The sparkling
repartee in Chapter 18 between Darcy and Elizabeth as they dance with each
other at the Netherfield Ball surely ranks at or near the top of favorite
scenes in Austen novels among Janeites, and its fame extends even outside purely
literary circles. I came across it recently in the writings of the late great
sociologist of the small, Erving Goffman. Goffman, prompted by an unpublished
essay by one of his students, Stephanie Rothman, quoted from that
Darcy-Elizabeth exchange in his classic 1961 text Encounters, and then observed: ‘The phenomenon of ‘making’
a situation is not, of course, restricted to New York hipsters. Jane Austen
provides a contrast, illustrating at the same time how the structure of a
focused gathering itself can be introduced conversationally as a means of
attacking the frame and discomfiting participants”.
That
short paragraph appears to have at least in part inspired at least 3 subsequent
analyses of Jane Austen’s writings through a Goffmanian lens---by Tony Tanner in
1985, by David Southward in 1996, and most recently by Charles Thompson in
2015.
I
will post another time about my own recent delvings into Goffman with JA in
mind, but for now, I want to mention one purely Austenian connection I made for
the first time while reflecting on Goffman/ Rothman’s choice of the Netherfield
Ball repartee as an illustration of a participant in a tete a tete abruptly
breaking the frame of the conversation, and turning the implicit rules of
conversation into verbal barbs fired with ironic satirical intent.
What
occurred to me was the striking resemblance, which far outweighs the differences,
between the dancing (in both senses of
the word) repartee between Lizzy and Darcy at the Netherfield Ball, and its “double”,
i.e., the dancing (albeit mostly one sided) repartee between Catherine and
Henry at the Pump Room in Bath in Chapter 10 of Northanger Abbey.
I
urge the Janeite looking for a fresh source of delight in JA’s fiction to read
those two passages one after the other, and then, if so moved, to reflect on
the parallels and contrasts, and what they mean for our understanding of each
of these two love stories.
What
was most salient to my eyes was the gender switch which perhaps has obscured
the resonance between these scenes-i.e., in P&P, the straight man is Darcy,
and the one who gets the deliver the punch lines is Lizzy. Whereas, in NA, the
wise alec is of course Henry, who takes delight in rhetorically dancing in and
around Catherine a dozen times, while she mostly stands in place. It is indeed
a very different sort of dance we see—and yet, I also know from my studies of
both of these novels that in the end of the day, Catherine is in some ways a
sharper elf than Lizzy—most of all perhaps in her self knowledge. So perhaps
Lizzy dances so much precisely because she is a moth dancing around a dangerous
flame—Darcy.
From
Goffman’s perspective, we see that Henry takes delight in breaking the frame of
the ritual of dancing, and we may see the roots of both Lizzy’s and Henry’s
inspired wit in Shakespearean characters like Hamlet, Rosalind, and most of all
Beatrice and Benedick.
Jane
Fox: “As someone who has danced English country dances, I'm impressed by
Austen's characters being so adept at the dance that they can carry on
conversations while dancing. To be sure, English, with its long sets, is easier
than Scottish country, but it still requires attention to your where you are
going if you don't have huge amounts of practice. Much of each conversation
appears to take place while the speakers are actually moving. Try it some time.
…”
Jane,
thank you very much for your reply to my above post. My short answer to your above
comment is that Jane Austen was clearly taking poetic license in having Lizzy
and Darcy, and Henry and Catherine multitask so well, as both couples engage in
such memorable verbal repartee while executing complicated dance steps. What I
love most about those parallel scenes is that I’d imagine that most readers don’t
consciously realize that the verbal repartee is a form of verbal dancing, which
is going on simultaneously with, and therefore, in some sense in coordination
with, the physical dancing.
I
think Andrew Davies perfectly captured that “harmony” between word and step in
the above video segment from P&P2 ---and,
in light of your comment, I wonder how many different takes were spliced
together in order to produce that entire 6 minute scene!
So,
without further ado, here are the two passages, to save you the trouble of
tracking them down yourself. I would love to hear your thoughts after you read
the two together.---Cheers, ARNIE
P&P
Chapter 18:
“…she found herself suddenly
addressed by Mr. Darcy who took her so much by surprise in his application for
her hand, that, without knowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked away
again immediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of presence of
mind; Charlotte tried to console her: "I dare say you will find him very
agreeable."
"Heaven forbid! That
would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find a man agreeable whom one is
determined to hate! Do not wish me such an evil."
