J is for Janeites: Some Fan Fiction by Kate!

What I read: Darcy's Passions by Regina Jeffers

Darcy's Passions is the story of Pride & Prejudice from Darcy's point of view (mostly). There are dozens of these books on the market (including mine!). Part of the problem with writing an Austen tribute is the writing itself; part of the problem is the characterization of Darcy--which brings us back to the writing.

First, the writing: many tribute authors try to sound Austenian but end up sounding either ultra-modern or unsure. The 18th/19th century voice is terrifically difficult to pull off. The only contemporary writer who comes close is Susanna Clarke (Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell), and she is magnificent.

The best solution is to just write in a normal voice. I'm not saying Austen wrote in a "normal" voice—I personally think Austen's authorial voice was cultivated. But it was normal for her. Jeffers' attempt at Austen is better than many, but the switch in viewpoint doesn't sound omniscient and humorous (as it does with Austen); it sounds confused. (With A Man of Few Words, I stuck to limited third-person; I know when I'm out-mastered!)

Like in A Man of Few Words, Darcy's Passions is added dialog/exposition to already existent text. Jeffers' additions paint Darcy as the typical Alpha romantic male. He is overwhelmed by Elizabeth. He is impressed by her wit and anxious to exchange witticisms with her. He despises Miss Bingley. He is confused when the text absolutely requires him to be confused. He is masterly and insightful all the rest of the time.

But Darcy as typical Alpha romantic male is completely inconsistent with Austen's text. (To her credit, Jeffers is one of the few tribute writers whose add-ons include Darcy's knowledge of land management.)

I personally go along with Phyllis Ferguson Bottomer's argument in So Odd a Mixture that Darcy is borderline autistic. Her delineation of Darcy's character is one of the most accurate and delightful on record. She recognizes what few interpretations do: namely, Darcy is accused of pride in Hertfordshire for reasons that have nothing to do with familial or class pride.

Most tributes to Pride & Prejudice concentrate on Darcy's supposedly prideful thoughts, making him the standard aristocratic jerk; they fail to acknowledge, as my mother did long before Bottomer, that all of Darcy's problems in Hertfordshire stem from his behavior, not from his beliefs about himself (which beliefs he never communicates to anyone but Elizabeth anyway). He is perceived as proud because he won't dance or talk, not because he boasts about his position or even because he gives anyone the "cut direct." He doesn't even cut poor Mr. Collins.

In other words, Darcy is accused of pride for the wrong reasons—and the accusations rest NOT on Darcy's sense of superior class (which he does, in fact, feel) but on Darcy's anti-social behavior. In other words, what Darcy thinks of as "pride" and what Hertfordshire and Elizabeth, to a degree, think of as "pride" is not the same thing. This results in the fascinating argument about their faults between Elizabeth and Darcy at Netherfield; they clash partly because they are talking about two different things. Elizabeth is quicker than Darcy at picking up on the communication gap, but, as Bottomer points out, Elizabeth continues to assume reasons for Darcy's behavior that are actually inaccurate; it doesn't occur to Elizabeth that Darcy is shy or uncomfortable. It did, however, occur to Austen, Colin Firth, my mom, and to Bottomer.

And me. Using this interpretation, I created my own version of P&P from Darcy's point of view. In my version, I do NOT have Darcy perceive Elizabeth's positive attributes (or any of her attributes) right away. I argue instead that Darcy is clueless because, let's face it, so many people are.

To give Jeffers credit, her Darcy is kind of clueless; he thinks Elizabeth likes him because she is playful in her rejections: she flirts, ergo, she loves me! Still, Jeffers has Darcy deliberately provoking Elizabeth, so he can exchange witty repartee with her. I don't think this interpretation is in keeping with the original text. Darcy doesn't do repartee. His remarks are almost always literal and straightforward. Elizabeth's triumph is not that Darcy loves bantering with her, but that she so often provokes him into saying what he thinks; what he thinks isn't witty or covered with savoir faire. Actually, most of the time, what he thinks is kind of rude.

2023: My tributes to Austen's texts now include Persuadable, a tribute to Persuasion told from the so-called villains' point of view. And Catherine Morland & The Matchmaker, based on one of Austen's funniest books, Northanger Abbey, told from the matchmaker's point of view. 

Although I generally try to avoid Austen's omniscient voice, deeming it too much of a challenge, I decided to give it a try in the latest novel by having the narrator--or matchmaker--be a literal semi-omniscient god, the god of love in a god-controlled off-shoot of our universe. 

The first chapter introduces the narrator. For this post, I present an Austen-inspired passage, namely Catherine and Henry's first meeting. Ven, the god of love, is speaking. 

And I had someone for Catherine to meet: Paul Henry Thebley. 

I spotted Catherine halfway through the evening, looking rather low-spirited. My guess: she was used to hometown social events where she knew everyone and could relax. At Aphrodisia, she was the “new girl” in the midst of cliques who had already spent several seasons together on the peninsula.

I don’t approve of cliques but some social behaviors are inevitable. Mrs. Allen, for one, was chattering away about how much she wished Catherine knew someone in the “crush.” Chatter. Chatter. Chatter. No action.

