This whole book could be devoted to Jane Austen’s use of dialogue. She uses it to develop her characters, to move the plot forward and of course for comedy and irony. As you get to know your characters, their voices will become consistent. Your readers should be able to distinguish between them by their vocabularies, the rhythm of their speech, the jokes they make, the way they interrupt other people, the things they go on about, the words they misuse, their slang and swearing (or the lack of it) and the way that they use words to bully, cajole, charm or protect themselves.
There is no substitute for reading your dialogue aloud to yourself so you can hear how naturalistic it sounds. Look critically at your work to check that individual characters’ voices are distinctive. If your characters are all from the same background, of the same age and from the same area, you’ll have to work hard to ensure that they don’t seem like clones of each other and quite possibly just different versions of yourself.
It’s impossible to mix up Sense and Sensibility’s Lucy and Anne Steele from their dialogue. Lucy is much cleverer and speaks in a more refined (and hatefully confiding and manipulative) way. Anne’s obsession with beaux is immediately apparent, and her accent and the way she blurts things out show her lack of insight into how to play the social games of the time. Lucy often tries to shut her sister up or turn the conversation.
This is from Elinor and Marianne’s first meeting with them in Chapter 21.
‘I have a notion,’ said Lucy, ‘you think the little Middletons rather too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is so natural in Lady Middleton; and for my part, I love to see children full of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet.’
‘I confess,’ replied Elinor, ‘that while I am at Barton Park, I never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence.’
A short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by Miss Steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now said rather abruptly, ‘And how do you like Devonshire, Miss Dashwood? I suppose you were very sorry to leave Sussex.’
In some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of the manner in which it was spoken, Elinor replied that she was.
‘Norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?’ added Miss Steele.
‘We have heard Sir John admire it excessively,’ said Lucy, who seemed to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.
‘I think every one must admire it,’ replied Elinor, ‘who ever saw the place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its beauties as we do.’
‘And had you a great many smart beaux there? I suppose you have not so many in this part of the world; for my part, I think they are a vast addition always.’
‘But why should you think,’ said Lucy, looking ashamed of her sister, ‘that there are not as many genteel young men in Devonshire as Sussex?’
‘Nay, my dear, I’m sure I don’t pretend to say that there an’t. I’m sure there’s a vast many smart beaux in Exeter; but you know, how could I tell what smart beaux there might be about Norland; and I was only afraid the Miss Dashwoods might find it dull at Barton, if they had not so many as they used to have. But perhaps you young ladies may not care about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with them. For my part, I think they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress smart and behave civil. But I can’t bear to see them dirty and nasty. Now there’s Mr Rose at Exeter, a prodigious smart young man, quite a beau, clerk to Mr Simpson, you know, and yet if you do but meet him of a morning, he is not fit to be seen. – I suppose your brother was quite a beau, Miss Dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich?’
‘Upon my word,’ replied Elinor, ‘I cannot tell you, for I do not perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word. But this I can say, that if he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for there is not the smallest alteration in him.’
‘Oh! dear! one never thinks of married men’s being beaux – they have something else to do.’
‘Lord! Anne,’ cried her sister, ‘you can talk of nothing but beaux; – you will make Miss Dashwood believe you think of nothing else.’ And then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the furniture.
This specimen of the Miss Steeles was enough. The vulgar freedom and folly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as Elinor was not blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want of real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish of knowing them better.
Jane Austen uses the Steeles to contrast with the elder Dashwood sisters. Marianne often gushes and can talk nineteen to the dozen with Willoughby, while Elinor is very measured in what she says. Elinor can be stern, is more sensible than her own mother and, like Lucy Steele, tries to curb her sister’s effusions. The speech of their little sister, Margaret, is convincingly and charmingly done; she too can’t help saying what she thinks.
Here is Marianne in full flood to her mother in Chapter 3.
‘Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet – he is not the kind of young man – there is a something wanting – his figure is not striking; it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man who could seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides all this, I am afraid, Mama, he has no real taste. Music seems scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor’s drawings very much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their worth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover, not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be united. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm us both. Oh! Mama, how spiritless, how tame was Edward’s manner in reading to us last night! I felt for my sister most severely. Yet she bore it with so much composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep my seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such dreadful indifference!’
‘He would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose. I thought so at the time; but you would give him Cowper.’
