False First Impressions:
A Defense of Lydia Bennet
by Aubrey Knight
Spring 2010
Table of Contents
Chapter I: From Moll Flanders to Mrs. Bennet ……………………………………...…3
Chapter II: Stubborn, Snarky Sisters…………………………………………………....11
Chapter III: “Reputation is an Idle and Most False Imposition”……………………….15
Chapter IV: The Lesser of Two Evils …………………………………………………..30
Chapter V: “Honest, Honest Iago” …………………………………………………...….36
Bibliography ……………………………………………………………………………..41
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Chapter I: From Moll Flanders to Mrs. Bennet
Jane Austen’s novel Pride and Prejudice (1813) recounts the dramatic courtship
between the quick-witted Elizabeth Bennet and the stubbornly proud Mr. Darcy. This
courtship suffers from the presence of Elizabeth’s young, naïve sister Lydia, who nearly
destroys the family’s reputation by eloping with a man to whom she is not engaged—a
severe social faux pas in Austen’s time. It seems understandable, then, that most of the
other characters in the novel and even most readers tend to dislike Lydia. Austen
establishes a dichotomy between Elizabeth and Lydia—Elizabeth is the flawed but
lovable heroine, while Lydia grates on everyone’s nerves. However, if we closely
examine the two characters, we see that they share similarities, that their differences are
insubstantial, and that Lydia is not nearly so terrible as she initially seems. Our
perception of a substantial difference between them is due largely to the other
characters’ harsh opinions of Lydia.
We are tempted first to say that the reason Lydia is less likeable than Elizabeth is
due merely to the fact that Lydia is only a minor character. We are privy to Elizabeth’s
thoughts, but the thoughts of Lydia are closed to us, and we never get to know her well.
This difference of distance between the two predisposes us to identify with Elizabeth.
However, Lydia’s status as a secondary player by itself should not preclude us from
feeling affinity for her. There are myriad minor characters in the novel who endear
themselves to us, among whom are Mr. Bingley and the Gardiners. They have miniscule
roles to play in the course of the plot, and yet our admiration for them burns unabated.
If we did not like Mr. Bingley, we would be monumentally dissatisfied when Jane
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becomes engaged to him at the end. Perhaps we feel fond of him only because Jane does,
and we understand Jane a bit better than we understand him. Similarly, the Gardiners
are largely a plot device, providing an excuse for Elizabeth to visit Pemberley. But
because Elizabeth respects them, we know we should, too, regardless of how closely we
ourselves are able to know them. A character’s confinement to a minor part of the novel
does not alone determine if we connect with them.
Do we like certain characters only because other characters also like them? To
base our own assessment of Lydia on what other characters think of her would be akin
to conflating gossip with reality. We can use others’ opinions to guide us, but to rely on
them exclusively would be folly. After all, Elizabeth forms her initial favorable opinion
of Wickham because almost everyone else approves of him, and she is revealed to have
erred horrendously. She passively accepts that since others esteem Wickham, he must
be everything he appears to be. We would suffer from this same passivity if we accepted
without question that Mr. Bingley merits our approval only because he secures Jane’s
approval, or that Lydia deserves censure only because Elizabeth censures her. We are
obligated to form judgments independently based on objective evidence, not mere
hearsay.
Few literary precedents exist for this idea of a flawed woman who reaches
redemption. In the overwhelming majority of literature, women who transgress social
mores endure severe punishment, never forgiven in the eyes of society. One significant
work, however, does no such thing: Moll Flanders (1722) by Daniel Defoe. In this early
novel, Moll relates the story of her life, sparing no detail about the deplorable wrongs
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she has committed. Allow me to quote the full title of the novel to give an idea of what
Moll’s transgressions encompass:
The Fortunes and Misfortunes of the Famous Moll
Flanders, Etc. Who Was Born In Newgate, and During a
Life of Continu’d Variety For Threescore Years, Besides Her
Childhood, Was Twelve Year a Whore, Five Times a Wife
[Whereof Once To Her Own Brother], Twelve Year a
Thief, Eight Year a Transported Felon In Virginia, At Last
Grew Rich, Liv’d Honest, and Died a Penitent. Written from
her own Memorandums.
Even the title reveals that, far from being punished for her actions, by the conclusion of
the novel she is rewarded with riches and a comfortable life. Of course, her life is not so
pleasant for the entire novel, as she does spend some time in prison. Nevertheless,
judging by the happy circumstances that result from a life of debauchery, she has
scarcely suffered from all the time she spent working as a prostitute and stealing to
survive. Moll conceives innumerable children over the course of the novel, almost all of
whom are promptly forgotten when she moves on to the next lover. Her failure as a
mother is scarcely dwelt upon. Moll’s positive attributes erase the abundant mistakes
she made in her life. She is a vibrant, spirited character who remains appealing to
readers despite her lack of compassion.
Lydia Wickham, by contrast, has committed only one relatively minor mistake.
Next to Moll Flanders, whose list of crimes against society constitutes a novel, Lydia
has hardly done anything wrong at all. Though Lydia never faces a prison sentence for
her wrongdoing, she does face the potential of permanent social ostracism simply for
stepping outside the bounds of what society deems decent behavior for a young
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unmarried woman. She does not deserve such a severe punishment for a comparatively
inconsequential mistake.
Elizabeth may herself not entirely merit the admiration she elicits from readers.
Some critics question the positive characteristics commonly credited to Elizabeth. For
example, William Deresiewicz argues in his essay “Community and Cognition in ‘Pride
and Prejudice’” that the community’s influence on characters’ thoughts is greater than is
generally acknowledged. Deresiewicz challenges us with his idea Elizabeth, far from
embodying the virtues of independent thought, actually succumbs to the communal
ideology. “A host of readers have emphasized her individuality and imaginative
freedom,” Deresiewicz writes, “but in crucial ways she is not free and very little of an
individualist” (504). He elaborates by saying that Elizabeth participates in the
communal judgment of others just as much as any other character does. Her premature
approval of Wickham in the beginning of the novel is founded not on Wickham’s actual
qualities as Elizabeth perceives them, but on qualities that the community judges to be
positive, such as Wickham’s good looks. Deresiewicz tells us that Elizabeth “assents to
and helps propagate collective judgments; she takes her opinions for universal truths;
witty as she is, she risks the same mental gridlock as those around her” (509). Her
judgments of Mr. Darcy fail in the same respect. Darcy is universally unpopular with
the community at large due to his perceived excessive pride, and Elizabeth’s own
opinion of him reflects this collective conviction.