I got pulled away to resolve a question about engagement gifts. No, I don’t think an animal is suitable. Let’s avoid the implication of calculating dowries with livestock, shall we?

Issue resolved, I tracked down Paul Henry Thebley, a tallish twenty-two-year-old with aquiline features and thick dirty blond hair, the kind of guy who looks good in glasses. And Paul Henry is every self-conscious semi-intellectual young man since the beginning of time. He is perceptive and clever enough to be aware of his self-consciousness, so he takes refuge in irony. In my life in the other world, these were the guys who watched lots and lots of Monty Python.

And yeah, I was one of them.

I introduced him to Catherine as “Henry” (he prefers his middle name). She perked up. Henry bowed and immediately started making an ass of himself.

“I’m supposed to ask you the required meet-and-greet questions,” he told her and raised a single eyebrow. “Should I? Tell me, young lady, are you enjoying your time here? Have you been to all the temples? Did you offer a flower to Kouros? A poem to Apollo?”

Catherine responded eagerly. She stated that she was in good spirits. She hadn’t been to all the temples. What type of flowers should she offer? Did Apollo expect an original poem?

Henry isn’t much of an artist or writer. He moved on to the season’s calendar.

“No doubt you’ve been told which celebrations you absolutely must attend. And you’ll write about each of them in your journal, including a list of the people you’ve met. When you write about me, will you call me a goofball or simply a strange young man?”

Catherine assured him she wouldn’t write anything so unkind. Entirely guileless. She didn’t even mock his efforts at mockery, which is why I introduced them.

“Maybe I don’t keep a journal,” I heard Catherine say as I wandered away.

She was trying to be arch, bless her, and I gave her credit for continuing the conversation.

Henry, of course, insisted that she owned a pink, flower-covered journal with a lock. Despite the cliché, he was probably right.

I learned later that he managed to impress Mrs. Allen by complimenting not only her outfit but the outfit’s seamstress So Henry was in good form.

I want to go on record: Henry was not my first choice for a husband for Catherine.

I could easily claim, I knew they were perfect for each other from the beginning! Truth: I simply wanted Catherine to have a not-horrible time at Aphrodisia.

Still--I would never have introduced her to the Thorpes.

Why Darcy Is Often Justified

I am in the process of revising and expanding A Man of Few Words (new edition coming soon!). As part of that process, I have been examining critical commentaries about Darcy, those I agree with and those I disagree with.

One thing I have noticed is how often (some) critics will define Darcy's behavior at the beginning of the novel entirely negatively, forgetting that Elizabeth (who believes at this point that she dislikes him and who has condemned him for various perceived faults) actually defends many of Darcy's actions in the first few chapters. A good example of this is at the Netherfield ball when Mr. Collins approaches Mr. Darcy.

"You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy?" [Elizabeth said.]

"Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it earlier. I believe him to be Lady Catherine's nephew. It will be in my power to assure him that her ladyship was quite well yesterday se'nnight."

Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assuring him that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without introduction as an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that it was not in the least necessary there should be any notice on either side, and that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in consequence, to begin the acquaintance. -- Mr. Collins listened to her with the determined air of following his own inclination.

Mr. Collins does approach Darcy. The result is Darcy's "astonishment at being so addressed." The conversation (or monologue by Mr. Collins) ends when Darcy "made him a slight bow, and moved another way."

To modern (American) minds, Darcy is just rude. Why shouldn't Mr. Collins speak to whomever he wants? However, in Darcy and Elizabeth's world, Mr. Collins is completely out-of-line.

To modernize it, imagine you attend a dinner party put on by friends. The dinner party is intended to be relaxing, fun, a good time for all. But during the evening, this one guy keeps approaching people, forcing his business cards on them, and buttonholing them into buying life insurance.

This is EXACTLY what Mr. Collins is doing. He doesn't approach Mr. Darcy out of goodwill but out of a desire to aggrandize himself. And Elizabeth is rightly mortified.

Note, too, that although she is partly mortified by the ridiculousness of Mr. Collins' conversation with Darcy (not reported here), she is mostly mortified by his decision to introduce himself. That is, despite Elizabeth's egalitarian impulses, she still accepts, even practices, the routine civilities of her society.

The appropriate course for action would be for Mr. Bennet, who has already officially met Bingley and Darcy, to do the introductions: "Mr. Bingley, Mr. Darcy, I would like to introduce my cousin, Mr. Collins. I believe Mr. Collins has some acquaintance with your family, Mr. Darcy."

This is forestalled partly by Mr. Collins' smugness but also by Mr. Bennet's laxity. But the inappropriateness/wrongness of Mr. Collins' actions are not disputed by the characters.

What I think is in dispute is Darcy's reaction, and this is where personality (and possibly pride) come into play. If Darcy were a pure social extrovert like Bingley, he would be able to smooth over Mr. Collins' social infraction with an easy, blithe remark. But Darcy doesn't think that way. When Mr. Collins approaches him, Darcy's brain (which is wholly occupied with Elizabeth at this point) does something like this: Why is this guy talking to me? Why am I having this conversation? I shouldn't have to have this conversation! Go away! He isn't going away. I gotta get out of here. And he does. Darcy's "pride" is in not thinking beyond the temporary, annoying invasion into his space.

