In Austen’s day, the upper and middle classes were rigidly defined, yet rectors, victors, and even – sometimes – lowly curates could move a rung up (or down) the social ladder if circumstances and aptitudes worked in their favor.
No one probably documented this better than Austen herself. As the daughter of a rector who served two congregations and ran a boarding school to make ends meet, she witnessed many of the dynamics of the career – good and bad. By all accounts, George Austen was smart, well-spoken, and good-looking. But he was an orphan whose wealthy uncle paid for his schooling, with the help of George’s own part-time employment as assistant chaplain and Greek lecturer. However outstanding he was in his studies, he was rubbing shoulders with other future clergy who had wealthy families and had never worked a day in their lives. Some of them – frankly – didn’t intend to start even after they had achieved ordination. But the flood of such privileged men into the role meant that well-paying or prestigious “livings” (parish assignments) were in short supply. Both of George Austen’s “livings” were provided by wealthier family members. Between the two and his boarding school, he was able to support his growing family, but that was as well as someone who was not “from money” himself was likely to do. To some extent, George was able – with the help of rich family and his own hard work – to sustain himself at a reasonably respectable level in society, and to give his sons the education they would need to find careers of their own.
But when George Austen died, Jane, her mother, and sister were forced to live on the much-reduced income of “500 a month” – the same income assigned to the Dashwood women in Sense and Sensibility.
Jane must have seen many other clergy in worse and better circumstances, including would-be social climbers like Elton, toadies like Collins, hard-working curates like Charles Hater, rectors who worked part-time if at all, while paying curates to do the day-to-day work of the parish, like Dr. Grant and – apparently – Henry Tilney.
She even knew exactly how much Wickam’s tempermant had cost him when his taste for debauchery sidelined his almost guaranteed future, prestigious career as rector of Pemberly.
What’s more, Austen’s readers knew people like these and understood how things worked – or sometimes didn’t work – in clerical “career paths.” They understood why characters in Persuasion use the word “curate” in a derogatory sense, even when referring to hard-working, well-meaning men. They knew why Collins was embarrassingly grateful to Lady Catherine for providing him a living that his own gifts and background would never have qualified him for. They understood why Colonel Brandon offering a curacy to a disinherited gentleman was a “safety net” that few of that gentleman’s family would repect, but which was entirely satisfactory to the new curate.
So Jane had every reason to understand the dynamics of a clerical career, and to – frankly – attach emotional weight to the decisions and opportunities involved. There’s even a school of thought that the main conflict in Mansfield Park is whether or not Edmund Bertram will take orders, given the proximity of a more immediate gratification.
Yes, this all may sound very complicated, and it’s entirely possible to read and enjoy Austen without knowing any of it. But if you want to dig a little deeper, so you’re forewarned the next time a character is presented as a social-climbing vicar, a poor spinster daughter of a deceased vicar, a “country curate,” or a part-timer whose living is sufficient to pay someone else to do most of the work of the parish, please read our article Austen and “The Ministry.”
By the way, when I introduce an article by way of a post, it’s because it’s easier for readers to post comments on a “post” than on an article. So, please, tell me what you think.
