Austen's ballroom, however, is most frequently a place of great, sometimes even giddy, joy; often this joy derives from the sheer enjoyment of physical movement, and of being accompanied by partners of the opposite sex. Austen's letters reveal that she herself delighted in dancing. On Monday, 24 December 1798, in a letter to her sister Cassandra, Austen described the exuberance she had experienced at a recent ball:
There were twenty dances, and I danced them all, and without any fatigue. I was glad to find myself capable of dancing so much, and with so much satisfaction as I did . . . . in cold weather and with a few couples I fancy I could just as well dance for a week together as for half an hour. (Letters)In Austen's ballrooms, men and women are likely to experience the exhilaration of rhythmical and communal physical movement, and the frustrations and occasional disappointments, as well as the moments of exuberancy, of dancing with a member of the opposite sex. The joy and physical release of the dance in Austen's novels is a point which Alison Sulloway emphasizes:
gardening, walking, and chaperoning dancing were the only exercises customarily sanctioned for women members of the minor gentry. . . . dancing relieved, of only temporarily, the accumulated stresses inherent in women's predicament even while it created other stresses.1 (143)It would be inaccurate to say that Burney's characters (with the possible exception of Madame Duval) actually enjoy themselves when they dance. Burney depicts an experience of pain and humiliation, not one of kinetic excitement. But the extent of the difference between the ballrooms of Burney and Austen does not end here, for each author, in some way, pictured her unique world, her unique vision of the "truth" as it was manifested in the ballroom.
If Burney sought to reassure herself and her readers that innocence and goodness would ultimately receive their just rewards, Jane Austen was not about to simplify life as she saw it. As is indicated by the narrator's "free indirect speech" in the opening of Pride and Prejudice, "truth" is not easily ascertained.2 While Burney's Lord Orville announces his virtue and nobility through his appearance and through the refinement of his presence, and while both Captain Mirvan and Madame Duval are immediately recognizable as comical grotesques, Austen's narrative techniques frequently permit her readers a multi-layered view of characters and relationships. The first line of Pride and Prejudice serves as a prime example of the sort of irony and ambiguity we come to expect from Austen: "It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife," declares this narrator. While, for the most part, Evelina's letters home must be understood to represent that heroine's "real," if constrained, perceptions and experiences, we quickly discover that Austen's narrator is not nearly as straightforward.3 The second sentence of Pride and Prejudice lets us in on the ruse:
However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered as the rightful property of some one or the other of their daughters. (51)The irony of the passage--alleging, as it does, that "truth" makes a newly-arrived bachelor the property of some neighborhood family or other--alerts us to the dangers of assuming that Austen's narrator is reliably straightforward. In fact, it is most likely, given that Mrs. Bennet is the first character to speak in the novel, that the narrator, in this instance, represents the opinion of Mrs. Bennet. Moreover, at least by the end of the first chapter--if not even sooner--we have learned that "the business of [Mrs. Bennet's] life was to get her daughter's married," and it is at balls that she intends to accomplish this business.(53) That is her "truth," but it certainly does not represent Mr. Bennet's reality.
