The real, grown-up version of Pride and Prejudice had much smaller print and was more intimidating, but it did have a pretty painting on the cover; a pale, rosy-cheeked woman was sleeping on a bench, and a timid young man was leaning over her, as if to steal a kiss. It didn't particularly fit the theme of the book, but I liked it.
Of course, Pride and Prejudice isn't really a love story. It's really a comedy of manners. At least that's what everybody always says, but when you're twelve, it's the love story that really captures your imagination. I did understand what Austen was driving at, and her acerbic wit wasn't lost on me, even at that age. But I was taken with the notion of such love. Though it's meant to be a scathing commentary set against the backdrop of a love/hate romance, it's really a love/hate romance set against a backdrop of scathing commentary when you're a twelve-year-old girl.
The protagonist, Elizabeth Bennett, is in many ways an innocent girl. Despite her sharp-tongued posturing, she's a young woman of only twenty, a virgin (one presumes), and knows little of the world beyond what she's read in books. In this way she's an appealing heroine for a young girl. She holds no knowledge that today's twelve-year-olds don't. At the same time, she's whip-smart. She's a beacon of hope for everyone who feels disenfranchised or ignored in a world of excessively silly people.
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Mr. Darcy is another matter entirely. A wealthy landowner in his thirties, he's miles ahead of Elizabeth in education and sophistication. Though we don't get much of a peek into the details of Darcy's life - the book is almost entirely from Elizabeth's point of view, albeit in the omniscient voice of the narrator - we can fill in the blanks from history. Men like Darcy were landlords, investors, pillars of their community. Because their estates were basically tourist attractions, they had to be prepared to receive unknown guests at any time. They managed huge numbers of hired help, so much so that owning an estate like Pemberley wasn't much different from owning a small company. So while Elizabeth dismisses Darcy as being stuck-up, he is, in fact, a man of wealth and taste.
Because of the novel's limited scope, we get only a taste of insight into Darcy's character. He gets a monologue in which to explain himself, but all he has to say is:
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 spoilt 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 shewed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.He also says that Elizabeth is basically exonerated from all wrongdoing in their interactions together because she's "innocent." What he really means is "ignorant," of course, but never let it be said that Darcy doesn't have a way with words. (When he wants to.)
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The wonderful thing about Elizabeth is that, despite doing a complete one-eighty on Darcy before novel's end, she doesn't really give an inch. She doesn't let her youth or her inexperience quiet her, and she merrily engages him in conversations about life, poetry, and morals. She's not intimidated by him, and we are left to assume that Darcy doesn't encounter this very much.
If Elizabeth is the perfect heroine for a prepubescent girl, then Darcy is the perfect man. Because of the biting social commentary that runs throughout the novel, it's his wealth that is most often complemented - he's handsome, sure, but TEN THOUSAND A YEAR. And what's more attractive to a twelve-year-old girl than money? Think about it: Mr. Darcy could buy you all the gel pens you could possibly want.
And Darcy, for all his passion, isn't sexually threatening. While Austen certainly understood the allure of sex on an intellectual level, there's a compelling case to be made that she died a virgin. There's understanding, and then there's understanding. Darcy's passion for Elizabeth as portrayed in the book is grand, directionless, larger than life. It's hard to connect his declarations with what is basically, at its heart, a desire to bone someone. Darcy's love is pure. It's easy to identify with Elizabeth, to put yourself in her place, because there's no risk of losing your innocence.
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Joe Wright's 2005 film adaptation is remarkable for many things, chiefly among them this simple fact: he gave Pride and Prejudice a heart. While preserving the basic integrity of the interactions between the characters, he gave them a sincerity and human emotion that is usually lacking. In his Pride and Prejudice, the Bennetts really love each other, for all their faults. Mr. Bennett, rather than being angrily detached, is amused and baffled by the foibles of those around him, but bears them no ill will. Mrs. Bennett is a little less shrill, and some effort is made to understand her. Elizabeth looks young, as she's meant to; she is fresh-faced and grinning and takes on the world, without that weary-eyed "sadder but wiser girl" aspect that's always lurking behind Jennifer Ehle's rosy smiles in the much-lauded BBC adaptation. There is simply no part of her that's not vibrant and alive. More often than we witness her in drawing rooms or dance halls, we see her outside, against a backdrop of trees and rivers and wild growing things. Darcy even proposes to her outdoors, in a rainstorm, and a dialogue that reads biting and bitter on the page becomes something entirely different.
They snarl. They recoil. They reel together; they almost kiss. They are hurt and try to defend themselves, raw and desperate to be understood. One begins to see that they are captivated with each other. The horribly awkward and insulting proposal and the ensuing fight become something new; something they were maybe never meant to be: a mating dance. And it's beautiful.
It's not that Elizabeth and Darcy are devoid of chemistry in the book, or in the BBC adaptation. It's just something different, something so much more human and gritty and wild. The sex is still on the back burner, but it's there if you want to look for it. The way their bodies strain towards each other. The pure, open expression on Lizzy's face as she stands in the sculpture gallery at Pemberley, her eyes traveling without shame over the curves of the naked bodies represented there, appreciating the beauty for what it is, without moral stumbling blocks in the way, lips parted, eyes bright and curious. There is something carved into that marble, something that she longs to know, and Darcy, with his quiet eyes and gentle smile, Darcy will teach her.
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And I almost forgot the most attractive part of Darcy's character: the quiet, unfettering devotion. However poorly handled at the beginning, however harshly he judged her and her family, he had feelings for her from the beginning. And unlike Lizzy, he was honest with himself. While she would not allow herself to feel affection for someone who didn't fit her ideal image of a partner, Darcy was willing to compromise everything he thought he wanted. And not for her beauty, which is repeatedly said to be inferior to that of her elder sister: for her wit. For that spark in her eyes. All in all, it's not a bad message to send to little girls.
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When I was twelve, I thought I loved Mr. Darcy. I didn't even know what sex was, but I loved him for what I understood love to be. And I wanted to be like Elizabeth Bennett, like Jane Austen herself: sharp and uncompromising. Strong. Defiant. She may not have meant to tell one of the greatest love stories in literature, and I'm sure that it would make her smile to know it. I'm sure she would laugh at us all for mistaking her comedies for romances. But then she'd catch your eye and you'd know from the look on her face that yes - yes, she was a bit of a romantic at heart.
You could not shock her more than she shocks me;
Beside her Joyce seems innocent as grass.
It makes me most uncomfortable to see
An English spinster of the middle class
Describe the amorous effects of "brass,"
Reveal so frankly and with such sobriety
The economic basis of society.
- W. H. Auden, Letter to Lord Byron
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