The essay unfortunately collapses under the burden of a considerable fault: its
failure to address how Elizabeth’s eventual decision to break out of her long string of
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bad judgments appears to undermine the initial claim that Elizabeth is not independent.
Surely her newfound appreciation for Darcy towards the end, in the face of continuing
communal condemnation, constitutes an independent thought. Deresiewicz neglects to
connect Elizabeth’s transformation to her community, but in a comparison between
Elizabeth and Lydia, this distinction of character growth necessitates attention. This is
an issue I will tackle later on.
Before I begin detailing the surprising similarities between Elizabeth and Lydia,
I would like to examine their relationship with Mrs. Bennet. Mrs. Bennet certainly
resembles Lydia and Kitty more than she does Elizabeth or Jane. Mrs. Bennet’s
intolerable silliness strains her relationship with the aloof Mr. Bennet. In the very first
chapter, Austen acquaints us with this uncomfortable marriage. Mr. Bennet enjoys
poking fun at his wife with such snide comments as “I have a high respect for your
nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration
these twenty years at least” (7). Shortly thereafter, the narrator informs us that Mrs.
Bennet “was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper.”
This unfavorable description does not induce the reader to sympathize with her.
In this first chapter, we also learn what Mrs. Bennet thinks of her daughters. She
says “Lizzy is not a bit better than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome
as Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia” (6). One does not expect to hear such a
detached and unforgiving judgment from a mother about her own children. We quickly
learn to distrust the rambling words that pour from her mouth. The fact that a woman
like Mrs. Bennet prefers Lydia over Elizabeth immediately spurs the reader to wonder if
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Elizabeth may actually be “better than the others.” Even at this early point in the novel,
the narrator draws for us a parallel between Mrs. Bennet and Lydia, which both
portends an ill-fated marriage for Lydia and tarnishes her in readers’ eyes.
If Lydia behaves badly, Mrs. Bennet might share some of the blame. She has
exerted a negative influence on both Kitty and Lydia. Elizabeth and Jane have somehow
escaped the choking cloud of silliness their mother emanates, but why? Age may have
something to do with it—Elizabeth and Jane are the two oldest, and therefore have had
experience and time to motivate them to become sensible, while Lydia and Kitty are the
youngest and thus cannot be expected to act as maturely as their sisters. Additionally,
the Bennets’ marriage may have been less acrid in years past when Elizabeth and Jane
were younger. There must have been a point in the distant past when the couple felt
affinity for one another, and perhaps Elizabeth and Jane grew up in a time before this
affinity had faded.
Lydia and Kitty play a part in subjecting themselves to their mother’s influence.
They seek her approval, while Elizabeth and Jane harbor no such aspirations. Certainly
Elizabeth and Jane would not go out of their way to upset their mother, but they do not
strive to meet her expectations of marriage the way Lydia and Kitty do. Mrs. Bennet
makes no secret of her desire to have all her daughters well married as soon as possible,
and encourages Lydia to this end: “Lydia, my love, though you are the youngest, I dare
say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next ball” (10). From Mrs. Bennet’s
perspective, an age disparity is no concern if the man being courted is sufficiently
wealthy. Lydia responds to this charge with: “I am not afraid; for though I am the
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youngest, I’m the tallest” (10). Apparently it does not register to Lydia that there is
much more to age than height, and Mrs. Bennet does nothing to dispel this ill-conceived
thought. She would rather fulfill her mother’s hopes for her than think through the
implications of those imprudent hopes.
Mrs. Bennet acts on Lydia’s impressionable mind on still other occasions. In the
first volume of the novel, while speaking to both Mr. Bennet and Lydia, she declares,
My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have
the sense of their father and mother. When they get to our
age, I dare say they will not think about officers any more
than we do. I remember the time when I liked a red coat
myself very well—and, indeed, so I do still at my heart; and
if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year,
should want one of my girls, I shall not say nay to him; and I
thought Colonel Forster looked very becoming the other
night at Sir William’s in his regimentals. (30-1).
Here she admits to Lydia that she approves of her daughter’s obsession with officers,
and in fact cultivates the same obsession herself. She claims that when Lydia grows
older, Lydia will not think of officers any more than she does, but subsequently confides
that she still admires officers. Since Lydia receives such unrestrained goading from her
mother, it makes perfect sense that she would persist in her preoccupation with men in
uniform. A figure of authority who appears to prefer her to her sisters urges her along
this path, and considering she is only fifteen, it is easy to understand, if not to justify,
her reasons for seeking such approval.
In feminist criticism of Jane Austen, Lydia is conspicuously absent. She presents
a problematic case from a feminist perspective. On the surface, other characters scorn
her because of her decision to ignore the severe limits imposed on female sexuality
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during this time period. However, we must not write off Lydia’s story as counter to a
feminist narrative because this operates under the fallacious assumption that within the
text, Lydia has nothing to redeem her from her “crime.” Since she serves as more of a
counterpart to Elizabeth than any sort of villain, as I will presently argue, she ought to
secure a place in feminist discourse on Jane Austen.
It makes sense that feminist critics have neglected Lydia. To say that, in eloping
with Wickham, Lydia is merely pushing the boundaries imposed on women in Regencyera England would seem to be an implicit criticism of Jane Austen, and few wish to
challenge a formidable literary figure such as Austen. Yet Lydia may be defended
without disservice to Austen’s obvious and admirable skill as a writer. To accomplish
this, one must examine Pride and Prejudice as a novel that instructs us to question the
hasty judgments we form of others. Elizabeth re-examines the foundations of her
assessments of both Wickham and Darcy, so it is not a stretch to suggest that we
explore our feelings for Lydia.
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Chapter II: Stubborn, Snarky Sisters
So what exactly are the similarities between Lydia and Elizabeth? They share
three important characteristics which are lauded in the one and condemned in the other.
First, both of them willfully disregard propriety at certain points in the novel when it
might be in their best interest to hold their tongues. Elizabeth converses with Lady
Catherine de Bourgh and refuses to disclose her age despite Lady Catherine’s prodding.
“Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer; and Elizabeth
suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever dared to trifle with so much
dignified impertinence” (165). Elizabeth in fact never answers directly, instead saying “I
am not one-and-twenty,” (166) which is essentially meaningless because, though it
implies she is twenty, it could also indicate that she is twenty-two or some other age.