‘Nay, Mama, if he is not to be animated by Cowper! – but we must allow for difference of taste. Elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she may overlook it, and be happy with him. But it would have broken my heart, had I loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility. Mama, the more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so much! He must have all Edward’s virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his goodness with every possible charm.’
Marianne is often effusive, but she can’t always be bothered to talk to people and leaves Elinor to make the required social effort. It isn’t just what your characters say; the times when they say very little or choose not to speak are important too.
From the moment we see John Thorpe in Northanger Abbey we can guess that he’s a wrong ’un. He boasts and bores on about driving, routes and mileage. Catherine begins to notice that he is always contradicting himself, and this, his boasting and his swearing are all indicators to the reader that he is not to be trusted. On the other hand the lovely Henry Tilney can drive much better than John Thorpe and without any of the swearing and boasting. His conversation is always interesting.
EXERCISE: TRAPPED IN A VEHICLE
Catherine Morland is tricked into going out with John Thorpe in his gig. Emma Woodhouse gets trapped with Mr Elton on the way back from a Christmas party, and it is hard to escape his advances inside the carriage. Write a scene in which one of your characters is trapped, perhaps in a vehicle, with a person they really don’t want to be with. In this exercise concentrate on the dialogue. Your characters will be doing other things too – driving, looking out of the window, checking their phones. Make sure you integrate their actions and gestures into the conversation.
Mrs Norris is the worst bully in all Jane Austen’s work. She resents and tyrannizes Fanny Price, denying her heating in her room, sending her on unnecessary errands and constantly belittling her. Mrs Norris perhaps realizes that her position and Fanny’s at Mansfield Park are very similar and so wants to reinforce her superiority. Fanny cannot protest – she is younger and must act respectfully and is far too frightened to speak out anyway. The slights and put-downs are incessant. Whatever Fanny does is wrong. Here (Chapter 23) Aunt Norris is in full flood when Fanny is invited to dinner by Mrs Grant. Mrs Norris gets in a criticism of the Grants and tries to dampen Fanny’s spirits further by saying that it will rain and she must put up with a soaking. She wants Fanny to be always ‘the lowest and last’.
‘Upon my word, Fanny, you are in high luck to meet with such attention and indulgence! You ought to be very much obliged to Mrs Grant for thinking of you, and to your aunt for letting you go, and you ought to look upon it as something extraordinary; for I hope you are aware that there is no real occasion for your going into company in this sort of way, or ever dining out at all; and it is what you must not depend upon ever being repeated. Nor must you be fancying that the invitation is meant as any particular compliment to you; the compliment is intended to your uncle and aunt and me. Mrs Grant thinks it a civility due to us to take a little notice of you, or else it would never have come into her head, and you may be very certain that, if your cousin Julia had been at home, you would not have been asked at all.’
Mrs Norris had now so ingeniously done away all Mrs Grant’s part of the favour, that Fanny, who found herself expected to speak, could only say that she was very much obliged to her aunt Bertram for sparing her, and that she was endeavouring to put her aunt’s evening work in such a state as to prevent her being missed.
‘Oh! depend upon it, your aunt can do very well without you, or you would not be allowed to go. I shall be here, so you may be quite easy about your aunt. And I hope you will have a very agreeable day, and find it all mighty delightful. But I must observe that five is the very awkwardest of all possible numbers to sit down to table; and I cannot but be surprised that such an elegant lady as Mrs Grant should not contrive better! And round their enormous great wide table, too, which fills up the room so dreadfully! Had the doctor been contented to take my dining-table when I came away, as anybody in their senses would have done, instead of having that absurd new one of his own, which is wider, literally wider than the dinner-table here, how infinitely better it would have been! and how much more he would have been respected! for people are never respected when they step out of their proper sphere. Remember that, Fanny. Five – only five to be sitting round that table. However, you will have dinner enough on it for ten, I dare say.’
Mrs Norris fetched breath, and went on again.
‘The nonsense and folly of people’s stepping out of their rank and trying to appear above themselves, makes me think it right to give you a hint, Fanny, now that you are going into company without any of us; and I do beseech and entreat you not to be putting yourself forward, and talking and giving your opinion as if you were one of your cousins – as if you were dear Mrs Rushworth or Julia. That will never do, believe me. Remember, wherever you are, you must be the lowest and last; and though Miss Crawford is in a manner at home at the Parsonage, you are not to be taking place of her. And as to coming away at night, you are to stay just as long as Edmund chuses. Leave him to settle that.’
