The Undesirable Governess — Story, Setting & Ideas

Dialogue as Dueling

Crawford's dialogue is a weapon of indirection. The opening exchange between Colonel and Lady Jane Follitt is a masterclass in marital sparring: his single 'Oh' is parsed as an accusation, her retort 'I know very well what you meant' reveals a long history of unspoken grievances. The narrator steps in to clarify that the Colonel 'took it sweet, with cream'—a detail that deflates his military gravitas while underscoring his domestic passivity.

Later, when Ellen and Lionel discuss her departure, the conversation becomes a dance of evasion. Lionel's repeated questions—'Which would you rather do?'—expose his 'moral timidity,' a trait the narrator explicitly links to the Follitt family. Ellen's reply, 'I should like you to make up my mind for me,' is both a romantic gambit and a tactical retreat. Crawford lets the subtext do the work: the reader senses the proposal before Lionel voices it.

The Narrator's Knowing Asides

Crawford's narrator frequently breaks the fourth wall to comment on character psychology, often with dry humor. When describing the Follitts' moral courage, the narrator observes that 'people with noble qualities are sometimes very hard to live with' and that 'superior individuals who have no moral timidity rarely hesitate to show us what poor creatures we really are.' This generalization frames the family's flaws as endearing rather than contemptible.

Similarly, the narrator notes that Lady Jane's 'genuine affection was tempered by a wholesome dread'—a phrase that encapsulates the family dynamics. These asides create a conspiratorial tone, inviting the reader to share in the narrator's amused detachment. They also serve to pace the story, slowing down moments of tension to allow for reflection, then accelerating back into action.

Pacing Through Repetition and Variation

Crawford controls narrative speed by repeating key phrases with slight variations. The word 'undesirable' recurs as a motif: Ellen is initially 'undesirable,' then 'ceased to be undesirable,' and the comedy hinges on her maintaining that status. This repetition creates a rhythmic structure, like a musical theme.

Scenes alternate between rapid-fire dialogue and extended narrative commentary. The tea-table opening is brisk, with short paragraphs and clipped lines. In contrast, the later scene on the moorland road unfolds slowly, with long paragraphs describing the setting—'the rock by the moorland road'—and the characters' internal deliberations. Crawford uses physical details (the trout pool, the knoll) to anchor these reflective pauses, then jolts the pace with a decisive line like 'We must be married in June.'

Readers will find that Crawford's novel rewards attention to its verbal textures: the way a single word like 'oh' can carry a chapter's worth of marital history, or how a narrator's aside can transform a domestic squabble into a commentary on human nature. The excerpts suggest a work that is both a comedy of manners and a study in strategic self-presentation. Pay close attention to what characters do not say—the silences, the half-finished sentences—for they often speak louder than the dialogue itself.

Reading about Crawford’s governess, I remembered my own first days in a strange household, that quiet arithmetic of usefulness. The Undesirable Governess made me think of the patient way we reshape ourselves for approval. The Little French Girl — A Reader’s Guide held that same soft ache of belonging, a feeling I’d nearly forgotten until now.