Furthermore, it could not benefit her to irritate such a powerful and influential woman,
“impertinent” though Lady Catherine may be. Elizabeth’s defiance does in fact impede
her courtship with Darcy later on when Lady Catherine pays her a visit intending to
deter her from forming an attachment with Darcy.
Lydia behaves the same way. In a conversation between Jane, Elizabeth, Lydia
and Kitty on the subject of Wickham’s not marrying Miss King, Lydia pronounces “I
will answer for it he never cared three straws about [Miss King]. Who could about such
a nasty little freckled thing?” (215). This expression stuns the reader with its crudeness,
and Lydia has nothing to gain by announcing it publicly other than the ill opinion of
those who hear it. Nevertheless, she feels no shame in declaring it; she is bold and
unwilling to censor herself. Elizabeth’s reaction to this statement is equally startling.
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We learn that “the coarseness of the sentiment was little other than her own breast had
formerly harbored” (215). Even though Elizabeth musters enough self-restraint not to
say such a coarse thing out loud, it is exactly what she thought. The two sisters share a
less than favorable opinion of another character, and the narrator herself highlights this
similarity between them.
Despite our expectations, the words “improper” and “impropriety” are never used
in connection with Lydia. This surprises us because, of all the misbehaving characters
scattered throughout the story, one would expect Lydia frequently to be denoted as
improper. Nevertheless, she is not once described as acting improperly by either the
other characters or the narrator. The word “imprudent” is used to describe her marriage
with Wickham, but this term has hardly the same extreme negative connotation as
“improper,” which suggests a serious social faux pas. Rather, “imprudent” elicits less dire
adjectives in the reader’s mind, such as “unwise” and “impetuous.” Even though we may
often think of her behavior as improper, it appears that the other characters would not
venture to describe her in such a way—even when she speaks of “nasty little freckled
thing[s].”
Second, neither of them particularly concerns themselves about what others
think of them. Lydia, for example, talks endlessly about officers, absolutely indifferent to
whether or not her listeners are interested in the subject. Lydia dominates the
conversation during a carriage ride home after the discussion of Miss King. She asks
“Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any flirting? I was in great hopes that
one of you would have got a husband before you came back” (216). Her conversation
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focuses unashamedly on what interests her above all other things: men. Any other
young lady might check herself from speaking so freely on such a subject, lest she be
thought silly, but Lydia demonstrates no such apprehension. She says what she wants,
when she wants.
Elizabeth displays just as much boldness in her early dealings with Darcy. While
she stays at the Bingleys’ to nurse the ill Jane, Elizabeth has a conversation with Darcy
in which she repeatedly mocks him. She makes such disparaging statements as “Mr.
Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise” (57), and later she accuses
him of having “a propensity to hate every body” (58). She possesses absolutely no fear of
incurring Darcy’s bad opinion, which, unbeknownst to her, is one of the traits he finds
most endearing about her. Elizabeth accepts the risk of offending him, because she
dislikes him and thus sees no need to spare his feelings.
Third, they each are most concerned with doing what pleases them above what
may please others. Elizabeth says as much in her final confrontation with Lady
Catherine. Towards the end of their conversation, a frustrated Elizabeth declares “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). Here she boldly acknowledges that she discounts Lady Catherine’s opinion. This
statement implies that she would seek the opinion of those close to her before deciding
on a course of action; however, it does seem that once she sets her mind on something,
even her family cannot dissuade her from it. When she realizes that Darcy is not such a
terrible person after all, she struggles to convince her mother and father that Darcy is a
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good choice for her. Even Jane, Elizabeth’s confidante, responds with an incredulous
“Good heaven! Can it really be so? … I would, I do congratulate you; but are you
certain?” (361). No one believes that she could be happy with Darcy. However, despite
their hesitations, Elizabeth never doubts that her decision is justified. She acts entirely
on her own.
Similarly, Lydia would rather please herself than please others. This is so obvious
it hardly needs proving. The fact that Lydia absconds with Wickham, knowing full well
that such an action is universally censured in her society, demonstrates her obstinacy. It
is inconceivable that a young upper-class woman could be ignorant of the severity with
which society abhorred premarital relationships, so we must assume that Lydia
understands the dangers of elopement. Her willful behavior reveals that her personal
desire to enjoy Wickham’s company supersedes, in her mind, the importance of her own
as well as her family’s reputation. She risks the disgrace of the entire family in order to
get what she wants. This appears, in a certain way, to display even more independence
than Elizabeth ever exhibits, because it requires a total disregard for arbitrary social
expectations.
Elizabeth and Lydia share more personality traits than we generally
acknowledge. Elizabeth displays perhaps more self-restraint than Lydia, but they both
appear to be almost equally independently minded. Nevertheless, readers have
commonly disdained Lydia even though that stubborn independence that teeters on the
border between charming and annoying is the very same that we admire in Elizabeth.
What could account for this drastic difference of perception?
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Chapter III: “Reputation is an idle and most false imposition”
Given how much the two sisters have in common, what makes them appear so
different? I will now analyze various perceived differences between them in an attempt
to explain why their similarities are so often ignored, and why Elizabeth is more
endearing to us than Lydia. There are various dichotomies that exist between the two
characters that could explain why one is perceived as attractive and loveable and the
other as silly and self-absorbed. Such dichotomies include: Elizabeth is intelligent and
Lydia is idiotic; Elizabeth is compassionate and Lydia is self-centered; Elizabeth is selfaware and Lydia is oblivious. However, close analysis reveals that each of these
dichotomies crumbles under scrutiny, and fails to explain the problem of why the sisters
are perceived in such opposite ways.
First, let us examine the dichotomy that Elizabeth is intelligent and Lydia is
idiotic. No one would ever try to argue that Elizabeth is not witty. She has a clever
retort for nearly every line of dialogue spoken to her. By comparison, we can easily say
that Lydia seems less intelligent, especially considering her propensity to discuss
officers compulsively, much to everyone’s chagrin. Lydia appears incapable of
conversing well on any other topic, which calls into question her mental acuity.
Elizabeth indirectly admits that she doubts some of her sisters’ intelligence in a
conversation with Lady Catherine: “We were always encouraged to read, and had all the
masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be idle certainly might” (164). Lydia is
thus characterized as spurning learning, which does not incline us to believe in her
perspicacity.