‘Yes, ma’am, I should not think of anything else.’
‘And if it should rain, which I think exceedingly likely, for I never saw it more threatening for a wet evening in my life, you must manage as well as you can, and not be expecting the carriage to be sent for you. I certainly do not go home to-night, and, therefore, the carriage will not be out on my account; so you must make up your mind to what may happen, and take your things accordingly.’
Her niece thought it perfectly reasonable. She rated her own claims to comfort as low even as Mrs Norris could; and when Sir Thomas soon afterwards, just opening the door, said, ‘Fanny, at what time would you have the carriage come round?’ she felt a degree of astonishment which made it impossible for her to speak.
‘My dear Sir Thomas!’ cried Mrs Norris, red with anger, ‘Fanny can walk.’
‘Walk!’ repeated Sir Thomas, in a tone of most unanswerable dignity, and coming farther into the room. ‘My niece walk to a dinner engagement at this time of the year! Will twenty minutes after four suit you?’
‘Yes, sir,’ was Fanny’s humble answer, given with the feelings almost of a criminal towards Mrs Norris; and not bearing to remain with her in what might seem a state of triumph, she followed her uncle out of the room, having staid behind him only long enough to hear these words spoken in angry agitation –
‘Quite unnecessary! a great deal too kind! But Edmund goes; true, it is upon Edmund’s account. I observed he was hoarse on Thursday night.’
But this could not impose on Fanny. She felt that the carriage was for herself, and herself alone: and her uncle’s consideration of her, coming immediately after such representations from her aunt, cost her some tears of gratitude when she was alone.
Fanny Price keeps quiet about Mrs Norris’s dreadful bullying, and at least Sir Thomas tries to treat her kindly, but your character may be much more at the Elizabeth Bennet end of the spectrum. Have a look at the wonderful scene in Pride and Prejudice (Chapter 56) in which Lady Catherine arrives out of the blue aiming to bully Elizabeth into promising not to marry her nephew, Mr Darcy. Lady Catherine is rude to Elizabeth’s mother and rude about their house. She ensures that she gets Elizabeth by herself by asking to be shown around what she calls ‘a prettyish kind of a little wilderness on one side of your lawn’. It is as though the two women go out to a deserted place for a duel, a duel for which Elizabeth has had no time to prepare. We know that Lady Catherine has previously enjoyed Elizabeth’s company – when she was staying with Charlotte and Mr Collins Lady Catherine even tried to make her stay longer. The situation is very different now. Lady Catherine will have heard that Jane is to marry Mr Bingley, and rumours about Elizabeth and Mr Darcy must also have reached her. They are armed with parasols and words.
As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the following manner: –
‘You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I come.’
Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.
‘Indeed, you are mistaken, madam. I have not been at all able to account for the honour of seeing you here.’
‘Miss Bennet,’ replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, ‘you ought to know that I am not to be trifled with. But, however insincere you may chuse to be, you shall not find me so. My character has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most alarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told that not only your sister was on the point of being most advantageously married, but that you, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all likelihood, be soon afterwards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr Darcy. Though I know it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure him so much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to you.’
‘If you believed it impossible to be true,’ said Elizabeth, colouring with astonishment and disdain, ‘I wonder you took the trouble of coming so far. What could your ladyship propose by it?’
‘At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted.’
‘Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family,’ said Elizabeth coolly, ‘will be rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report is in existence.’
‘If ! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a report is spread abroad?’
‘I never heard that it was.’
‘And can you likewise declare, that there is no foundation for it?’
‘I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. You may ask questions which I shall not chuse to answer.’
‘This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?’
‘Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible.’
‘It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his reason. But your arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation, have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You may have drawn him in.’
‘If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it.’
‘Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world, and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns.’
‘But you are not entitled to know mine; nor will such behaviour as this ever induce me to be explicit.’
‘Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr Darcy is engaged to my daughter. Now, what have you to say?’
‘Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will make an offer to me.’
Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied,
‘The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy, they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of his mother, as well as of hers. While in their cradles, we planned the union: and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would be accomplished in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to the family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his tacit engagement with Miss de Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say, that from his earliest hours he was destined for his cousin?’
‘Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not be kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry Miss de Bourgh. You both did as much as you could in planning the marriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr Darcy is neither by honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?’
‘Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. Yes, Miss Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or friends if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and despised, by every one connected with him. Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by any of us.’