But even Elizabeth admits Mr. Collins invaded Darcy's space.

Stupid Historical Inaccuracies

So in general I don't mind historical novels although I've never enjoyed historical novels where people speak forsoothly and whatnot. Just because their language sounds archaic to us doesn't mean it sounded archaic to them.

I can't write historical novels because I'm too self-conscious about the problem of decades. In the movie Somewhere in Time, the character played by Christopher Reeves meticulously researches the time period of his great love and then buys the appropriate clothes to match. But when he actually shows up in the past, he is wearing a suit that is about twenty years out of style. (A lady praises him for showing off his grandfather's suit.) Think of it this way: suppose some future writer created a 1950's drama and stuck DVD players in everybody's homes? Not a big deal to future historical fiction readers, I will grant, but a very big deal to us. Anyway, I'm always afraid that I'll make those sorts of errors, which is why I stick to fantasy.

Normally, however, when I read historical fiction, that kind of inaccuracy doesn't bother me so much as a lack of historical understanding. I don't fuss if Jane Eyre is wearing the wrong kind of crinoline, but I do fuss if Jane Eyre starts acting like Gloria Steinman.

I recently began reading a take-off novel about Elizabeth and Darcy (not the original and not mine; in fact, this post--which was written a few years before I wrote my adaptation--was in my mind when I wrote my adaptation). I got about ten pages in and gave up in disgust. The author has Darcy watching Elizabeth breastfeed, during which he comments on how odd his newborn baby looks. It's a sort of "oh, isn't it cute how dumb the new father can be" moment.

Oh, pleeeaase.

First of all, Darcy is the owner of an estate, an agricultural estate. That is, he makes his money off of pigs and sheep. Specifically, he makes his money off of his tenants' pigs and sheep although it is likely that Darcy would have some of the land farmed directly for the estate.

In addition, Darcy is a good landlord. The [original] book makes that very clear. A good landlord means that (1) Darcy gets along with his tenants; (2) Darcy has a clue about agriculture; (3) Darcy doesn't spend all his time gallivanting around spending his income elsewhere. (See (1) and (2).)

In other words (and this is something the last movie, which I otherwise enjoyed, got completely and utterly and stupidly wrong), this is not a guy who runs around buying marble statues. This is a guy who pays very close attention to his estate, visits it regularly and has a working relationship with his tenants. (Very few people seem to realize that you don't fund a big estate like Pemberly with the views. Darcy is collecting income--think rent only more of it--from his tenants on a regular basis. That's where the $10,000 a year comes from. The fact that he can do this without them hating his guts means he does it wisely.)

Second of all, Darcy grew up on this estate and regularly rode his horse to the nearest village. Darcy's "rank" did not prevent him from associating with villagers or, for that matter, his gamekeeper's son (Wickham). There is a point here that I'm not sure Americans grasp. We think class is the Astors or the Van der Bilts who enforced their sense of superiority through a rigid untouchability factor. But for someone like Darcy, the fact of his class would be so engrained into his soul, he wouldn't need to enforce it. (If you doubt me, read Middlemarch, where the gentry have a far easier give and take relationship with their tenants than they do with the burgeoning, ambitious middleclass in the town. Also check out BBC Emma and Mr. Knightly's easy, but lordly, relationship with his tenants).

Darcy's pride is at fault NOT because anyone (least of all Elizabeth) thinks class doesn't matter (like us Americans) but because his pride prevents him from making Wickham's character known. In his efforts to protect himself, he exposes another gentleman's daughter to risk. When Elizabeth claims her right to love Darcy, she does not say, "Because, after all, who cares about rank?" She says, "I'm a gentleman's daughter. I am in the same class. Get over it." (Or, specifically, "Get over my crazy mother.")

The point is that Darcy's sense of class is not something he would need to protect by holding aloof from the uncouth lower classes. It is likely that Darcy, being Darcy, would find it easier to associate with his tenants, where class would be an acknowledged but unremarked-on reality, than in more ambiguous social engagements. One of the things that the last movie got absolutely right was the Bennett father's easy relationship with his servants. Darcy, also an agricultural landowner (albeit with a lot more land), would have the same relationship ... as his housekeeper attests (and he wouldn't be a collector of marble--blech).

Finally, people in Regency England (and for that matter, Victorian England) were a lot less obsessed about privacy and childbirth and other bodily functions that we Americans.

What this all means is that the boy Darcy, running around on his father's estate, in and out of his tenants' cottages, and taking rides into the nearby village, would have seen women with newborns ALL THE TIME, funny-shaped, dead and otherwise. And he would have seen them nursing ALL THE TIME. And he wouldn't have thought anything about it. The man Darcy, an agricultural landowner, would have had a working knowledge of birth, maturation, breastfeeding, etc. etc. etc. And he wouldn't have cared much.

And he certainly wouldn’t have had time to watch his wife breastfeed. (Supposing Elizabeth would breastfeed her own children which, no matter how enlightened she was, is unlikely. But not impossible.)