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The narrator’s introductory description of Lydia offers no reassurance on this
point: “She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the
attentions of the officers … had increased into assurance” (46). This reinforces the
earlier conclusion that Lydia is independently minded, however, it indicates nothing
positive about her intelligence. The phrase “animal spirits” implies that she relies more
on emotion than rationality. The entire paragraph focuses primarily on Lydia’s physical
appearance which says a great deal more about her other attributes—namely that they
are negligible. Apart from this, there is little information by which to judge Lydia’s
intelligence. Her dialogue, as I have already described, obsessively concentrates on men.
By itself, this fixation does not imply that she is stupid. Rather it suggests that she
remains trapped in immaturity. I will not attempt to argue that she ought to be
regarded as more intelligent than she generally is, simply because there is insufficient
evidence to make a case either way.
Intelligence or stupidity are, on their own, insufficient to prompt us to admire or
to loathe a character. For example, consider Harriet Smith from Austen’s novel Emma
(1815). Compared to Emma, Harriet certainly is not bright. When Harriet and Emma
contemplate the riddle that Mr. Elton wrote, Emma discovers the meaning almost
immediately. Harriet, on the other hand, struggles, and ultimately requests that Emma
explain it to her: “What can it be, Miss Woodhouse?—what can it be? I have not an
idea—I cannot guess it in the least … Do try to find it out, Miss Woodhouse. Do help
me” (47). Yet despite the fact that she is not bright, we feel no animosity toward
Harriet. In fact, it is Emma who comes across as harsh in this scene, because she is
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condescending and deems Harriet ridiculous. When she reads the line in the riddle
about “ready wit,” she thinks to herself “Humph—Harriet’s ready wit! All the better. A
man must be very much in love indeed, to describe her so” (46). Emma thinks very little
of her friend and refuses to believe that anyone could find Harriet clever. Despite her
callous judgment of a friend we know she cares about, we still adore Emma. Intelligence
or dullness have no relation to whether one of Austen’s characters is likeable.
We must also attempt to forgive Lydia’s immaturity. Elizabeth is much older
than Lydia, so of course Elizabeth acts more maturely than her adolescent sister. Five
years may not seem like a significant difference, but there is undoubtedly a great deal of
experience gained between fifteen and twenty. We meet Elizabeth when she is already
twenty, so our first impression of her is that she is a confident, competent adult, when
there is no reason to assume that she has always been so. We did not know her as a
teenager, and it is conceivable that she was not so mature then.
Second, there is the dichotomy that Elizabeth is compassionate whereas Lydia is
self-centered. Again, this dichotomy initially seems to hold its own in explaining why
Lydia is so unappealing though she shares many of Elizabeth’s charming qualities.
Lydia appears on the surface to display far less concern for others than Elizabeth does.
A defense of Lydia struggles somewhat in this respect because the distress she causes
her family by suddenly dashing off with Wickham is indisputable. While the Bennet
family awaits word about her fate, each moment of anticipation pains them: “Every day
at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious part of each was when the
post was expected. The arrival of letters was the first grand object of every morning’s
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impatience” (286). It is a desperate situation for everyone, not merely Lydia, because the
family name stands to be disgraced by her actions. No doubt this is thoughtless on
Lydia’s part, since she endangers the people she purports to care about most by
pursuing her own desires.
However, what is independence but the courage to pursue one’s own desires
above what is considered socially acceptable? Independence involves by its very nature
the breaking of social boundaries. The difference between Elizabeth and Lydia in this
respect is only the degree of independence which they are willing to pursue. Elizabeth’s
self-restraint prevents her from transgressing so far as Lydia dares, and from this
perspective, Lydia’s actions hardly seem deserving of the censure we so often level
against them. Is she not displaying the unwavering commitment to love that readers
usually admire and expect from a romance story? After all, Lydia has nothing to gain by
jeopardizing her reputation, save for the misguided hope of securing Wickham’s love.
Furthermore, Lydia is not alone in the risks she subjects her family to.
Elizabeth’s decisions also have a potentially dangerous impact on the welfare of the
family. Reflect, for example, on Elizabeth’s refusal of Mr. Collins’ marriage proposal.
Her family’s estate is entailed to Mr. Collins, and therefore her marriage to him would
ensure that the estate continues within the family. This is no small thing, as otherwise
they would all be forced to remove upon Mr. Bennet’s death. Elizabeth’s decision affects
the entire family, save Mr. Bennet himself. Nevertheless, she refuses her suitor because
she finds him repugnant. This distresses Mrs. Bennet immensely, and she cries to her
husband “Oh, Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You
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must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins” (111). Not surprisingly, Mr. Bennet
prefers that Elizabeth not marry Mr. Collins, because he abhors the cumbersome
clergyman, and because he is the only person who does not stand to lose anything by
the refusal.
Elizabeth initially refuses Mr. Darcy as well, a man so enormously wealthy that
his resources could render the Bennet family’s loss of their own estate inconsequential.
She refuses him for the same reason that she refused Mr. Collins—because she finds him
repugnant. His proposal repulses her so greatly that she wounds him by declaring “You
could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have
tempted me to accept it” (191). She assigns no significance to the benefit her family
could enjoy were she to marry him because in her mind, his pride is too unforgivable a
fault. In the ensuing conversation, Darcy says, “Could you expect me to rejoice in the
inferiority of your connections? To congratulate myself on the hope of relations whose
condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?” (191). Here he asserts that the
advantage of the match would be entirely on Elizabeth’s side. Elizabeth fully
understands the wealth and connections she denies both herself and her family when she
persists in refusing him.
We should not be so quick to dismiss Lydia as more selfish and less considerate
of others than Elizabeth. In this respect, too, it so happens that they actually have more
in common than not. Their mutual desire to act according to what they feel is best for
themselves draws a parallel between them.
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Third, there is the dichotomy that Elizabeth is self-aware and self-correcting,
while Lydia obliviously disregards her own faults. It would be too easy to argue, as
Deresiewicz tries to, that Elizabeth actually is oblivious simply because she spends the
majority of the novel failing to understand that Darcy is a better person than she
imagines him to be, while Wickham is far worse. Undoubtedly she is deluded in these
ideas. Yet the fact that Elizabeth rectifies her misstep renders such an argument
irrelevant; she reaches a point where she understands how wrong her judgments of
character have been and changes accordingly. After reading Darcy’s letter, it does not
take her long to realize her error: “How despicably have I acted! … I who have prided
myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! … Till this
moment, I never knew myself” (204-5). She suffers from neither stubbornness nor
obliviousness. She is intensely self-aware.
Lydia, on the other hand, does seem at first glance to float mindlessly in oblivion.