‘These are heavy misfortunes,’ replied Elizabeth. ‘But the wife of Mr Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine.’
‘Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that score?
Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came here with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will I be dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person’s whims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment.’
‘That will make your ladyship’s situation at present more pitiable; but it will have no effect on me.’
‘I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and my nephew are formed for each other. They are descended, on the maternal side, from the same noble line; and on the father’s, from respectable, honourable, and ancient – though untitled – families. Their fortune on both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of every member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them? The upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connexions, or fortune. Is this to be endured? But it must not, shall not be! If you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere in which you have been brought up.’
‘In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman’s daughter: so far we are equal.’
‘True. You are a gentleman’s daughter. But who was your mother? Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their condition.’
‘Whatever my connexions may be,’ said Elizabeth, ‘if your nephew does not object to them, they can be nothing to you.’
‘Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?’
Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but say, after a moment’s deliberation, ‘I am not.’
Lady Catherine seemed pleased.
‘And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?’
‘I will make no promise of the kind.’
Lady Catherine has decided that the confrontation will take place and then arranges for them to go alone into the ‘wilderness’. Her carriage and ‘waiting-woman’ remain at the door, as though for a quick getaway. During the conversation Elizabeth remains polite – she would lose face and moral advantage if she were deliberately rude – although her mettle is really tested, but she is able to parry all of Lady Catherine’s blows and also land many real stingers of her own, pointing out the ridiculousness of what her adversary is trying to do.
There is so much to take from this scene; apart, of course, from sheer enjoyment:
1.The words themselves. Sparkling, complex dialogue like this takes lots of polish to get right.
2.The differences in the way the characters speak and the length of their speeches. Lady Catherine does not know when to stop, and her invective and bullying appeals often run on for paragraphs; Elizabeth’s replies tend to be much shorter. Lady Catherine reveals herself as lonely and pompous. Although she is really upset by what Lady Catherine says, even though it is so obviously unjust and odious, Elizabeth shows that she is a match for anyone.
3.The pauses in the conversation. Readers as well as characters sometimes need to take stock or catch their breath to appreciate changes that have taken place or the impact of what has been said.
4.The stage directions we get. These are scant during this heated conversation. We are told that they are walking around the little wood. (There would have been paths; they aren’t stumbling through the undergrowth.) Lady Catherine says that they should sit down, but later it is Elizabeth who stands up and says that she wants to return to the house. There is power play in these movements too. Sometimes in conversations you need to supplement the speech with a lot of gestures or actions as your characters are not saying what they think, but here words are not spared (by Lady Catherine, anyway), and what is said communicates almost everything. In contrast, there is a scene in Chapter 34 of Mansfield Park in which Henry Crawford is being really quite nice, and Fanny’s actions, rather than her words, speak for her. She stops what she is doing and allows herself to listen to him reading and (almost) be charmed.
The reader will feel as out of breath as Elizabeth after this encounter. Jane Austen ends the scene and chapter swiftly with Lady Catherine’s carriage driving away and Elizabeth avoiding explaining anything to her mother. After such a scene of high drama you need to give the reader a moment to catch their breath and think about what has occurred. The next chapter begins with Elizabeth considering the implications of Lady Catherine’s visit. She is then called to talk to her father, who has received a letter from Mr Collins. This letter concerns Jane’s engagement to Mr Bingley and also warns Elizabeth against marrying Mr Darcy as this would go against Lady Catherine’s wishes. Mr Bennet wants Lizzy to laugh with him at the ridiculousness of the suggestion that she and Mr Darcy might marry. They are very used to laughing together at the follies of others, but poor Elizabeth is plunged into further confusion and doubt. The chapter ends thus:
‘Oh!’ cried Elizabeth, ‘I am excessively diverted. But it is so strange!’
‘Yes; that is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man it would have been nothing; but his perfect indifference, and your pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate writing, I would not give up Mr Collins’s correspondence for any consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving him the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?’
To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had been asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by his repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by what he said of Mr Darcy’s indifference, and she could do nothing but wonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of his seeing too little, she might have fancied too much.
