Ada Potter

“In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

If you share my penchant for period dramas, these lines from Mr. Darcy in Jane Austen’s “Pride and Prejudice”  may be some of your favorites in romantic literature. Restraint, devotion, ceremony, finery—these are some of the things that have made the period drama a global phenomenon.

Mr. Darcy leaves no room for doubt or speculation. He is explicit about his intentions, even knowing he may be rejected. The proposal is flawed, proud and almost awkward, but it is, honestly and unmistakably, a declaration.

Though marriage for social and economic gain had long been the norm, the “companionate marriage” had grown in popularity by the start of the 19th century—a union based on reciprocated fondness or love rather than arrangement. The liminal space this creates, between social expectation and individual choice, is perhaps why Victorian-era romances like “Pride and Prejudice” are so beloved. There’s just enough autonomy for them to feel recognizable  and just enough unfamiliarity for them to feel like fairytales.

Even when reoriented to account for love, courtship in the 19th century depended on structure. Proposals were spoken aloud, intentions were named and words were carefully selected. The male protagonists of this era’s literature exemplify the sanctity of making a choice and standing by it, which is perhaps why they’re so attractive to the contemporary reader.

And yet women’s autonomy depended on the removal of these structures. We have moved beyond institutional and companionate marriages and are better for it. The success of relationships is no longer entrusted to mothers or fathers as it once was but has become largely dependent on our own judgments and sensibilities. Happiness is by no means so much a matter of chance as it once was. But the abundance of choice has not quite deepened the meaning of choosing.

Every now and again, I come across an internet video of a man holding a door, pulling out a chair, cooking a meal … listening. The comment section is usually divided between swooning admiration and scoffing admonitions that “the bar is on the floor.” Then I scroll some more: video diary about situationship. “Soft-launch” trailer of an influencer’s relationship. Thirst trap. “Men are trash.” Thirst trap. TikTok, Instagram and dating apps, where the entirety of a person is reduced to a left or right swipe. In dismantling rigid roles and creating progress, we also loosened some of the scripts and expectations that required us to act a certain way toward each other.

Romance increasingly resembles consumer logic: browse, compare, upgrade and return. Psychology has long maintained that having more choices does not necessarily make us more satisfied. Making choices brings hesitancy and reservation, deciding brings regret or curiosity about some potentially greater, unnamed option. Choosing one person may feel less like devotion and more like foreclosing opportunity.

Mr. Darcy’s confession isn’t romantic just because it’s a combination of beautiful words (though Jane Austen’s words are beautiful). He approaches Elizabeth Bennet, a woman beneath his station, risking social embarrassment, rejection and his pride to be heard—to choose and be chosen. And when he is, in fact, rejected, he endeavors to improve himself and proposes again months later. The power of Mr. Darcy’s declaration is that it was definitive. In demanding a response, he and Elizabeth change for the better. In our age of provisional affection, clarity almost feels excessive. We soften language, skirt around titles like “boyfriend” and “girlfriend,” and keep our options open. Ambiguity is protective, but with it, Mr. Darcy never would have married Elizabeth, Captain Wentworth never would have written to Anne Elliott and Mr. Rochester would never have declared his love for Jane Eyre. With ambiguity, exit is easy and replacement is straightforward. When there is little depth, there is little risk—and vice versa.

If the bar is indeed on the floor, it remains that there is, at least, a bar. If this expectation is no longer a standard, there is reason to believe it could become a choice.

The difference is not that men once loved better or that women once asked for less. Mr. Darcy, Mr. Rochester and Captain Wentworth are flawed characters who pursue flawed women. The structure of their societies only demanded that they be clear. If honesty and vulnerability now feel rare or excessive, perhaps they’re worth choosing.

Alexandra Fahey is a member of the Class of 2029.