Pride and Prejudice: A Rant

Disclaimer: Everything you are about to read is a lie. Except for the bits that aren't.

I had the misfortune, last semester, of re-reading Pride and Prejudice. I had the further misfortune of reading it in my school's honors program, a program which contains far more women than men. According to my roommate's political science professor, if you don't like Jane Austen, then there's something wrong with your soul. Well, if that's the case, then the male/female ratio in hell will be the precise opposite of what it is in my college's honors program. Yes, I know that I just made a sweeping generalization. It's a reasonably accurate one. It's just easier to find women who like Pride and Prejudice. The real question to ask is why this is so. Fool that I am, I attempted to answer.

WIth the first steps of my quest I immediately smacked headfirst into the first of several paradoxes. If Elizabeth Bennet's flaw is to deliberately misunderstand people, then mine is to see things as they actually are. The medication helps, but it doesn't help much, particularly when confronted with the reality of Pride and Prejudice. Sorry, ladies, but this is a book about bad teeth, frilly dresses, vacant expressions, and vacant heads behind them. If it were a horse, most of us would shoot it and put it out of its misery. What could possibly compensate for this abysmal content?

As I clung grimly to sanity through my re-reading, I found the answer already rattling around in my head. Imagine a snippet of dialogue, any snippet from any character. What immediately stands out? That's right, folks. A British accent. Pride and Prejudice contains characters with the two most desirable qualities possible in a man: an unholy amount of money (albeit measured in enigmatic "pounds") and a British accent. I can say, "The dog is vomiting a dead frog onto the couch," and, if I have a British accent, that statement will sound philosophical, perhaps downright brilliant. I sound like I'm wearing a dinner jacket and can tell the difference between Orange Pekoe and Earl Grey just by the splash they make upon entering the teapot. In my Midwestern Flat, the statement sounds like I'm holding a piece of pizza in one hand and the remote control in the other.

Imagine, men, how any sensible woman will picture herself in the above situation. If married to the Brit, she will gesture languidly and a servant will remove the frog parts from the couch, the dog from the room, and the gold-edged porcelain from the mahogany table. Then she will comment on the weather and take a walk in her garden the size of Rhode Island (the garden the size of Delaware is at her other house). Married to me, she gets to clean the frog up herself while I try to remember if the Colts game is on ESPN or ESPN2 because, of course, American men are all idiots. The dog, meanwhile, is eating one of her shoes in the background. Her garden consists of a box attached to the window. Just as she sighs in resignation, she realizes that the frog isn't actually dead yet.

In short, frilly dresses and social inequality aside, Pride and Prejudice offers a glimpse into an idyllic existence that a sane human might choose after four martinis and an infusion of LSD. I mean, think about it. No ESPN? No ESPN2? Not a sports fan, you say. Okay, fine. What about indoor plumbing, hm? What about central air conditioning? Are you really willing to give all that up, ladies, for a British accent? Thanks, I'd choose to clean up the frog. At least when I finish I can order more pizza.

So it's not just the accent. Maybe Mr. Darcy is richer than Bill Gates and has a nicer house. But so what? Like Bill Gates, Mr. Darcy can't exactly buy you a Mac. What good is 15,000 pounds a year when you can only buy cricket bats and pianos? I like pianos as much as the next chap and I have no idea what cricket is, but remember that money is only as good as what it can afford. Darcy can buy you a carriage? I can buy you a Honda. Darcy can buy you a cricket bat? Wii tennis, bowling, and golf. Darcy can buy you one of those absurd little parasols? I can buy you dental care.

But reason, I acknowledge, begins to break down once the British become involved. I could present the following arguments and all Mr. Darcy would have to do is say, "Well, now he's a strange fellow, isn't he?" and I'd have to flee the room to avoid the rush toward him. My sole consolation would be his probable death beneath the collective swoon.

But just as I thought I'd found the answer to this little book's appeal, I hit another snag. British accents might explain why people love the characters, but what about the book's lack of plot? "Oh, it has a plot," my sister shouts from across the room, brandishing a meat cleaver. I have to admit that something happens between front and back covers, but it just doesn't make sense. Here is a summary of the "plot" of Pride and Prejudice.