She easily falls under Wickham’s spell. However, unlike Elizabeth, she has no one to
advise her of his true character. Elizabeth recognized Wickham’s faults because of
Darcy’s explicatory letter. She laments that she did not disclose this information to
Lydia herself: “’When I consider,’ she added, in a yet more agitated voice, ‘that I might
have prevented it! I knew what he was’” (269). If Elizabeth, intelligent as we know her
to be, lacked the capacity to detect Wickham’s true character on her own, why should
we expect her younger and less experienced sister to be able to do so? From this
perspective, Lydia did not intentionally put herself at risk, but rather fell in love with
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the wrong man. She is not oblivious to herself, but rather naïve in her assessments of
others.
We know that Lydia feels genuine affection for Wickham. The narrator tells us
“Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every occasion; no
one was to be put in competition with him” (308). This occurs after their marriage has
taken place, and the description suggests that real love motivated Lydia to marry him,
not a desire to save her reputation. Furthermore, in her letter to Colonel Forster’s wife,
Lydia writes, “I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who, I shall
think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I love, and he is an angel”
(281). There is no reason to believe that she ever had any intention but to marry him
from the beginning of the ill-fated elopement. Of course, Wickham never meant to
marry her, and required the impetus of Darcy’s financial support to be persuaded to do
so. Nevertheless, her intentions appear to have been nothing but honorable from the
beginning. Lydia’s aforementioned letter states that she and Wickham are “going to
Gretna Green,” and why would Lydia share this information if Wickham had not led her
to believe that it was the case? She acted naïvely in trusting him, but she is after all a
love-struck fifteen-year-old.
Elizabeth herself believes that Wickham is deserving of a greater share of blame
than her sister:
…though she did not suppose Lydia to be deliberately
engaging in an elopement, without the intention of marriage,
she had no difficulty in believing that neither her virtue nor
[21]
her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy
prey (271).
Here Lydia is characterized as “prey,” a term that simultaneously portrays Wickham as
a predator. We can scarcely blame Lydia for her misstep in trusting him; it is one that
Elizabeth made herself, and Elizabeth could only be convinced of the truth when
another person brought it to her attention. No one brought it to Lydia’s attention, and
from all appearances, Wickham is skilled at misleading others. We know this is true
because early in the book, when Elizabeth dances with a nameless officer, she “had the
refreshment of talking of Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked” (91).
Thus Lydia and Elizabeth are far from being the only people who are deceived in him.
Given all this, Lydia’s only mistake was in misjudging Wickham’s character. It is
the same type of mistake Elizabeth persists in throughout the novel. Despite her
repeated failures to accurately assess others, we remain fond of Elizabeth. Again, this
reveals a similarity rather than a difference between the sisters. Unfortunately, Lydia
happens to carry the mistake a bit further than Elizabeth, solidifying it in marriage.
Since Lydia and Wickham do end up marrying, Lydia has not the same need for
self-correction that we so admire in Elizabeth. If Lydia can be said to have erred, she
corrects herself by marrying the man she eloped with. All evidence shows this was her
intention from the start. In the end, her misjudgment dramatically affects no one
because she fulfills her social obligation. The marriage is not a mistake at all from the
perspective of society. Lydia condemns herself to a life of relative poverty, but this is
largely her own problem. She occasionally appeals to Elizabeth for financial
[22]
assistance—as most anyone in dire straits with a conveniently wealthy relative might be
compelled to do—and this reveals just how unfortunate of a choice Wickham turned out
to be. We are told that under the strain of their financial situation, “His affection for her
soon sunk into indifference: hers lasted a little longer” (373). By the conclusion of the
novel, we know Lydia suffers the consequences of having fallen in love with the wrong
man.
Lydia’s ill-fated elopement with Wickham ties into the descriptions of shame that
appear throughout the novel. A search for the words “shame,” “embarrass,” “colour,” and
“blush” turns up some intriguing results. Elizabeth primarily experiences these blushes
and moments of shame and embarrassment, along with Jane and occasionally Darcy.
Elizabeth and Jane colour only from embarrassment, such as when they interact with
Darcy and Bingley, respectively. In addition to shame, Darcy also colours from anger,
for example, during a terse accidental encounter with Wickham. Elizabeth is the only
character in the novel specifically described as ever feeling shame, which is certainly no
indication that she is the only one who feels it, but rather a side effect of the novel’s
being told primarily from her perspective.
We are tempted to decree that Elizabeth’s tendency to blush and colour betrays a
particular sensitivity to social expectations. However, it would be absurd to say in
absolute terms that those who blush and colour far less often, or not at all, are wholly
ignorant of social convention. Mr. Bennet never does so, and yet he is intensely aware of
his young daughters’ silliness. He may have been embarrassed by their actions in an
earlier epoch, but at the time Pride and Prejudice takes places he is so inured to their
[23]
behavior that he has no motivation to care. Mr. Bingley never blushes either, and he is
the epitome of a charming gentleman. He, perhaps, is also subject to absence of selfawareness and simply does not know when to blush, but nevertheless most everyone
admires him. Nor can we dismiss such arguments by saying that blushes are phenomena
restricted to females, as Darcy experiences them too. The amount of blushing or
coloring that a character endures rather seems to be correlated to the prominence of
that character’s role in the novel: Elizabeth far and away suffers a change of color more
than any other character, followed by Jane and Darcy. Charlotte once colours as
perceived by Elizabeth when in the presence of the intolerable Mr. Collins.
One revealing comment occurs towards the end of the novel in the scene in
which Lydia and Wickham return to Longbourn after their hasty marriage.
“[Elizabeth] blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of the two who caused their
confusion suffered no variation of colour” (306). Given the variety of meanings of
blushing within the novel—shame, embarrassment, and anger being the most obvious—
it is not so easy to interpret this passage. It appears to be a condemnation of the
behavior of Lydia and her new husband; they should blush at the “patched-up business”
of their marriage, the narrator implies, yet they do not.
Possible explanations for the absence of a blush are integral to understanding
this line. One obvious explanation is that Lydia never had any idea that Wickham had
no initial intention of marrying her, and that therefore she is unperturbed by her own
behavior because she has been deceived into believing it acceptable. This is a point I
addressed previously, and it seems to reflect her innocence of mind. Another
[24]
explanation is that Lydia is too overjoyed with her situation to care. She declares that
while riding in a carriage “I let down the side glass next to [William Goulding] and
took off my glove and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that he might
see the ring” (306). She is clearly quite excited and delights in being addressed “Mrs.
