. They were wretched together. But she was too ignorant and giddy for respect, and he had never loved her. I was willing to hope that you must fare better.”

Anne could just acknowledge within herself such a possibility of having been induced to marry him, as made her shudder at the idea of the misery which must have followed…And under such a supposition, which would have been most miserable, when time had disclosed all, too late?

It is worth noting that Anne’s reaction to her friend’s withholding of information is no stronger than “some surprise.” And when Elinor Dashwood finally does learn the truth about Willoughby from Colonel Brandon at a later date, she does not express surprise or indignation that he had not told her sooner. These circumstances, coupled with Mrs. Smith’s defense of her conduct (which Anne seems to accept), reveal an attitude toward the sacredness of a marriage engagement that I can only assume is the general societal attitude of the times. Here is one convention that holds a great deal of potential for misery—and ironically, it’s one that Austen doesn’t address or even seem to notice. [Read more…]

My youngest sister is doing a Jane Austen study for her senior year of high school, so my mother, both my sisters and I have seized the opportunity to all read the books together and hold our own discussion group. So far we are through Sense and Sensibility and Persuasion, and have had a number of fantastic deep discussions on them over afternoon tea.

We have learned, among other things, that when you drink tea out of teacups instead of mugs (and accompanied by real British biscuits), you can easily consume four or five cups almost without being aware that you’ve done it (not to mention consuming the whole box of biscuits).

But to be serious. I think the defining mark of a “great” book is that you can take something fresh away from it every time you re-read it. The book itself doesn’t change, but it has enough depth that when you return to it at different stages of your life, a different aspect of it makes an impression on you each time. Re-reading Jane Austen now, what strikes me most strongly is how much her books are about relationships between people. And not just romantic relationships, either. They explore the dynamics of close-knit families and fractured, distant ones; interactions with friends, neighbors, and difficult relatives, not to mention potential suitors. They highlight the nature of true friendship versus false, and the value of sincerity and honesty as opposed to hypocrisy; the true consideration involved in good manners; and—perhaps more by example than by intention—how propriety and respect for convention carried to extremes, however well-intentioned, can result in a lack of openness that is harmful to relationships.

And all this led me to a further thought. I have a feeling that, ironically, the modern-day popularity of all things Austen has actually obscured the very things that are best about her novels. While I’m very fond of several Austen film adaptations, they’re best as a supplement or companion to the books, not a replacement for them. (The 1995 version of Persuasion, for instance, while a lovely film, handles some subplots in a way that would be utterly confusing to someone who didn’t already have a knowledge of the book’s plot.) When you spend too much time in the atmosphere of Austen adaptations and mugs and coloring-books and t-shirts and paper dolls, you unconsciously get sucked into thinking of her in terms of balls and bonnets and bits of ivory—so that when you simply sit down and open one of the novels, it actually surprises you how strongly and forthrightly her characters think and speak on questions of right and wrong.

So if you want to fully appreciate Jane Austen, don’t just let the movies and the quotations on mugs and prints speak for her. Just sit down and open one of her books and read it. And if you have a cup of tea and a biscuit at hand and a good friend to discuss it with afterwards, so much the better.

photo by myself