Note the way that Jane Austen shifts the mood between scenes and chapters. You may find it helpful to think of the different moods in terms of colours and imagine your pages coloured as you work. How will the mood contrasts work? Do you have enough contrasts? Once you have a draft, try drawing lines in the margins with different coloured pens to indicate different moods. Do this for your whole draft using one colour for each character so that you can see if somebody is dominating in a way you didn’t intend or disappearing for so long that the reader will forget who they are. You should also use different colours for particular types of writing – dialogue, exposition, passages of description, places where you are dwelling in a character’s thoughts (quite possibly for too long) and so on.
The words spoken by Jane Austen’s female characters are so revealing because she was writing at a time when the way women were able to act was heavily circumscribed. Women’s words therefore often had to speak louder than their actions. Of course some women – those richer, more powerful and more confident than the majority – were relatively free to do what they wanted.
Emma’s rudeness to Miss Bates at the Box Hill picnic shows how she has fallen under Frank Churchill’s malign influence. In Mansfield Park, if Edmund Bertram had paid proper attention to what the beguiling Mary Crawford said, he wouldn’t have fallen so under her spell. Fanny Price would never have made risqué jokes or spoken disparagingly of the Church. It takes Edmund the whole of the novel to realize that Fanny and not Mary is right for him, although in Chapter 6 he is shocked by Mary Crawford’s joke.
‘Miss Price has a brother at sea,’ said Edmund [. . .]
‘At sea, has she? In the king’s service, of course?’
Fanny would rather have had Edmund tell the story, but his determined silence obliged her to relate her brother’s situation: her voice was animated in speaking of his profession, and the foreign stations he had been on; but she could not mention the number of years that he had been absent without tears in her eyes. Miss Crawford civilly wished him an early promotion.
‘Do you know anything of my cousin’s captain?’ said Edmund; ‘Captain Marshall? You have a large acquaintance in the navy, I conclude?’
‘Among admirals, large enough; but,’ with an air of grandeur, ‘we know very little of the inferior ranks. Post-captains may be very good sort of men, but they do not belong to us. Of various admirals I could tell you a great deal: of them and their flags, and the gradation of their pay, and their bickerings and jealousies. But, in general, I can assure you that they are all passed over, and all very ill used. Certainly, my home at my uncle’s brought me acquainted with a circle of admirals. Of Rears and Vices I saw enough. Now do not be suspecting me of a pun, I entreat.’
Edmund again felt grave, and only replied, ‘It is a noble profession.’
‘Yes, the profession is well enough under two circumstances: if it make the fortune, and there be discretion in spending it; but, in short, it is not a favourite profession of mine. It has never worn an amiable form to me.’
It isn’t just what your characters say that’s important; it’s how much or how little they say. In contrast to the fine-talking Frank Churchill, who has chattered and flirted his way around Highbury, Mr Knightley finds it hard to express the depth of his love for Emma (Chapter 49).
‘I cannot make speeches, Emma,’ – he soon resumed; and in a tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably convincing. – ‘If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am. – You hear nothing but truth from me. – I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it. – Bear with the truths I would tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The manner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend them. God knows, I have been a very indifferent lover. – But you understand me. – Yes, you see, you understand my feelings – and will return them if you can. At present, I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice.’
In Sense and Sensibility Marianne Dashwood finds Willoughby effortless to talk to, and he seems to share all her enthusiasms and opinions. It’s easy for her to get carried away, something that Elinor soon points out in Chapter 10:
‘Well, Marianne,’ said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, ‘for one morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained Mr Willoughby’s opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse? You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask.’
In Pride and Prejudice, if Elizabeth Bennet had stopped to think, she would have realized that Wickham was saying too much. Only with hindsight does she see that Wickham being so keen to dish the (fictitious) dirt on Mr Darcy should have rung alarm bells. Here they are at Elizabeth’s aunt’s in Chapter 16. Wickham immediately begins to ingratiate himself and to gauge what is known locally of Mr Darcy and himself. Elizabeth often feels that she shouldn’t ask more, that to do so would be indelicate, but whenever their conversation about Mr Darcy draws to a close, Wickham starts it up again. Elizabeth is hooked.
Mr Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, and on the probability of a rainy season, made her feel that the commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill of the speaker.
With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr Wickham and the officers, Mr Collins seemed likely to sink into insignificance; to the young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind listener in Mrs Philips, and was, by her watchfulness, most abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin.
When the card-tables were placed, he had an opportunity of obliging her in return, by sitting down to whist.
‘I know little of the game at present,’ said he, ‘but I shall be glad to improve myself, for in my situation of life—’ Mrs Philips was very thankful for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason.