In much the same fashion, the narrator opens Chapter 29 of Emma with the broad ironic assertion that, "it may be possible to do without dancing entirely. Instances have been known of young people passing many, many months successively, without being at any ball of any description." But in point of fact, the reader soon understands that it is Frank Churchill--who "had danced once at Highbury, and longed to dance again,"--whose sentiments inform the passage: "when a beginning is made--when the infelicities of rapid motion have once been, though slightly, felt-- it must be a very heavy set that does not ask for more"(253). Mr. Knightley, though, would probably not agree. In his 1973 The Novels of Jane Austen: An Interpretation, Darrell Mansell refers to this aspect of Austen's narrative style as: "a description that has slid part of the way into the selecting, distorting consciousness of a character, but that is still slyly fobbing itself off as unimpeachably objective." Extending my examples of these narrative tactices to a more general statement about Austen's works is appropriate, I would argue, because all of Austen's novels pose a similar dilemma: if "reality" is different for different people, how are we finally to know the "truth"? Burney pictures a more frightening ballroom perhaps, but the "truth" within that ballroom is made immediately manifest, and although Evelina is an ill-informed country girl, her intuitions--even when thwarted--are always the right ones. Austen's "truths," like her ballrooms, are more complicated, though, for they involve characters whose motives and values are not so easily understood--their behaviors and feelings, in other words, are frequently more difficult to sort out. In fact, Elizabeth Bennet and Emma Woodhouse sometimes seem to stumble toward maturity: Austen's heroines do not ever immediately perceive the "truth." If we come to know the "truth" about Burney's characters almost immediately, it is because who they are as people is made vividly apparent in their actions and appearances. Austen's protagonists, though, frequently must overcome their initial faulty discernments in order to come to fuller understandings of one another.
In much the same fashion, the narrator opens Chapter 29 of Emma with the broad ironic assertion that, "it may be possible to do without dancing entirely. Instances have been known of young people passing many, many months successively, without being at any ball of any description." But in point of fact, the reader soon understands that it is Frank Churchill--who "had danced once at Highbury, and longed to dance again,"--whose sentiments inform the passage: "when a beginning is made--when the infelicities of rapid motion have once been, though slightly, felt-- it must be a very heavy set that does not ask for more"(253). Mr. Knightley, though, would probably not agree. In his 1973 The Novels of Jane Austen: An Interpretation, Darrell Mansell refers to this aspect of Austen's narrative style as: "a description that has slid part of the way into the selecting, distorting consciousness of a character, but that is still slyly fobbing itself off as unimpeachably objective." Extending my examples of these narrative tactices to a more general statement about Austen's works is appropriate, I would argue, because all of Austen's novels pose a similar dilemma: if "reality" is different for different people, how are we finally to know the "truth"? Burney pictures a more frightening ballroom perhaps, but the "truth" within that ballroom is made immediately manifest, and although Evelina is an ill-informed country girl, her intuitions--even when thwarted--are always the right ones. Austen's "truths," like her ballrooms, are more complicated, though, for they involve characters whose motives and values are not so easily understood--their behaviors and feelings, in other words, are frequently more difficult to sort out. In fact, Elizabeth Bennet and Emma Woodhouse sometimes seem to stumble toward maturity: Austen's heroines do not ever immediately perceive the "truth." If we come to know the "truth" about Burney's characters almost immediately, it is because who they are as people is made vividly apparent in their actions and appearances. Austen's protagonists, though, frequently must overcome their initial faulty discernments in order to come to fuller understandings of one another.
It is important to note, however, that Austen's heroines often do not see what her readers do. Many of Austen's characters, like Burney's, are immediately recognizable--recognizable for what they are, that is, by all who remain merely on-lookers. Readers are usually not taken in by Wickham, although Elizabeth Bennet, the central character in Pride and Prejudice, is, for a time. And, it might be assumed that many readers of Emma agree with Mr. Woodhouse's conclusion that Frank Churchill is "not quite the thing." But, both Elizabeth and Emma have reasons--intimate, emotional, subjective reasons--for perceiving their respective male admirers in more favorable lights. The difficulty, then, for Emma Woodhouse and Elizabeth Bennet is not simply that they are too naive to be able to make mature judgements about other, for usually appearances in Austen are not deceptive. As Austen apparently well knew, the difficulty in ascertaining the "truth" about life is that perceptions and interpretations are subjective. The subjective nature of truth is a frequent concern in Austen's fiction; such "truths" often make themselves gradually apparent to the heroines as they dance in Austen's early nineteenth-century ballrooms.
