MY FAVORITE JANE AUSTEN SCENE by Beau North

This year marks a remarkable literary milestone: the 250th anniversary of Jane Austen’s birth. Even after two and a half centuries, her novels remain sharp—emotionally rich and full of insight. Her astute character observations, sparkling wit, and nuanced social critique continue to captivate and resonate deeply.

But Austen’s impact goes well beyond her written words. Her stories have inspired a wealth of adaptations from cherished films to modern reinterpretations and immersive experiences that transport us back to the Regency era. Her narratives don’t merely survive; they evolve, inviting each new generation to find a part of themselves within her timeless world.

What is it about Austen that keeps her so vividly alive in our minds?

To explore this, I’ve invited a few Austen enthusiasts—writers, readers, and scholars alike—to share the moments in her work that keep them coming back. Among them, Beau North, an award-winning author, podcaster, and Austen fan, reflects on a particular scene from Pride & Prejudice that continues to hold special meaning for her. —Christina Boyd

From Ballrooms to Bloomin’ Onions: What Jane Austen Taught Me about My Mother

by Beau North 

“In vain did Elizabeth endeavor to check the rapidity of her mother’s words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible whisper; for to her inexpressible vexation, she could perceive that the chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her mother only scolded her for being nonsensical. ‘What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing he may not like to hear.’ ‘For heaven’s sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be to you to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by so doing.’ Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother would talk of her views in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth blushed and blushed again with shame and vexation. She could not help frequently glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what she dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother, she was convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression of his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and steady gravity.” - Pride and Prejudice, Chapter XVIII

From Pride and Prejudice, the six-episode 1995 British television drama, adapted by Andrew Davies

I remember vividly the moment my life became a scene from a Jane Austen novel. 

It wasn’t an early-morning heart-to-heart with a gallant but aloof Darcy or a healing moment of reconciliation with my very own Wentworth.

No. 

My life became a Jane Austen novel at an Outback Steakhouse on a freezing afternoon in the middle of a Minnesota winter. We were crammed into chairs in the entryway, pink-cheeked and still faintly dripping with melted snow. We were waiting to be seated when my mother, who was visiting from several states away, excitedly began telling the restaurant hostess about my father’s recent successful liver transplant. 

While my father’s life-saving operation had been a boon I’ve never stopped being grateful for, months later, we were all still a little punch-drunk from the experience, but for me, it never quite got to the point of regaling strangers with this very involved, very traumatic surgery. I didn’t know how to tell my mother, “I think they’re just here for the Bloomin’ Onions.” 

I was about to redirect her attention when a woman of roughly my mother’s age, standing near us, excitedly piped up, “Did he have it done at Mayo? That’s where my husband got his lung transplant!” 

Her companion, a woman about my age or slightly older, met my eye with a look of horror. 

As my mom and her new best friend began swapping post-transplant war stories (can I just say the waiting area of a chain restaurant is the absolute worst place to discuss surgical site discharge?) I closed my eyes and thought This is so Lizzy Bennet coded.  

In my mind we weren’t in a bland steakhouse in the dead of Midwestern winter but at the Netherfield Ball, where I was quietly doing my eldest-daughter best to curb mum’s enthusiasm, much like Lizzy trying to shush Mrs. Bennet as she loudly airs out Jane and Bingley’s business to an entire room full of people who are, again, just there for the Bloomin’ Onion, or whatever passed for Bloomin’ Onions during the Regency. 

C.E. Brock illustration, 1895

I know it’s cliché, and that every lover of Austen sees themselves in Elizabeth Bennet, the stubborn, mercurial heroine who never lets her circumstances stand in the way of her morals. We want to be the girl who is admired for both her beauty and her quick wit; we want to see ourselves in a woman so amazing she fundamentally changes a man’s whole worldview with a few pointed words. She is the embodiment of main character energy. 

But that has never been how I identify with Elizabeth Bennet. 

It’s the exhaustion that comes with being the older (in my case eldest) daughter of two difficult parents, the limitations of growing up in relative poverty, and the gifted kid burnout of it all. The first time I read the phrase “The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it,” I remember feeling my heart race, my palms sweaty on the slick Penguin Classics cover. Why had I waited so long to read Jane Austen? Why hadn’t anyone told me this character was just like me? 

My mind goes back to the Netherfield Ball quite often. It’s such a brilliant set piece that allows for a lot of big swings that drive the plot forward, with Jane and Bingley, with Lizzy and Darcy, with Charlotte and Collins, and so many more, but it’s those painful, in-between moments where the small humiliations keep piling on top of Elizabeth’s trim shoulders that I keep coming back to. 

If lived experience and true crime podcasts have taught me anything, it’s that there’s no such thing as a perfect family, but that was never Austen’s intent in the first place. Austen did something radical for the time and painted a family as it was, warts and all. Loud, loving, uncouth, penury, stubborn, and at times horribly fraught. Austen doesn’t soften the edges of familial imperfection and embarrassment; she gets out a file and starts scraping those edges sharper than Colin Firth’s jawline. 

Here they are, the text whispers between the lines. They’re just like you! 

Before anyone comes for me, I do love my mother, and while we don’t necessarily have the best or healthiest relationship, I’d still defend her to any rich jerk who wants to marry me, I don’t care how chiseled his jawline is. And while it’s been decades since my dad’s operation, she still can’t resist telling total strangers about it, no matter how inappropriate the venue. With time and age, I’ve learned to stop using that moment to escape into the candlelit ballroom at Netherfield Park. I don’t bother trying to stop her when she gets going, because at the end of the day, I’d rather take things as they are: messy, loud, uncouth, but loving and wonderfully real. Give me the woman who says the worst things in public but loves me fiercely over polished perfection any day. And pass that Bloomin’ Onion. 

Award-winning author Beau North

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Beau North is a writer and Podcaster who lives in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, her Kindle, and her cats. She is child-free by choice. You can connect with Beau through her website.