Wickham,” which further proves her idolatrous admiration for him.
The frequency with which Elizabeth allows herself to feel embarrassment and
confusion in awkward social interactions may indeed suggest that she is more
susceptible to the pressures of a social environment than is Lydia. Elizabeth’s
susceptibility to the influence of others ties back to Deresiewicz’s article that outlines
the ways in which Elizabeth fails to be as independent as she is often thought to be. She
invests more in the judgments of others than Lydia does and feels the sting when those
judgments have the potential to ring less than favorable.
In his book Keats and Embarrassment, Christopher Ricks states that “Keats
knows the blush of guilt … But Keats knows too the blush of innocence” (57). This
interpretation adds greater ambiguity to the already variegated spectrum of meanings
that coloration comprises. Does it imply that one is guilty or innocent? In Austen’s
world, it seems primarily to signify guilt: Elizabeth’s blush in the scene earlier described
is undoubtedly a blush of guilt felt for her sister—not only for the rashness Lydia has
exhibited but also, perhaps, because Lydia is not blushing when she should. Lydia’s
absence of such a blush again implies that in her mind, she is innocent of any crime.
[25]
Ricks also writes about the relation of blushing to self-awareness or selfconsciousness, a topic that Keats discussed at length in his letters. Ricks says that
“intense self-awareness ... [is] bred from and breed[s] embarrassment” (42). Of course
we have Mr. Bennet who, as already mentioned, is obviously self-aware and yet so
detached from the objects of his would-be embarrassment that he can no longer be
bothered to blush. His is a unique circumstance; perhaps several years of intense and
eternal shame incited by Mrs. Bennet eliminated his capacity to feel it anymore. We also
have Mr. Bingley, who, from the scant brief appearances he makes on the stage, seems
to fit this idea of blushing as a result of intense self-awareness. Near the end of the novel
when Bingley and Darcy arrive together at Longbourn, we are told “On the gentlemen’s
appearing, [Jane’s] colour increased; yet she received them with tolerable ease” (323-4).
Jane blushes in Bingley’s presence while he does not, so perhaps he is ignorant of a
reason to. He feels undeniable affection for Jane, so we know a lack of attraction is not
the cause for his failure to colour. Perhaps he does not understand the social
conventions that should tell him that falling in love is a little uncomfortable. That he is
not particularly aware of what goes on around him is also evident by how easily his
sisters and Darcy mislead him to keep him away from the Bennets. When they insist
that Jane expresses no attachment to him, he believes them despite all evidence to the
contrary. His role in the novel is also quite small, being absent for a significant portion
of it, and the reader hardly gets to know him. Mostly, we know him through Jane’s
admiration. The question of why he does not blush may be answered by a lack of selfawareness or simply by the fact that he is not present often enough to blush. In either
[26]
case, regardless of his possible propensity to float along in blissful ignorance, we find
him an attractive and likeable character. If Lydia suffers similar obliviousness to social
conventions and to other people, why should it automatically be a mark against her?
If only a blush were the deciding factor that could tell us whom to hate and
whom to love, the question would quickly resolve itself. Unfortunately, a blush is but a
vague indicator of many different states of mind that vary according to context and the
personality of the individual who has the misfortune to endure such a public
manifestation of her inner thoughts. If we love Elizabeth more than Lydia, it may be
because we feel a connection with her by being privy to her thoughts in this way, while
Lydia is in this respect more reserved and her character more difficult to delineate.
Maybe we tend to like Elizabeth more simply because we are closer to her.
Wayne Booth has some interesting thoughts on this idea of sympathy through
closeness with regard to Emma. He writes that “By showing most of the story through
Emma’s eyes, the author insures that we shall travel with Emma rather than stand
against her” (245) despite her numerous evident flaws. Part of the reason why we
sympathize with Emma even though we know her flaws is because we can see into her
consciousness. In this way we also know her redeeming qualities to which we would
otherwise not be privileged. Booth goes on to list a few of Emma’s myriad
shortcomings:
She attempts to manipulate Harriet not from an excess of
kindness but from a desire for power and admiration. She
flirts with Frank Churchill out of vanity and irresponsibility.
She mistreats Jane Fairfax because of Jane’s good qualities.
[27]
She abuses Miss Bates because of her own essential lack of
“tenderness” and “good will.” (246-7).
These are serious charges that may amount to considerably more than the faults Lydia
is accused of in Pride and Prejudice. Yet most of find ourselves identifying with Emma
all the same. This is because “we see at great length and in high color her selfcastigation” (247) through her thoughts. Emma, like Elizabeth, feels remorse for the
transgressions she commits, and we know this because we are privy to both characters’
inner ruminations.
Since Lydia is a relatively minor character, we do not experience her thoughts.
Since we also have very little evidence that she feels remorse for the wrongs she has
done, we are not disposed to sympathize with her. Thus the narrator’s disconnection
from Lydia incites the reader to feel a disconnection as well. Though our opinion of her
would surely change if we had irrefutable proof that she feels regret, as I have argued,
the regret should be Wickham’s and not Lydia’s. Neither the narrator nor the other
characters compel us to blame Wickham more than Lydia, and so it is easy to see why
Lydia would bear the brunt of the reader’s disapproval.
The problem of whom to like appears in Emma too, says Booth. “In matters of
taste and ability, of head and of heart, [Jane Fairfax] is Emma’s superior” (249). If this
is true, we should like Jane more than Emma. Again, the explanation for why we
sympathize primarily with Emma is the same—we know Emma’s thoughts. Jane,
though she may be admirable, is a mysterious character, frequently described as
“reserved.” Strangely, it seems that proximity has a greater bearing on whom we are
[28]
attracted to than the actual qualities of a person. It is no surprise then that Lydia, who is
a minor character we are unfamiliar with, would be subject to our prejudice.
[29]
Chapter IV: The Lesser of Two Evils
A defense of Lydia would be incomplete without a comparison to Austen’s
singular heroine—if she can be called a heroine—Lady Susan. She appears in Austen’s
epistolary novel of the same name, published posthumously in 1871. Lady Susan
somewhat resembles Lydia in that she elopes with men without remorse and wholly
without regard to the strong disapproval of society. The plot is fairly basic: Lady Susan
attempts to marry Reginald, a plan stifled by his sister Mrs. Vernon’s ability to see
through her. Mrs. Vernon knows that Lady Susan seethes with malevolence because of
Lady Susan’s cruel treatment of her own daughter. Dim-witted Reginald remains
deceived for the greater part of the story. Eventually Lady Susan’s affair with a married
man comes to light and her schemes collapse. Nevertheless, she is still able to marry her
second choice, one of the many men whom she skillfully manipulates. The conclusion
assures the reader that “no consciousness of guilt, gave one look of embarrassment”
(101) from Lady Susan.