Mr Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there seemed danger of Lydia’s engrossing him entirely, for she was a most determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets, she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets and exclaiming after prizes, to have attention for any one in particular. Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr Wickham was therefore at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told, the history of his acquaintance with Mr Darcy. She dared not even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity however was unexpectedly relieved. Mr Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far Netherfield was from Meryton; and after receiving her answer, asked in an hesitating manner how long Mr Darcy had been staying there.
‘About a month,’ said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject drop, added, ‘He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I understand.’
‘Yes,’ replied Wickham; – ‘his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself – for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy.’
Elizabeth could not but look surprized.
‘You may well be surprized, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday. – Are you much acquainted with Mr Darcy?’
‘As much as I ever wish to be,’ cried Elizabeth warmly. – ‘I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable.’
‘I have no right to give my opinion,’ said Wickham, ‘as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for me to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish – and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else. – Here you are in your own family.’
‘Upon my word I say no more here than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Every body is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by any one.’
‘I cannot pretend to be sorry,’ said Wickham, after a short interruption, ‘that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with him I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chuses to be seen.’
‘I should take him, even on my slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man.’ Wickham only shook his head.
‘I wonder,’ said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, ‘whether he is likely to be in this country much longer.’
‘I do not at all know; but I heard nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ——shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood.’
‘Oh! no – it is not for me to be driven away by Mr Darcy. If he wishes to avoid seeing me, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding him but what I might proclaim to all the world; a sense of very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him any thing and every thing, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father.’
Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented further inquiry.
Mr Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter especially, with gentle but very intelligible gallantry.
‘It was the prospect of constant society, and good society,’ he added, ‘which was my chief inducement to enter the ——shire. I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me farther by his account of their present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintance Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits will not bear solitude. I must have employment and society. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The church ought to have been my profession – I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now.’
‘Yes – the late Mr Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere.’
‘Good heavens!’ cried Elizabeth; ‘but how could that be? – How could his will be disregarded? – Why did not you seek legal redress?’
‘There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Mr Darcy chose to doubt it – or to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence, in short, any thing or nothing. Certain it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done any thing to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion of him, and to him, too freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sorts of men, and that he hates me.’
‘This is quite shocking! – He deserves to be publicly disgraced.’
‘Some time or other he will be – but it shall not be by me. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose him.’
Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than ever as he expressed them. [. . .]
‘What sort of a girl is Miss Darcy?’ [Elizabeth goes on to ask]
He shook his head. – ‘I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother – very, very proud. – As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and, I understand, highly accomplished. Since her father’s death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her education.’
This scene is so skilfully done that a lucky reader new to the novel will follow Elizabeth’s point of view and very likely believe the tall tales of Mr Darcy’s dastardliness. The way Wickham talks about Georgiana Darcy, whom he has just tried to seduce through what we would now call grooming and abduction, is particularly odious.
In Sense and Sensibility we see the same sort of manipulative confiding practised by Lucy Steele on Elinor Dashwood. Sensing that she is a threat to her hold over Edward Ferrars, Lucy tells Elinor – whom she hardly knows – about their secret engagement.
DIALOGUE, ACTION AND MISUNDERSTANDINGS
One of the key skills in writing dialogue is conveying what is understood and misinterpreted. Emma, with its riddles and mistakes, is Jane Austen’s masterclass in this area. In Chapter 9 we learn that Harriet Smith is ‘collecting and transcribing all the riddles of every sort that she could meet with, into a thin quarto of hot-pressed paper, made up by her friend, and ornamented with cyphers and trophies. In this age of literature, such collections on a very grand scale are not uncommon. Miss Nash, head-teacher at Mrs. Goddard’s, had written out at least three hundred; and Harriet, who had taken the first hint of it from her, hoped, with Miss Woodhouse’s help, to get a great many more.’1
Emma can solve the riddle that Mr Elton leaves them (‘Courtship’) but thinks that it is meant for Harriet and not for her. The scene where the characters look at the painting Emma has done of Harriet is excellent as a study of how to structure a scene and show the different ways that people interpret things. People very rarely do nothing when they are talking; even if it is just examining their fingernails or looking over the shoulder of the person they are meant to be listening to, they almost always do something. In one of my favourite Raymond Carver short stories, Boxes, the narrator is on the phone, having a difficult conversation with his mother, but all the while he is looking out of a window, watching a man up a ladder fixing telephone wires.