…They stood for some time without
speaking a word; and she began to imagine that their silence was to last
through the two dances, and at first was resolved not to break it; till
suddenly fancying that it would be the greater punishment to her partner to
oblige him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance. He replied,
and was again silent. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second
time with:—"It is your turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I
talked about the dance, and you ought to make some sort of remark on the
size of the room, or the number of couples."
He smiled, and assured her that
whatever she wished him to say should be said.
"Very well. That reply will do
for the present. Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much
pleasanter than public ones. But now we may be silent."
"Do you talk by rule, then,
while you are dancing?"
"Sometimes. One must speak a
little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour
together; and yet for the advantage of some, conversation ought to be so
arranged, as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as
possible."
"Are you consulting your own
feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying
mine?"
"Both," replied Elizabeth
archly; "for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our
minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak,
unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed
down to posterity with all the eclat of a proverb."
"This is no very striking
resemblance of your own character, I am sure," said he. "How near it
may be to mine, I cannot pretend to say. You think it a faithful
portrait undoubtedly."
"I must not decide on my own
performance."
He made no answer, and they were
again silent till they had gone down the dance, when he asked her if she and
her sisters did not very often walk to Meryton. She answered in the
affirmative, and, unable to resist the temptation, added, "When you met us
there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance."
The effect was immediate. A deeper
shade of hauteur overspread his features, but he said not a word, and
Elizabeth, though blaming herself for her own weakness, could not go on. At
length Darcy spoke, and in a constrained manner said, "Mr. Wickham is
blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his making friends—whether
he may be equally capable of retaining them, is less certain."
"He has been so unlucky as to
lose your friendship," replied Elizabeth with emphasis, "and
in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life."
Darcy made no answer, and seemed
desirous of changing the subject. At that moment, Sir William Lucas appeared
close to them…The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but
Sir William's allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his
eyes were directed with a very serious expression towards Bingley and Jane, who
were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly, he turned to his
partner, and said, "Sir William's interruption has made me forget what we
were talking of."
"I do not think we were
speaking at all. Sir William could not have interrupted two people in the room
who had less to say for themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already
without success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine."
"What think you of books?"
said he, smiling.
"Books—oh! no. I am sure we
never read the same, or not with the same feelings."
"I am sorry you think so; but
if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may compare
our different opinions."
"No—I cannot talk of books in a
ball-room; my head is always full of something else."
"The present always
occupies you in such scenes—does it?" said he, with a look of doubt.
"Yes, always," she
replied, without knowing what she said, for her thoughts had wandered far from
the subject, as soon afterwards appeared by her suddenly exclaiming, "I
remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave, that
your resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I
suppose, as to its being created."
"I am," said he, with a
firm voice.
"And never allow yourself to be
blinded by prejudice?"
"I hope not."
"It is particularly incumbent
on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at
first."
"May I ask to what these
questions tend?"
"Merely to the illustration of your
character," said she, endeavouring to shake off her gravity. "I am
trying to make it out."
"And what is your
success?"
She shook her head. "I do not
get on at all. I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly."
"I can readily believe,"
answered he gravely, "that reports may vary greatly with respect to me;
and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the
present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect
no credit on either."
"But if I do not take your
likeness now, I may never have another opportunity."
"I would by no means suspend
any pleasure of yours," he coldly replied. She said no more, and they went
down the other dance and parted in silence; and on each side dissatisfied,
though not to an equal degree, for in Darcy's breast there was a tolerably
powerful feeling towards her, which soon procured her pardon, and directed all
his anger against another.”
NA Chapter 10:
“This
was the last sentence by which [Thorpe] could weary Catherine's attention, for
he was just then borne off by the resistless pressure of a long string of
passing ladies. Her partner now drew near, and said, "That gentleman would
have put me out of patience, had he stayed with you half a minute longer. He
has no business to withdraw the attention of my partner from me. We have
entered into a contract of mutual agreeableness for the space of an evening,
and all our agreeableness belongs solely to each other for that time. Nobody
can fasten themselves on the notice of one, without injuring the rights of the
other. I consider a country-dance as an emblem of marriage. Fidelity and
complaisance are the principal duties of both; and those men who do not choose
to dance or marry themselves, have no business with the partners or wives of
their neighbours."
"But they are such very
different things!"
"—That you think they cannot be
compared together."
"To be sure not. People that
marry can never part, but must go and keep house together. People that dance
only stand opposite each other in a long room for half an hour."