Because Austen's ballrooms, like those of Burney twenty years earlier, are arenas of significant cultural interchange, they serve as focal points for an investigation of these two heroines' gradual assimilation of "truth." Like Burney's ballrooms, Austen's are primary locations for mating arrangements to be initiated and transacted, for eighteenth-century and early nineteenth-century ballrooms were preeminently places of display. They were places where gentlemen and ladies knew themselves to be watched, and in turn, knew they would observe the conduct of others. In the preface to her 1991 From the Ballroom to Hell; Grace and Folly in Nineteenth-Century Dance, Elizabeth Aldrich makes much the same point with regard to the ballrooms of early nineteenth-century America:
It was precisely in the ballroom that ladies and gentlemen best demonstrated their mastery of . . . rules of etiquette and social intercourse. The ballroom was a microcosm of the society at large.(Preface)Austen's ballrooms provide us with these social "microcosms," and as such, they offer readers opportunities to explore the subjective nature of "truth." Burney's assemblies seem tortured in contrast, and the energies of the heroine suppressed and controlled; in Austen's ballrooms, though, emotions frequently are charged, joyful spirits abound and competitive energies become highly-wrought. Men and women are most on diplay in the ballrooms, and sometimes, their true natures are misread by those with whom their lives interconnect.
In her early novel, Northanger Abbey (probably written in 1798/9, but not published until 1817, after her death), Austen seems to highlight this pivotal role of dance in her society. In that novel, Henry Tilney, speaking with irony but with an ultimately serious intent, informs young Catherine Morland that the performance of a country-dance is "an emblem of marriage." Henry continues in much the same vein, in spite of Catherine's pragmatic, and highly symbolic naivete:
Fidelity and complaisance are the principal duties of both [country-dance and marriage]; and those men who do not chuse to dance or marry themselves, have no business with the partners or wives of their neighbors. . . . 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 is dissolution.(56-57)There is a subtle distinction expressed here between the ballroom in which Evelina finds herself and that described by Henry Tilney. It is worth pointing out that Tilney does believe women in the ballroom have some power, though it is but the power of refusal, and moreover, that he pictures the dance as a mutual engagement "between man and woman, formed for the advantage of each." That sense of some limited control is a recourse which Evelina clearly lacks; hers is a dance experience of powerlessness and even of victimization. Sulloway notes that dance in the novels of Austen "placed the two sexes in positiions of relative equality, since the steps of the dances were already patterned, and so the partners faced one another in positions of similar spatial dignity in the same public event"(143). Though the relative spatial equality is true of the dancers in Burney's novel, that sense of parity between the genders is not to be found. In Austen, however, men and women face each other somewhat squarely on, and begin to learn more about one another. It is thus that the dancers move onward toward marriage.
In noting the omnipresence of the courtship ritual, Richand Handler and Daniel Segal point out that in Austen's ballrooms--much as in Burney's--men and women produce coded messages for others' interpretation.4 In her ballrooms, Burney depicts not only the virtuous and gracefully elegant Lord Orville, but also a collection of fops whose outrageous acts of vanity diplay their "true" selves; she shows us, too, an unseemly minuet danced by Madame Duval which reveals that lady's barroom origins. Similarly, behavior, conduct, and self-diplay are "read" by Austen's characters who thereby make assessments of the relative class status of other dancers. Mrs. Elton, for instance, displays the limitations of her civility by arriving at the long-awaited ball at the Crown with every expectation that she should receive flattery:
Mrs. Elton was evidently wanting to be complimented herself--and it was, "How do you like my gown?--How do you like my trimming?--How has Wright done my hair?"--with many other relative questions, all answered with patient politeness. Mrs. Elton then said, "Nobody can think less of dress in general than I do--but upon such an occasion as this, when everybody's eyes are so much upon me, and in compliment to the Westons--who I have no doubth are giving this ball to do me honour--I would not wish to be inferior to others. And I see very few pearls in the room except mine."(321)Only Miss Bates pretends to be charmed, and if observers had any previous doubts, the "truth" about Mrs. Elton is now revealed. At the same ball, the veils seemingly are lifted from Harriet Smith's eyes and she is able to see that "Mr. Elton was not the superior creature she had believed him" (329). And if Mr. Elton, in his cruelly snubbing Harriet, truthfully presents himself as petty, pretentious, and vengeful, so too does Mr. Knightley reveal the true nobility of his soul--and of his education and training--by inviting the sadly rejected Harriet to partner him in a dance.