Think about what your characters do in each scene and how that affects their dialogue. It often helps a scene to give them some time-limited activity – anything from making an omelette to watching a football match. Jane Austen used all sorts of things to structure her scenes – dances, card games, walks, meals, carriage rides, trips to the theatre. The action and dialogue work together. In the eighteenth and nineteenth century social visits followed a strict etiquette, so her readers would have known that if a particular person came to call, they would stay for a certain amount of time.
Look at the way the characters misunderstand each other and also betray their true selves and feelings in this passage from Emma, Chapter 6. Emma shows Mr Elton some of the portraits she has already ‘taken’, ending with the one of her sister’s husband, John Knightley. She explains that she had vowed to give up painting portraits as her sister was so dismissive of her efforts . . . ‘But for Harriet’s sake, or rather for my own, and as there are no husbands and wives in the case at present, I will break my resolution now.’
Mr Elton seizes on what she has said and takes it as encouragement repeating,
‘No husbands and wives in the case at present indeed, as you observe. Exactly so. No husbands and wives,’ with so interesting a consciousness, that Emma began to consider whether she had not better leave them together at once. But as she wanted to be drawing, the declaration must wait a little longer.
She had soon fixed on the size and sort of portrait. It was to be a whole-length in water-colours, like Mr John Knightley’s, and was destined, if she could please herself, to hold a very honourable station over the mantlepiece.
The sitting began; and Harriet, smiling and blushing, and afraid of not keeping her attitude and countenance, presented a very sweet mixture of youthful expression to the steady eyes of the artist. But there was no doing any thing, with Mr Elton fidgetting behind her and watching every touch. She gave him credit for stationing himself where he might gaze and gaze again without offence; but was really obliged to put an end to it, and request him to place himself elsewhere. It then occurred to her to employ him in reading.
‘If he would be so good as to read to them, it would be a kindness indeed! It would amuse away the difficulties of her part, and lessen the irksomeness of Miss Smith’s.’
Mr Elton was only too happy. Harriet listened, and Emma drew in peace. She must allow him to be still frequently coming to look; any thing less would certainly have been too little in a lover; and he was ready at the smallest intermission of the pencil, to jump up and see the progress, and be charmed. – There was no being displeased with such an encourager, for his admiration made him discern a likeness almost before it was possible. She could not respect his eye, but his love and his complaisance were unexceptionable.
The sitting was altogether very satisfactory; she was quite enough pleased with the first day’s sketch to wish to go on. There was no want of likeness, she had been fortunate in the attitude, and as she meant to throw in a little improvement to the figure, to give a little more height, and considerably more elegance, she had great confidence of its being in every way a pretty drawing at last, and of its filling its destined place with credit to them both – a standing memorial of the beauty of one, the skill of the other, and the friendship of both; with as many other agreeable associations as Mr Elton’s very promising attachment was likely to add.
Harriet was to sit again the next day; and Mr Elton, just as he ought, entreated for the permission of attending and reading to them again.
‘By all means. We shall be most happy to consider you as one of the party.’
The same civilities and courtesies, the same success and satisfaction, took place on the morrow, and accompanied the whole progress of the picture, which was rapid and happy. Every body who saw it was pleased, but Mr Elton was in continual raptures, and defended it through every criticism.
‘Miss Woodhouse has given her friend the only beauty she wanted,’ – observed Mrs Weston to him – not in the least suspecting that she was addressing a lover. – ‘The expression of the eye is most correct, but Miss Smith has not those eyebrows and eyelashes. It is the fault of her face that she has them not.’
‘Do you think so?’ replied he. ‘I cannot agree with you. It appears to me a most perfect resemblance in every feature. I never saw such a likeness in my life. We must allow for the effect of shade, you know.’
‘You have made her too tall, Emma,’ said Mr Knightley.
Emma knew that she had, but would not own it, and Mr Elton warmly added,
‘Oh, no! certainly not too tall; not in the least too tall. Consider, she is sitting down – which naturally presents a different – which in short gives exactly the idea – and the proportions must be preserved, you know. Proportions, fore-shortening. – Oh, no! it gives one exactly the idea of such a height as Miss Smith’s. Exactly so indeed!’
‘It is very pretty,’ said Mr Woodhouse. ‘So prettily done! Just as your drawings always are, my dear. I do not know any body who draws so well as you do. The only thing I do not thoroughly like is, that she seems to be sitting out of doors, with only a little shawl over her shoulders – and it makes one think she must catch cold.’