"And such is your definition of
matrimony and dancing. Taken in that light certainly, their resemblance is not
striking; but I think I could place them in such a view. You will allow, that
in both, man has the advantage of choice, woman only the power of refusal; that
in both, it is an engagement between man and woman, formed for the advantage of
each; and that when once entered into, they belong exclusively to each other
till the moment of its dissolution; that it is their duty, each to endeavour to
give the other no cause for wishing that he or she had bestowed themselves
elsewhere, and their best interest to keep their own imaginations from
wandering towards the perfections of their neighbours, or fancying that they
should have been better off with anyone else. You will allow all this?"
"Yes, to be sure, as you state
it, all this sounds very well; but still they are so very different. I cannot
look upon them at all in the same light, nor think the same duties belong to
them."
"In one respect, there
certainly is a difference. In marriage, the man is supposed to provide for the
support of the woman, the woman to make the home agreeable to the man; he is to
purvey, and she is to smile. But in dancing, their duties are exactly changed;
the agreeableness, the compliance are expected from him, while she furnishes
the fan and the lavender water. That, I suppose, was the difference of duties
which struck you, as rendering the conditions incapable of comparison."
"No, indeed, I never thought of
that."
"Then I am quite at a loss. One
thing, however, I must observe. This disposition on your side is rather
alarming. You totally disallow any similarity in the obligations; and may I not
thence infer that your notions of the duties of the dancing state are not so
strict as your partner might wish? Have I not reason to fear that if the
gentleman who spoke to you just now were to return, or if any other gentleman
were to address you, there would be nothing to restrain you from conversing
with him as long as you chose?"
"Mr. Thorpe is such a very
particular friend of my brother's, that if he talks to me, I must talk to him
again; but there are hardly three young men in the room besides him that I have
any acquaintance with."
"And is that to be my only
security? Alas, alas!"
"Nay, I am sure you cannot have
a better; for if I do not know anybody, it is impossible for me to talk to
them; and, besides, I do not want to talk to anybody."
"Now you have given me a
security worth having; and I shall proceed with courage. Do you find Bath as
agreeable as when I had the honour of making the inquiry before?"
"Yes, quite—more so,
indeed."
"More so! Take care, or you
will forget to be tired of it at the proper time. You ought to be tired at the
end of six weeks."
"I do not think I should be
tired, if I were to stay here six months."
"Bath, compared with London, has
little variety, and so everybody finds out every year. 'For six weeks, I allow
Bath is pleasant enough; but beyond that, it is the most tiresome place in the
world.' You would be told so by people of all descriptions, who come regularly
every winter, lengthen their six weeks into ten or twelve, and go away at last
because they can afford to stay no longer."
"Well, other people must judge
for themselves, and those who go to London may think nothing of Bath. But I,
who live in a small retired village in the country, can never find greater
sameness in such a place as this than in my own home; for here are a variety of
amusements, a variety of things to be seen and done all day long, which I can
know nothing of there."
"You are not fond of the
country."
"Yes, I am. I have always lived
there, and always been very happy. But certainly there is much more sameness in
a country life than in a Bath life. One day in the country is exactly like
another."
"But then you spend your time
so much more rationally in the country."
"Do I?"
"Do you not?"
"I do not believe there is much
difference."
"Here you are in pursuit only
of amusement all day long."
"And so I am at home—only I do
not find so much of it. I walk about here, and so I do there; but here I see a
variety of people in every street, and there I can only go and call on Mrs.
Allen."
Mr. Tilney was very much amused.
"Only go and call on Mrs.
Allen!" he repeated. "What a picture of intellectual poverty!
However, when you sink into this abyss again, you will have more to say. You
will be able to talk of Bath, and of all that you did here."
"Oh! Yes. I shall never be in
want of something to talk of again to Mrs. Allen, or anybody else. I really
believe I shall always be talking of Bath, when I am at home again—I do like it
so very much. If I could but have Papa and Mamma, and the rest of them here, I
suppose I should be too happy! James's coming (my eldest brother) is quite
delightful—and especially as it turns out that the very family we are just got
so intimate with are his intimate friends already. Oh! Who can ever be tired of
Bath?"
"Not those who bring such fresh
feelings of every sort to it as you do. But papas and mammas, and brothers, and
intimate friends are a good deal gone by, to most of the frequenters of
Bath—and the honest relish of balls and plays, and everyday sights, is past
with them." Here their conversation closed, the demands of the dance
becoming now too importunate for a divided attention.
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