Although I find that each of Austen’s novels has a unique appeal which makes it impossible for me to choose between them, Pride and Prejudice is probably the book with which I am the most familiar.  This novel was incredibly clear in my mind when I came to rereading it (and indeed remains so even after waiting a further six months to write the review) even though I haven’t read it for more than six years when I studied the text for A level.  This familiarity is no doubt partially due to the many adaptations of Pride and Prejudice which exist, which means that many people feel as though they know the book even if they have never actually read it: I’ve seen the much-loved BBC adaptation starring Colin Firth and Jennifer Ehle, the more divisive Kiera Knightley film version and even a local stage adaptation.  I know there are a whole host more that I haven’t touched.  But it’s also because the Bennet family, Mr Bingley and his two awful sisters, Mr Darcy, the inimitable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, the slimy Mr Collins and the roguish Wickham are the sort of characters who stay with you long after the book has finished.  I’d venture to say that the plot is pretty standard fare and even entirely predictable, but it is the characters that Jane Austen peoples the book with who make it so remarkable.  I bet that most people after reading Pride and Prejudice just once would be able to describe how Lady Catherine, Lydia Bennet or Caroline Bingley would react in any given situation, and they aren’t even the main characters (no doubt the reason why this book has spawned so many spin-offs).  It is this wonderfully believable character creation combined with fabulous writing, even more than the image of Mr Darcy in his wet shirt, which has made Pride and Prejudice so much a part of general literary consciousness.

What this latest encounter with Pride and Prejudice revealed to me is how much Jane Austen’s books are made for rereading.  Austen is famed for her irony but I hadn’t realised until now quite how much proleptic irony there is, only obvious to the reader who has the advantage of knowing how things develop as the book progresses.  For example, following Mr Collins’ proposal to Elizabeth, which makes me simultaneously squirm with embarrassment and giggle with laughter, there is this exchange:

It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.

“You are too hasty, Sir,” she cried. “You forget that I have made no answer. Let me do it without farther loss of time. Accept my thanks for the compliment you are paying me, I am very sensible of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than decline them.”

“I am not now to learn,” replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the hand, “that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second or even a third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.”

“Upon my word, Sir,” cried Elizabeth, “your hope is rather an extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal. — You could not make me happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who would make you so, — Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the situation.”

Mr Collins’ complete refusal to take Elizabeth’s refusal seriously is amusing enough on its own, but an extra layer of humour is there in Elizabeth’s response for those who know what happens later.  Although she insists that “I am not one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second time” this is of course exactly what happens, unintentionally, between Elizabeth and Mr Darcy: she refuses his first proposal, eventually realises that in doing so she has thrown away her chance of happiness and then is given a second chance when he asks again.  Even though Elizabeth is not playing coy games in this latter instance, it provides another chance for the knowing reader to see Elizabeth’s prejudices in action and for Jane Austen to prove her heroine fallible; not only is she wrong about Mr Darcy and Mr Wickham, she is also wrong about herself.

This time around, I also found I was able to read more objectively rather than always siding with Elizabeth Bennet (always tempting with such an entertaining and likeable character).  On the first reading of this book, I followed Elizabeth’s lead exactly as Jane Austen (I think) intended, but on subsequent readings I have more knowledge of exactly how the plot develops than she does, and therefore it is impossible to fall in with her in quite the same way as I am looking out for different things.  Whereas before I found myself carried away with indignant reproach and Mr Darcy’s rejection of Elizabeth, this time I found his attraction towards her far more obvious throughout the book.  Although I loved reading the book and being thoroughly caught up in Elizabeth’s thoughts and feelings, I also enjoyed visiting it again with a greater distance between her opinions and my own and I think it makes Pride and Prejudice a much more humorous, interesting and thoughtful book.  It is testament  Jane Austen’s great skill as a writer that I find all her books work in this way, offering more to me as a reader the more times I return to them.

There are so many things that I haven’t mentioned here: the wonderful comedic characters of Mrs Bennet and Lady Catherine, the sweet romance between Jane and Bingley, the dynamic that exists between the Bennet sisters.  There is so much to appreciate in this wonderful novel that I couldn’t possibly cover it all.  Needless to say, I think it is deserving of its status as both a classic and a popular novel.  I can’t wait to rediscover my next Austen now!

Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen.  Published by Virago, 1989,pp. 299.  Originally published in 1813.