The comparative situations of Lydia and Lady Susan are quite similar. Other
characters loathe both of them for their perceived moral failings. Both have taken
liberties with men, a sin that society abhors. It is frequently implied that Lady Susan has
had a number of affairs, while we know that Lydia has only committed the one
transgression with Wickham.
Interestingly, they also both experience no shame for their wrongdoings as
previously described—Lydia does not blush and neither does Lady Susan. However, the
[30]
explanations for this absence of color differ dramatically. Lydia does not think to blush
because she is ignorant of a reason too. She has no conception that she has done
anything wrong. Lady Susan, by contrast, is all too aware of her crimes, as we know by
her extensive and repeated efforts to obliterate evidence for them. We see her do this
with Manwaring, one of the men with whom she has had an affair; she continually
denies him permission to see her at times when it stands to endanger the rapport she
attempts to establish with Reginald.
Lady Susan and Lydia each seem to be interested in men above anything else.
This is perfectly obvious with Lydia since her unrelenting effusion about officers reveals
that she thinks of little besides. The fact that she evidently trusts Wickham enough to
abscond with him illustrates the importance that men and marriage hold for her.
Similarly, Lady Susan would do nearly anything to secure the affection of Reginald,
even when she vacillates about whether or not to marry him. She states near the
beginning of the novel that she is “not quite determined on” marrying Reginald (55),
and near the end she reiterates with “I am now satisfied that I never could have brought
myself to marry Reginald” (98). Nevertheless, her efforts to win his favor continue
unabated until all hope for the match is lost.
Finally, despite their tribulations, they both end up receiving more or less what
they want. Lydia marries a handsome officer thanks to Darcy’s pecuniary intervention,
and Lady Susan secures a satisfactory position in society by marrying the only available
man still caught in her thrall, Sir James. Each avoids more widespread reproach of their
actions through the socially approved institution of marriage. Hints of lingering
[31]
disapproval remain for them both despite their improved circumstances in the end—
Mrs. Vernon persists in disliking Lady Susan, and Lydia still suffers the displeasure of
her more astute sisters.
An important difference stands out between the two of them, however, despite
some of the parallels of their behavior: Lady Susan is evil and Lydia is not. By “evil,” I
refer to Lady Susan’s malicious desire to achieve her goals by any means necessary and
her callous way of treating other people as little more than a means to an end. Lady
Susan is absolutely abhorrent in her behavior toward nearly everyone, not even caring
for the man she seeks to marry, Reginald. Indeed, she sees her own daughter as nothing
but an annoying impediment to her plans. “It is true that Reginald had not in any
degree grown cool towards me,” she writes, “but yet he had lately mentioned Frederica
spontaneously and unnecessarily, and once had said something in praise of her person”
(75). Even the mention of a compliment to her daughter Frederica irritates her and
incites fear that her scheme may not come to fruition.
Lady Susan is devoted to deception in all that she does. We receive our closest
glimpse to her true self through her letters to Mrs. Johnson; everything else is pretense.
She freely admits to Mrs. Johnson that “artlessness will never do in love matters” (69).
She constantly pretends to be a better person than she is and constructs an image for
herself that has no basis in reality. While discussing her plans to marry again, she says
“I have now been but a few months a widow … I cannot forget that the indelicacy of so
early a second marriage, must subject me to the censure of the world” (92). In this
respect, she demonstrates the keen awareness of social expectations that is normally
[32]
considered a virtue. The awareness itself is not a virtue at all in her hands because it
allows her to perform her cruel machinations. That her understanding of the character
of others can be twisted into wickedness gives credence to my prior claim that Lydia’s
ostensible obliviousness is not an unforgivable character flaw per se. If Lydia has little
in the way of self-awareness, she can use it neither for good, as we see Elizabeth do, nor
for evil, as with Lady Susan.
Lydia lacks the capacity for such calculated artfulness. As previously
demonstrated, she says exactly what she thinks without regard to the impression such
admissions may make in the minds of others. The narrator explains that Lydia “seldom
listened to any body for more than half a minute” (218), revealing she invests very little
stock in the opinions of society at large, much unlike Lady Susan. In this regard Lydia
may be naïve and perhaps careless but she is certainly far from evil.
Lady Susan also sternly represses her emotions. What she feels for anyone,
including her purported friend Mrs. Johnson, remains shrouded in ambiguity. She takes
sadistic pleasure in toying with the feelings of those around her, especially the men.
“There is something agreeable in feelings so easily worked on,” she says of Reginald.
“Not that I would envy him their possession, nor would for the world have such myself,
but they are very convenient when one wishes to influence the passions of another” (85).
This is almost a veiled admission that Lady Susan has no emotions whatsoever. She is
absolutely devoid of empathy or compassion for her fellow human beings. They are but
a means to an end for her.
[33]
Conversely, Lydia is extravagant with her emotions. She happily writes to her
family about a spontaneous marriage to Wickham: “What a good joke it will be! I can
hardly write for laughing” (282). Her resolute optimism and buoyancy continue to color
her language despite her circumstances. Such glee reveals that she does not understand
that Wickham does not wish to marry her, again reinforcing the idea that she has been
deeply deceived. Her spirited vigor stands in stark contrast to Lady Susan’s cold
reserve.
On the rare occasions when Lady Susan does venture to express herself, it is
predominantly in rage. Of Reginald and her own daughter she pronounces “I shall ever
despise the man who can be gratified by the passion, which he never wished to inspire,
nor solicited the avowal of. I shall always detest them both” (76). A proclamation of
detestation for her own daughter profoundly repulses us. Lydia never says anything
remotely so malicious. She is a carefree spirit who, though her independence borders on
selfishness, means no ill to anyone around her.
