"Ungrateful is a Strong Word": Father's Day Post

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Father's Day Post:  "Ungrateful is a Strong Word"

   For Father's Day, I just have one little thought to share: two of Austen's heroes, Henry Tilney and Edmund Bertram, are particularly prone to correcting their heroine's word usage. Have you noticed?  Here are some examples:

    In Mansfield Park, Edmund asks Fanny what she thinks about Mary Crawford's sarcastic remarks about her uncle at dinner the night before:
    “I thought you would be struck, (says Edmund]. It was very wrong; very indecorous."
    “And very ungrateful, I think.” [says Fanny]
​    “Ungrateful is a strong word. I do not know that her uncle has any claim to her gratitude; his wife certainly had; and it is the warmth of her respect for her aunt’s memory which misleads her here."

   In Northanger Abbey, Catherine asks Henry and his sister, "But now really, do not you think Udolpho the nicest book in the world?”

    “The nicest—by which I suppose you mean the neatest. That must depend upon the binding.”
    “Henry,” said Miss Tilney, “you are very impertinent. Miss Morland, he is treating you exactly as he does his sister. He is forever finding fault with me, for some incorrectness of language, and now he is taking the same liberty with you. The word ‘nicest,’ as you used it, did not suit him; and you had better change it as soon as you can, or we shall be overpowered with Johnson and Blair all the rest of the way.”
    “I am sure,” cried Catherine, “I did not mean to say anything wrong; but it is a nice book, and why should not I call it so?”

  I'm pretty certain that some male in Jane Austen's life--perhaps her father, perhaps her older brother James, perhaps her brother Henry--or all three—​had this tendency of insisting on precision of language. I think this was a part of every day discourse in the Austen household; especially when we consider that Rev. George Austen was a schoolmaster and their home was a boarding school. I think we can hear one of the Austen men speaking here...​

Rev. George Austen

   “Very true,” said Henry, “and this is a very nice day, and we are taking a very nice walk, and you are two very nice young ladies. Oh! It is a very nice word indeed! It does for everything. Originally perhaps it was applied only to express neatness, propriety, delicacy, or refinement—people were nice in their dress, in their sentiments, or their choice. But now every commendation on every subject is comprised in that one word.”
    “While, in fact,” cried his sister, “it ought only to be applied to you, without any commendation at all. You are more nice than wise..."

   Whereas some readers might find this tendency to lecture on correct word use irksome, it would have different associations for Austen. She loved her father and brothers. And it is a truth universally acknowledged that the quirks of people we love are endearing, whereas the quirks of those we dislike are unbearably aggravating. 
    Not everybody is a Henry Tilney fan. But I don't think Austen intended for readers to dislike Henry for teasing Catherine about her use of the word "torment" when discussing home schooling:

   “That little boys and girls should be tormented,” said Henry, “is what no one at all acquainted with human nature in a civilized state can deny; but in behalf of our most distinguished historians, I must observe that they might well be offended at being supposed to have no higher aim, and that by their method and style, they are perfectly well qualified to torment readers of the most advanced reason and mature time of life. I use the verb ‘to torment,’ as I observed to be your own method, instead of ‘to instruct,’ supposing them to be now admitted as synonymous.”

   Then there is this passage in Mansfield Park, where Edmund corrects not only Fanny's language, but her thinking. This suggests to me that ideas were discussed in the Austen household. Austen contrasts this kind of education with the education received by the Bertram girls. Maria and Julia memorize dates and facts, they are not in the habit of studying moral philosophy.

   “Oh! never, never, never! he never will succeed with me.” And she spoke with a warmth which quite astonished Edmund, and which she blushed at the recollection of herself, when she saw his look, and heard him reply, “Never! Fanny!—so very determined and positive! This is not like yourself, your rational self.” 
​    “I mean,” she cried, sorrowfully correcting herself, “that I think I never shall, as far as the future can be answered for; I think I never shall return his regard.”

     I have nothing to say in Edmund's defense: he is at his most pedantic, clueless, and tone-deaf here. Fanny is stressed and upset. Is this the time to be nit-picking at Fanny's word choices?  But sure, let's tell Fanny she's being irrational. That always soothes a woman's ruffled feelings. 
       I'm not an expert on this, but I think there is a complete set of beliefs underlying this exchange, based on British Empiricism. Edmund is saying that a rational being should "never say never" because reason, reflection, and revelation (new evidence) can change your opinions. Edmund and Fanny know what he is referring to because he gave her the books to read and they discussed them together. I think Jane Austen was also exposed to the writings of the British philosophers such as John Locke through her father, and her educated readers would be familiar with them as well.
​       Thus corrected, Fanny knuckles under! She sorrowfully corrects herself. 
      Although Edmund does not come off very well in this exchange, I think these recurring conversations about word usage give us an insight into Jane Austen's upbringing; in the Austen home, language and the ability to express yourself with clarity and elegance was noticed and rewarded with parental attention, word play was a popular pastime enjoyed by the entire family, and corrections were given with love and a dash of playful humour.

Update 2023: I was re-listening to an audio version of Sense and Sensibility. On every re-listening, I become more aware of Elinor's snarky remarks toward Marianne and Willoughby. In fairness, the only release for her feelings available to Elinor, given her strict notions of behaviour, is to snark at her nearest and dearest. But what I suddenly released is that Elinor is a female version of Edmund or Henry. She is always setting Marianne right, very often with a touch of sarcasm as in this exchange between Elinor, Marianne and Willoughby when they are discussing Colonel Brandon. 

    “My protégé, as you call him, [says Elinor] is a sensible man; and sense will always have attractions for me. Yes, Marianne, even in a man between thirty and forty. He has seen a great deal of the world; has been abroad, has read, and has a thinking mind. I have found him capable of giving me much information on various subjects; and he has always answered my inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good nature.”
     “That is to say,” cried Marianne contemptuously, “he has told you, that in the East Indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are troublesome.”
     “He would have told me so, I doubt not, had I made any such inquiries, but they happened to be points on which I had been previously informed.”
    “Perhaps,” said Willoughby, “his observations may have extended to the existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins.”
      “I may venture to say that his observations have stretched much further than your candour."

     I really believe that Jane Austen had at least one person like this in her life and, as I said before, their tendency to being sarcastic did not bother her, because she loved and respected that person.​
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In A Different Kind of Woman, the final volume of my Mansfield Trilogy, Fanny actually pushes back when a man suggests she isn't thinking straight because she is unhappy.