‘But, my dear papa, it is supposed to be summer; a warm day in summer. Look at the tree.’
‘But it is never safe to sit out of doors, my dear.’
‘You, sir, may say any thing,’ cried Mr Elton, ‘but I must confess that I regard it as a most happy thought, the placing of Miss Smith out of doors; and the tree is touched with such inimitable spirit! Any other situation would have been much less in character. The naïveté of Miss Smith’s manners – and altogether – Oh, it is most admirable! I cannot keep my eyes from it. I never saw such a likeness.’
The next thing wanted was to get the picture framed; and here were a few difficulties. It must be done directly; it must be done in London; the order must go through the hands of some intelligent person whose taste could be depended on; and Isabella, the usual doer of all commissions, must not be applied to, because it was December, and Mr Woodhouse could not bear the idea of her stirring out of her house in the fogs of December. But no sooner was the distress known to Mr Elton, than it was removed. His gallantry was always on the alert. ‘Might he be trusted with the commission, what infinite pleasure should he have in executing it! he could ride to London at any time. It was impossible to say how much he should be gratified by being employed on such an errand.’
‘He was too good! – she could not endure the thought! – she would not give him such a troublesome office for the world’ – brought on the desired repetition of entreaties and assurances, – and a very few minutes settled the business.
Mr Elton was to take the drawing to London, chuse the frame, and give the directions; and Emma thought she could so pack it as to ensure its safety without much incommoding him, while he seemed mostly fearful of not being incommoded enough.
‘What a precious deposit!’ said he with a tender sigh, as he received it.
‘This man is almost too gallant to be in love,’ thought Emma. ‘I should say so, but that I suppose there may be a hundred different ways of being in love. He is an excellent young man, and will suit Harriet exactly; it will be an “Exactly so,” as he says himself; but he does sigh and languish, and study for compliments rather more than I could endure as a principal. I come in for a pretty good share as a second. But it is his gratitude on Harriet’s account.’
Sensible, tactful Mrs Weston points out that Harriet’s eyebrows and eyelashes aren’t quite as Emma has painted them. Mr Elton can see only perfection in Emma’s painting, perfection that Emma thinks he sees in Harriet. Mr Knightley tells Emma that she ‘has made her too tall’. It is as though he is commenting on all of Emma’s doings with Harriet Smith. Mr Woodhouse is worried that the Harriet in the picture will catch cold, sitting outdoors with only a little shawl over her shoulders. Given that his wife died very young, we can understand why he worries so much about everybody, but it is Mr Elton who says the most. He cannot praise the picture highly enough and offers to take the precious portrait to London to be framed. Emma can see that Mr Elton’s cloying words and behaviour are ‘too gallant’ but is convinced that his efforts are all for Harriet.
You are a writer, of course you have a notebook, but make sure that it is always with you so that you can jot down jokes or strange/cruel/witty things that you hear or that suddenly occur to you. Perhaps Jane heard a woman suggest to her husband that their daughter stop playing the piano because she had delighted people long enough . . .
1.Dialogue reveals. Sometimes a person says something that we remember because it seems so revealing or significant. Try using dialogue to move your plot forward while also showing the reader exactly what your characters are like. The characters may be speaking about something seemingly trivial or insignificant or making a joke like Mary Crawford. Write a scene where a seemingly insignificant conversation is anything but.
2.Bullies and manipulators. Write a scene in which a character is bullying or manipulating somebody else. Such scenes can be key in setting things up for the future and moving your plot on. Think Lucy Steele, Wickham, Lady Catherine and Mrs Norris.
3.Saying too much, saying very little and saying without words. Which of your characters are voluble? Which say very little? Remember that so much of a conversation is about gestures, actions and glances. Write a scene in which you pay particular attention to how much or how little is said and how meanings are conveyed in other ways.
4.Write a scene structured around a particular activity. Jane Austen often used dances, but you could have characters on a circular walk (as happens in Persuasion), eating a meal, making something, watching a play, film or some sport, getting their nails done . . . The possibilities are almost endless. Think about what you want to happen in the scene and what you want to be said. How will the activity affect the conversation? For example how would a ‘breaking-up’ conversation at a child’s birthday party differ from a breaking-up conversation taking place during a walk along a windswept beach?