Though Lady Susan is a woman whose circumstances superficially resemble
Lydia’s, she actually has more in common with Wickham. Wickham has a phenomenal
talent for duplicity as previously discussed, tricking nearly everyone but Darcy into
believing that he is a gentleman. It is only after protracted consideration of the evidence
that Elizabeth realizes how greatly she has mistaken him. Those such as Lydia who
have only Wickham himself as a basis to form their judgments fail to arrive at the same
conclusion. In Lady Susan, a few characters see through her and remain undeceived
from the beginning, for example her sister-in-law Mrs. Vernon. With others like
[34]
Reginald she successfully dismantles their prejudice against her for a time. Still others,
notably Sir James, never once suspect her duplicity regardless of the evidence in front of
them, such is her gift of persuasion. Sir James witnesses Lady Susan’s poor treatment of
Frederica and has not a second thought about it. Similarly, poor Lydia is the one
ensnared in Wickham’s web. A comparison between Lady Susan and Lydia thus yields
startling results: it is not Lydia whom we should associate with her but rather
Wickham.
[35]
Chapter V: “Honest, honest Iago”
With all of these arguments in mind, it seems strange that Lydia would be
perceived so negatively and Elizabeth so positively when there is in reality very little
separating them. Their faults are nearly the same, and what is an admirable trait in
Elizabeth is a deplorable one in Lydia, even if the trait in question is essentially the
same between them. The primary reason for this distinction appears to be the narrator’s
portrayal of them, and the other characters’ attitudes towards them. Elizabeth is the
heroine, so of course one is supposed to like her.
The narrator and Elizabeth both frequently look down on Lydia for her silliness.
After the officers leave Meryton, “lamentations resound[ed] perpetually through
Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense of pleasure was
lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy’s objections” (224). Far from
feeling any sympathy, Elizabeth is simply exasperated with her sister. Later on, when
Lydia leaves for Brighton, the narrator says, “In the clamorous happiness of Lydia
herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle adieus of her sisters were uttered without
being heard” (230). The rest of the family, particularly Elizabeth and Jane, is so in dread
of Lydia’s trip that they are reluctant to acknowledge her excitement. Of course, we all
know what happens shortly after this departure, and certainly nothing good is said of
Lydia from that point on.
In fact, the only unequivocally positive remark I was able to find about Lydia is
the narrator’s appraisal of her looks: “Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with
[36]
a fine complexion and goodhumoured countenance” (46). This description occurs early
on in the book, and it alone is not enough to endear her to the reader. During this part
of the novel, she spends her time pursuing officers, and we do not get to know her very
well. In addition, the only character who seems to enjoy Lydia’s company is Kitty, and
Kitty stands on equal footing with her ridiculous sister. For the large portion of the
novel that Elizabeth spends away from Longbourn, Lydia scarcely warrants mention,
and she is remembered only when she begins to present a danger to the family’s
reputation.
It is no surprise, then, that a reader would tend to absorb the attitudes toward
Lydia that the other characters express, and disregard her connections to Elizabeth. It
is too easy to label one commendable and another irredeemable without looking at them
more closely. As we have seen, Lydia essentially exhibits the same independence,
stubbornness and vibrant spirit that Elizabeth is so loved for, yet she is portrayed in an
entirely different light. Certainly her youth and naïveté may have something to do with
our general disapproval of her, but we now realize that there is much more to her than
that. She can be interpreted as the character Elizabeth may have ended up as had Darcy
not renewed his proposal—unhappily married due to her wayward insistence on
fulfilling her own desires before others’.
Elizabeth had no guarantee whatsoever that Darcy would propose to her again.
In reality, Darcy had every reason not to, when one considers how negatively he judges
her family. The strength and unwavering conviction of his love is part of the reason this
story is so appealing to readers. Yet, had he not renewed his proposal, what would have
[37]
become of Elizabeth? Rejected by the wealthy echelons of society, perhaps she may have
eventually been forced to marry someone like Mr. Collins to spare herself the future
punishment of relative poverty. Her decision to refuse Darcy would likely have had
severe repercussions for Jane as well—would Bingley have ever approached her again
without Darcy’s encouragement? Of course, it is impossible to know with certainty the
answers to these questions, but doubtless the novel would have ended much less happily
for Elizabeth in such circumstances.
That we as readers could judge two similar characters in such diametrically
opposite ways has interesting implications for how we judge others not merely in the
world of Austen or of literature, but in our everyday lives. It erases our imagined
certainty and infuses our perspectives with doubt. It raises a number of questions: Can
we trust the judgments we form of others, regardless of how well we think we know
them? On what basis can we reliably develop opinions of others? How can we know for
certain if our affinity for, or aversion to, certain people is justified? These are difficult
questions that we ought nevertheless to confront.
Though our newfound doubt may be inconvenient to us, it could also be of
considerable service. It must force us to analyze the reasons why we form positive
opinions of some people and negative opinions of others. We cannot simply get away
with saying we dislike someone and leaving it at that; we must explore the foundation of
that assessment. Perhaps, after reading these various arguments, we persist in disliking
Lydia—or, alternatively, we persist in liking Elizabeth. That is perfectly acceptable, of
course, as long as we understand why it is the case.
[38]
Even when we do understand why we have decided to judge a certain person a
certain way, we must still allow the possibility that our opinions may change. If, for
example, a reader of Pride and Prejudice was inclined to dislike Elizabeth initially due to
her hasty judgments of others, that reader must acknowledge that Elizabeth realizes
and seeks to correct her error. If the reader still dislikes her even after she has tried to
become a better person, he or she is obligated to ask why. We must not be wedded to
any opinion when circumstances have changed.
Furthermore, if we can gain a deeper understanding of why we like or dislike a
person, we learn at least as much about ourselves as we do about the person in question.
When Elizabeth discovers how deceived she was in Wickham, she famously says, “Till
this moment, I never knew myself” (205). The questionable character of another person
causes her to examine her own thoughts. We should do the same and question the
foundations of our views, be they good or bad. If we can have two radically different
opinions about two similar people, what does this imply about ourselves? Might we be
subject to the very same flaws that we can so easily condemn in others? Perhaps the
qualities we admire most in ourselves can be found in people who otherwise repel us, if
we can be prevailed upon to delve below the surface rather than relying on mere
prejudiced assumptions. Such a discovery must prompt us to look inside ourselves as
well.
Austen’s original title for her novel was First Impressions, which immediately
casts into doubt the idea that first impressions are reliable. The whole book is a lesson
in empathy and self-discovery, in ways that Austen herself may not specifically have
[39]
intended. The characters’ failure accurately to pin down their fellow players in this
drama suggests that we are all subject to the same weaknesses. We should not be hasty
to judge others if we are not willing to look inside ourselves. It can only benefit us to
seek to understand ourselves more deeply.
[40]
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Booth, Wayne. The Rhetoric of Fiction. “Control of Distance in Jane Austen’s ‘Emma’.” (24366). Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1961.
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