1. Miss Bennet meets Mr. Darcy. They hate each other.

2. Mr. Darcy proposes to Miss Bennet. She tells him to stuff it.

3. Miss Bennet seeks reconciliation. They marry.

Everything else is window dressing to make this ending seem plausible and happy. Why else would Austen include no fewer than five Miss Bennets? Jane, Elizabeth, Lydia, Mary, and Kitty are referred to interchangeably as "Miss Bennet" throughout the book, a scenario that, in the real world, would likely result in several instances of tax fraud and possibly accidental polygamy. In the book, however, the reader is treated to the illusion that stuff is happening that matters, an illusion shattered only in the last few pages. It's like playing blackjack in Vegas. You see a lot of movement as you play the game, but in the end, you lose. The process is fun while it lasts, but it leaves you empty. And if you're caught counting Miss Bennets and realize that the game is tilted, there is a helpful man with a Black & Decker cordless drill and a 1-1/4 inch spade bit waiting out back to explain the situation to your kneecaps. In most men's case, this figure is represented by a wife or girlfriend. Try to claim that most of the book is wholly irrelevant, and you'll be sleeping on the couch for a week, probably with the dog and the still-twitching remains of the frog.

Having thought about this carefully and while nursing my injuries, I've concluded that (1) martial arts training is useless when hitting your meat-cleaver wielding sister is considered unchivalrous and (2) a lack of normal plot is exactly what some women love about Pride and Prejudice. Everything just sort of works out through the altruism and the boundless wealth of Mr. Darcy. Why go through a long and convoluted process when a British accent, a heap of money, and soft heart can fix anything? If a guy had written this book, Darcy would have challenged Wickham to a duel, won, and then "accidentally" reloaded and shot Mrs. Bennet, too. The narrative arc would have actually crested instead of slouching into cozy apathy.

But, no, the story just sort of ends without clear explanation for the fundamental shift in Darcy's character or Elizabeth's. Pride and Prejudice, as it happens, offers something better than a plot: witty dialogue. This is one point I have to concede, though in a way I'd rather saw my own leg off. Yes, the book is funny. But should it be? We snicker at the pomposity of Lady Catherine, but overlook the fact that she probably escaped from Dante's Inferno. Oh, Mr. Bennet is quick on the draw with cutting witticisms, but he completely fails every reasonable test for parenting ability. If we think for a few minutes about what these characters are saying, we quit laughing and starting wincing. It's like eating bacon for breakfast, commenting on how delicious it is, and then looking into your young son's eyes. Those eyes that are peering at you over the cover of Charlotte's Web. A single tear forms in his eye and trickles out of sight down a cheek. And you realize, deep in your soul, that you are going to hell for eating bacon.

Well, that's why women love this book. But why do so many guys hate it? I mean, come on, most of us are willing to negotiate on plot in exchange for explosions, we couldn't care less about terrible things happening to fictitious people (as long as it's funny), and, back then, you had servants to bring you your beer. Talk about setting! So what gives, guys? After much soul-searching, I finally found my soul, dusted it off, pried it open with a crowbar, rinsed it out, and found the answer. Despite all the absurdities of Pride and Prejudice, we feel threatened by it.

Now, I know that you want to stop reading right now and go grill something to prove your masculinity, but hear me out. Face it. How are we supposed to compete with the likes of Darcy and Bingley? Darcy is kind of a starched shirt and Bingley is just a little bit stupid, but the throngs of female Austenites don't seem to mind. These men have money, they have estates, they have looks, they have everything. So they get the girls. And we get left out in the cold. Deep inside every married woman is a little voice that's always saying, "Gee, my guy is alright, but if only he were a bit more like Mr. Darcy. And if only he didn't snore. I don't think that Mr. Darcy would snore. And he wouldn't leave his nosehair trimmers on the bathroom counter." Well, where am I supposed to put the trimmers, eh? And you leave your curlers on the...but I digress.

Fortunately, we have options. Men, you can save yourselves from marginalization. Women, you need not be slaves to a false ideal. Here is our only hope: to make the English accent unsexy. Rendered inflectionally-unattractive, the phrase "I expected at least that the pigs were got into the garden" (yes, that's a direct quote) has no appeal whatsoever. We can put this book to rest and move on to real literature, like Clarke and Chesterton and Dostoevsky and Shakespeare (but only the plays where lots of people die). We can eradicate a full twenty percent of romantic comedies by this simple expedient. We can reclaim our supremacy and make Midwestern Flat the new standard in vocal appeal.

The silver bullet? Whenever you hear a British accent, either in person or in a recording, whip out a photograph of Jabba the Hutt, Rosie O'Donnell, or the cast of Troll 2. Show everyone in the room. The gradual association of the the British accent with these figures will swiftly reduce it to the status of Homer Simpson: recognizable, but still slightly disgusting. Is this harsh? Yes, but desperate times call for desperate measures. Besides, the only other option I could think of involved nuclear weapons.

Maybe there is something wrong with my soul, but at least I don't live while pining for manors and liveried servants. I don't even like liver. Pride and Prejudice just needs to be taken down a peg. Excuse me, I need to quit typing. My sister just walked in carrying a box with "Remington" on the side.