For a brief couple of weeks at the turn of 2021, I detached myself from reality and decided I would live in a cottagecore fantasy come true. This time in my life - my gingham period - consisted mostly of scanning Etsy with word searches like “denim dress” and “parasol” and finding custom clothing designs for my avatar on Animal Crossing. But surprisingly, the most transportive outlet I found was rereading Pride and Prejudice.
I say surprising because Pride and Prejudice has never been an easy read for me. I first attempted it in sixth or seventh grade and almost every sentence was incomprehensible. Off and on, I’d come back to it and read a little more until I finally finished it in high school, having processed very little of what I’d read. I suppose now my brain developed or I’ve watched the BBC version enough times, because for the first time, I was actually able to read the book and not just pretend (to myself and the rest of the world) that I was reading the book.
Obviously, my temptation to read it was purely for the cottagecore appeal. I absolutely judge books by their covers and I have the fancy Penguin edition that has this cloth texture with some pattern that you could suppose would paper the walls of Longbourne. I may not own a beautiful garden overrun with ivy and wild roses, but reading this book could make me into a living Tumblr post.
And then . . . it was actually good? My brain clicked and adjusted to the old fashioned language, and I was intrigued enough by the characters that I wanted to learn the extra details of their lives, despite knowing the entire plot, and the best of the dialogue, by heart. The friendship between Lizzy and her aunt, Mrs. Gardiner, was particularly satisfying in a way that I’d never gotten from the miniseries.
But enough of this literary analysis. Sorry! This blog post is really about Bridgerton.
I started watching as I was about halfway through P&P. You already know what gratified me at face-value (NOT the sex scenes you perverts!). Aesthetics aside, the casting of POC and dramatic storylines were what I found exciting about the show. Disappointingly, the one-liners and witty banter don’t hold a candle to Austen’s own; often the show relied too heavily on echoes of famous dialogue. I found myself cringing when Lady Featherington referenced her nerves. While I appreciate the fandom accommodation, I found myself recognizing so many lines that the script began to reveal to me a lack of originality.
This is made up for by the salaciousness of each scandal that Whistledown reveals. Forget Lydia and Wickham - a young woman scamming her way into a marriage before it is discovered that she is pregnant out of wedlock is a far greater diversion. To Austen fans this is especially significant, for there is a high degree of truth omitted to the respectable tales of Bingley and Darcy’s society, a fact we are continually reminded of in the Netflix series. The moment Eloise asks her maid if she is Lady Whistledown provides such insight, as her maid explains that there is no way in hell a servant would have time to write a periodical about everyone in high society.
I was not as wholly fulfilled by watching Bridgerton as I was in reading P&P, and I would chalk this up to the joy I experienced in seeing all the little ways Austen’s characters bond and confront one another. It was a “slow burn” kind of enjoyment, one that’s difficult to binge in a single sitting alone. Even so, I thank you, Bridgerton, for being a show unlike any I’ve ever seen, and bringing a grand finale to my obsession.
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