Both Pride and Prejudice and Emma make clear that the social fluidity which complicated life in Evelina is very much a part of Austen's social picture. In fact, the sort of social intermingling which had occurred under the "reign" of Beau Nash at Bath, continued and increased by the early nineteenth century. Lewis Melville, in his 1926 portrait of Beau Nash and Bath, indicates that the social life at Bath introduced a new sort of intermingling between the classes. Nash made deliberate attempts to counter any sort of snobbishness against tradespeople, manifested, for instance, in a lady's refusal to grasp the hand of a socially inferior partner. However, while Nash's catholic attitude may have been beneficial in bringing tradesmen's money to his Bath enterprise, Melville emphasizes that outside Bath, the social rules were different:
Nash's success in this respect was perhaps more apparent than real, since, for a long time to come, it was an understood thing--understood, that is, by the aristocracy--that an acquaintance made at the spa should not extend after that place was left.(55)Nevertheless, the floodgates of social intercourse had been opened and, as Mrs. Elton's "ill-bred" behavior demonstrates, such intermingling, once introduced, was not to be turned back. Mrs. Elton, neé Augusta Hawkins of Bath, arrives in Highbury with her nouveau riche tastelessness intact. Her assurances to Emma that Bath would be just the place for her, as a single woman, to meet bachelors, and that, further, she, Mrs. Elton, might secure for Emma's benefit the "best society in the place," cause our heroine some distress. In fact, Emma can barely restrain her own tendency toward impoliteness:
The idea of her being indebted to Mrs. Elton for what was called an introduction--of her going into public under the auspices of a friend of Mrs. Elton's, probably some vulgar dashing widow, who with the help of a boarder, just made shift to live!--The dignity of Miss Woodhouse, of Hartfield, was sunk indeed!(278)The social intercourse promoted by Nash's inclusive policy at Bath had found other early proponents, one of whom was Joseph Addison. In fact, in 1712, Addison promoted "complaisance" as a manner of behavior which "smooths Distinction" between society's "superior" sort and its "inferiors." It was the possibility of a harmonious intermingling of society that interested Addison:
In a word, Complaisance is a Virtue that blends all Orders of Men together in a Friendly Intercourse of Words and Actions, and is suited to that Equality in Human Nature which every one ought to consider, so far as is consistent with the Order and Oeconomy of the World.(16 Sept. 1712)Perhaps it is the blending of "all orders of men together" which is applauded by Addison in 1712 that, just over one hundered years later in Austen's Pride and Prejudice, confuses both Darcy and Elizabeth Bennet. The problem for this pair, writes David Monaghan, is that they are stuck in their preconceptions about class. Elizabeth believes, says Monaghan, that all aristocrats are snobs just as Darcy maintains that "anyone connected with trade must be vulgar and unworthy of respect" (61). Unfortunately, as Monaghan goes on to point out, their introductions to one another only confirm these initial faulty suspicions.