When I noticed that a group read of all of Jane Austen’s novels was proposed for this year on LibraryThing I jumped at the chance to revisit these old friends again, chiefly because it gave me an excuse to buy myself copies of the Virago Modern Classics editions of the books.  Jane Austen isn’t an author that I automatically associate with the Virago Modern Classics imprint, mostly because (rightly or wrongly) I think of it as a press which rescues female authors from obscurity and Miss Austen is the very antithesis of obscurity.  However, on reflection, her work fits perfectly within Virago’s remit: it is intelligent fiction which focuses on the day to day lives of women and, although its subject matter is mundane, the writing transcends that to say far more than the story does.  Although I read this book last week, my review is ready just in time for Rachel and Carolyn‘s Virago Reading Week, and it’s done a marvellous job of reminding me quite how wide Virago’s range of authors is.

Purely by coincidence, I read Sense and Sensibility for the first time when I was the same age as Margaret Dashwood, for the second time when I was Marianne’s age and for the third time when I was Elinor’s age.  Now I’m reading it for the fourth time, and only the impending September nuptials stand prevent me from being an object of pity for being an unmarried spinster past my prime (at the grand old ago of twenty four, that is).  At Margaret’s age, most of the humour and subtlety of Austen’s wonderful writing went way over my head, but I just about grasped the story and thought myself very grown up for doing so.  When I was Marianne’s age I was far more open to Austen’s caustic wit but was unsatisfied with the plot, as the ending seemed a huge disappointment.  I wanted Willoughby to see the error of his ways, for him to beg Marianne to take him back, for Austen to somehow rid him of his inconvenient wife in a way which didn’t implicate him, and for Marianne to end up happily married to him as romance surely required.  At Elinor’s age I was no longer reading the book for pleasure but studying it as part of a required ‘Inventing the Novel’ first year English course at university.  This really brought Jane Austen’s writing skill alive for me and I appreciate having this critical background just as much as I appreciate having read the novel for the first time without it.  This is the context in which I approached my most recent reread of Sense and Sensibility.

 This is definitely the time that I’ve enjoyed the novel most.  It was a relief not to be reading along underlining passages with a pencil going, ”Behold!  Amusing social commentary!” and, “Ooh, irony!” but at the same time I was far more aware of all the different layers and literary devices which work to give the novel its delightful light yet serious tone which is so typically Austen.  Many critics find this much less polished in Sense and Sensibility than in her other novels, but I actually find I quite enjoy this; it is a book about passions, after all, so it seems appropriate that the writing style should be a little less tightly controlled than it might otherwise have been.  In particular, Sense and Sensibility conveys real, raw pain through Marianne, an emotion which I don’t think Jane Austen ever really covers again.  There is sorrow, displeasure, regret and gentle anguish such as Elinor displays, but never the wild outpouring of passion which she shows here.  Yes, it is melodramatic and overdone and yes, it can be seen at least partially a satire of the typical heroine of sensibility, but I have never had any doubt that Marianne’s suffering is real.

Because I was reading for pleasure this time, I was also far more aware of the individual characters, which somehow often fade into the background when studying a novel, odd as that may seem.  This time I thoroughly enjoyed watching Marianne behave like a typical teenager, alternating between being genuinely concerned at her suffering and rolling my eyes at her overblown ways of expressing it.  Her exclamation to Elinor which essentially boils down to,”You couldn’t possibly understand!  No one could ever understand my pain!” in particular had me grinning with recognition.  Although I have always loved Elinor herself, she is far less staid than I remember her.  I don’t think I’ve ever really noticed the incident where Edward appears wearing a ring containing a lock of hair and Elinor somehow convinces herself that the hair is hers, despite knowing intellectually that it can’t be, and I found this wishful thinking incredibly endearing.  The secondary characters were also more pronounced this time around: I greatly enjoyed Mrs Jennings’ unrefined warmth and kindness and found Fanny Dashwood and her weak husband completely odious.

The ending of the novel seemed much more appropriate this time around too.  Previously I had thought that she merely settles for Colonel Brandon and so I didn’t really believe in her happiness, and while I still think that she settles, it made sense to me this time.  Marianne spends much of the novel talking about how she doesn’t believe in second marriages and romances, so it seems logical that she wouldn’t hold out for another love match after her experiences with Willoughby.  Instead she vows to spend the rest of her life devoting herself to her family, and the thing most likely to make them happy is to do what they think best for her and to marry Colonel Brandon.  Because Marianne isn’t a character to do anything by halves, it similarly makes sense that her regard for her husband should eventually turn into love and that she should be happy with him.  It is not a spectacular romance, but that would have been at odds with the way the novel develops and indeed with Marianne’s character.

Ask any reader of Jane Austen what their favourite of her novels is and it’s unlikely that the answer will be Sense and Sensibility.  I know it’s not my favourite, but that doesn’t stop me from loving it and from finding something new to appreciate in it each time I revisit it.

Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen.  Published by Virago, 1989, pp. 279.  Originally published in 1811.