Are Men Allergic to Pride and Prejudice?

With a number of notable exceptions, Pride and Prejudice seems heralded as a universally feminine phenomenon. My roommate’s father experiences reactive symptoms at the mention of Austen’s masterpiece. He reports, “My throat closes up and my eyes get puffy and swollen” when talking about the novel.

My family and three families of close friends used to drive into the mountains each winter to ski, snowboard and sled by day and then talk, eat and watch movies near a fire in the crisp evenings. During one of these annual symposiums, the four moms reserved the living room for an afternoon-long viewing of the BBC P&P. Quickly, the dads and children vacated the premises. When my father ventured back in the room four hours later, he exclaimed, “They’re still sitting in the same room! They haven’t moved.”

“No, I’m pretty sure she changed her dress,” another husband chuckled.

“Shhh!” The peanut gallery was shooed out for interrupting.

This brought me to the theory that Pride and Prejudice must prove a primarily feminine pleasure. Aren’t all men predisposed towards an Austen allergy?

When I was first getting to know my Mr. Darcy, the subject of Pride and Prejudice naturally surfaced. Assuming that all men cringed at period dramas in general, I felt fully prepared to make allowances for his dislike of the story—after all, this is a failing of the masculine race which merits some sympathy since they can’t really help it. Imagine my shock when he said that not only had he seen the movie, but it wasn’t really that repulsive.  

Though initially cynical of such an unbelievable communication, I was excessively glad that he could tolerate the concept with decent equanimity. (Sorry for sounding a bit pedantic and Mr. Collins-ish. What I meant to say was, THE MAN HAD SEEN MY MOVIE!).

Now that I’ve finished jumping up and down and have sat back at the desk, I can explain why this is so fantastic. This is because my first few encounters with this man sort of resembled Elizabeth and Darcy’s interactions. Granted, our story happened on a much smaller, less dramatic and more grounded manner, without balls, elopements and long dresses, but it was/is still great.

Jane Austen originally called her “own darling child” First Impressions and later changed the novel’s name to Pride and Prejudice. This first title aptly sums up Elizabeth and Darcy’s situation as well as my own. Elizabeth watches Darcy at the country dance and decides he is stuck-up, unsocial, rude and “in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men” (such a brilliant sentence).

Well, things weren’t that bad at first. But for a while, I didn’t really think that he talked. At all. And after an awkward attempt at simply squeaking “Hi,” I vowed never again to try being nice to guys and resolved that my true calling was that of becoming an old maid.

            God is a terrific comedy writer, and it wasn’t far into the very next semester that I toured his grounds at “Pemberley,” was more than a little interested and had intelligence sources reporting back that the “like” might be mutual.

There has never been any intense loathing, harsh judgment, rejected proposals or historical letters of explanation in our relationship as in Lizzy and Darcy’s. Yet, like Elizabeth Bennet, my first impressions adjusted. Just as she learns not to jump to a judgment and her confidence in the validity of her inklings suffers, I am consistently learning. Learning how to learn about differences and approaching his opinions with more humility about the certainty of my own. Lizzy and Darcy challenge each other to grow.

Perhaps that challenge sits at the essence of most relationships: the dare to test one another's opinions and learn from differences. One obvious difference proves the stereotypically masculine reaction to any Austen novel and the relatively predictable feminine appreciation of these books (I deal in generalizations of course, knowing many women who do not enjoy the genre and some men who do). Whether you adore Austen or require an EpiPen to help you recover from allergic shock, the point remains that differences of opinion present a choice between growing apart or learning something new.

Recently, my Dad—yes the same man with the insulting remarks about our beloved P&P—watched Sense and Sensibility to spend a morning with his wife. He also read a few of my blog posts about my excessively romantic and idealistic relation to Jane Austen. The learning should grow both ways, so I probably owe him a few baseball games.