The "truth" about Darcy becomes clear to Elizabeth only gradually: he does not indulge in forms of civility capriciously. Elizabeth, intrigued by the handsome and aristocratic gentleman, but maintaining her proud resentment, refuses his invitations to dance, while for his part, Darcy finds himself increasingly intrigued by the forthrightness and "easy playfulness" of her manner. With each opportunity to meet her, Darcy's prejudice against her family increases; his ability to resist Elizabeth Bennet's honest vitality, however, decreases. At a large party held by Sir William Lucas, Elizabeth's family is revealed for all its lack of refinement, but Darcy is nevertheless invited by his host to honor that family with attentions to the second daughter. As Sir Lucas attempts, unsuccessfully, to engage Darcy in conversation, the charming Miss Bennet moves within their range of vision:
Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he [Sir Lucas] was struck with the notion of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to her,In spite of Darcy's respectful request "to be allowed the honour of her hand," Elizabeth's proud resistance remains unshaken. Darcy's true self begins to be revealed--to the reader--as he gradually alters his initial assessment of at least one member of the Bennet family. The fact is, Darcy does not agree with Miss Bingley who, attempting to worm her way into Darcy's affection, tried him on the theme of the general stupidity and inferiority of the assembled dancers. "I can guess the subject of your reverie," Miss Bingley suggests,
"My dear Miss Eliza, why are you not dancing?--Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner.--You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you." And taking her hand he would have given it to Mr. Darcy, who, though extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William,
"Indeed, Sir, I have not the least intention of dancing.--I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner."(72-73)
"You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner--in such society; and indeed I am quite of your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity and yet the noise; the nothingness and yet the self-importance of all these people!--What would I give to hear your strictions on them!"But Darcy does not hold himself aloof to such a degree. Instead, he responds,
"Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow."(73)On the next occasion at which the two central characters dance, the parrying continues. Elizabeth holds staunchly to the view that Darcy is a snob, and that he has been the cause of Wickham's life disappointments. Darcy, on the other hand, in spite of his arrogance, finds himself increasingly won over by her.
Langdon Elsbree, in his insightful analysis of the dance motif in all six of Austen's novels, reports that Pride and Prejudice is the one novel in which "dance is most important in revealing a character's class origins and values and in helping to create the initial rhythm. . . of the relationships among the main characters" (121). That is, at each successive ball, we see Jane Bennet and Mr. Bingley draw quickly and steadfastly towards one another--to be parted only by external circumstances--while Darcy and Elizabeth, like the country dancers described by Henry Tilney, move toward and away from one another, finally reuniting only at the close of the dance. Most of Elizabeth's necessary learning--her learning of the "truth"--occurs within, or within the context of, the ballroom. As Elsbree puts it:
Having thus delimited not only the Bennets but also Darcy and his social group primarily by means of the dance theme, Jane Austen can well afford to drop the motif until the moment of revelation, the moment when Elizabeth, reading Darcy's letter about the Netherfield ball, has to concede the justness of his charges about her family's improper, vulgar conduct.(121)The stalemate between these characters cannot be resolved until the two central characters reveal their willingness to learn more about the other's "truths," the other's picture of the world. For world pictures do differ, and a universal "truth" is that we must sometimes learn to see that picture of others' realities. According to Susan Morgan, the central point of the novel is that interpretation is a human concern. And, it is a problem because, while harmony comes from the sharing of viewpoints, unlicensed relativism is certainly not Austen's point either. Morgan writes: "to invoke universals is to live in a world of forms, to think with all the spaciousness and all the hollowness of preconceptions and thus withdraw from life in its demanding and inconclusive particularity" (
If Darcy and Elizabeth approach learning more about the "inconclusive particularity" of life in the ballrooms, much of Emma's revelation also occurs at dances. Elsbree comments that in Emma and the later novels, Austen modifies her use of the dance motif. Certainly, in Emma, dance reveals (and should to Emma) certain "truths" about individuals. But Emma, instead, persists thoughout much of the novel in "contriv[ing] to impose her highly idiosyncratic world upon the real one" (Elsbree 125). In fact, continues Elsbree, "one of the main comic functions performed by the dance motif is the contrasting of Emma's frivolous but viable affections and Frank's capricious, vexatious devotion with Knightley's steady, self-effacing, undeceived warmth" (131). For while the offensive vulgarity of Mrs. Elton announces itself to Emma immediately, she has more difficulty in perceiving that Frank Churchill's flattering attentions are not quite "the truth."
Part 2
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