Sense and Sensibility as the problem novel, part two

Mrs. Jennings on her side treated them both with all possible kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their ease and enjoyment, and only disturbed that she could not make them choose their own dinners at the inn, nor extort a confession of their preferring salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets.

Their arrival seemed to afford [Sir John] real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an object of real solicitude to him. He said much of his earnest desire of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed them so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they were better settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried to a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give offence. His kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour after he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from the park, which was followed before the end of the day by a present of game. He insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day.

But both sisters are often less than kind. Certainly Elinor is always correct in her words and actions; it is her thoughts that do not withstand scrutiny. Marianne is just plain awful.

Elinor, who did justice to Mrs. Jennings’s kindness, though its effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous …

That Marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with Mrs. Jennings’ manners, and invariably disgusted by them …

“My objection is this; though I think very well of Mrs. Jennings’s heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or whose protection will give us consequence.” spoken by Elinor

They were three days on their journey, and Marianne’s behaviour as they travelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and companionableness to Mrs. Jennings might be expected to be. She sat in silence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty within their view drew from her an exclamation of delight exclusively addressed to her sister.

“That is an expression, Sir John,” said Marianne, warmly, “which I particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is intended; and ‘setting one’s cap at a man,’ or ‘making a conquest,’ are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity.”

But whether you can call the sister’s attitude a problem of the novel is debatable. You could argue instead that Elinor’s uncharitable thoughts at least make her a more realistic character because otherwise she exhibits perhaps a too perfect reason and restraint. And if you believe that Austen sides more with sense than sensibility, then Marianne’s unkind thoughts and words are just more evidence promoting sense. And as a final vindication that Mrs. Jennings deserves the highest praise, we read: “and Marianne, after taking so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestly grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention.”

Colonel Brandon’s interest in Marianne is a little creepy

I’ll dispense with any discussion of the unsuitability of a 35-year-old man smitten with a 17-year-old girl. It’s usually dismissed with the observation that such alliances were common at the time. In Emma, the titular character talking about Robert Martin observes that he should not be ready to marry until at least thirty when he might have acquired sufficient fortune. But ignoring the age difference, what is creepy is Brandon’s interest in a woman who so closely resembles his first love, Eliza (who marries Brandon’s brother), and then Eliza’s daughter, also named Eliza, who is seduced by Willoughby. You can either view Brandon as the champion of women who have had hard luck in romance or as a man who is drawn to women who are easily seduced by others. You could also view this line in the concluding chapter as further evidence of creepinness: “… in Marianne he [Brandon] was consoled for every past affliction.”

Another disquieting thought about Brandon is his care of the second Eliza. After he discovered Eliza mère, he did his best to care for the daughter — “but I had no family, no home; and my little Eliza was therefore placed at school.” All well and good, but after the death of his brother, Brandon inherits Delaford, which though laden by debts from the spendthrift older brother, should still make a more suitable home than some version of Mrs. Goddard’s school from Emma. After all, it seemed to be generally accepted and known that Brandon had a love child that he had sequestered somewhere, so why not just bring her to Delaford where he might have prevented Willoughby from seducing her or he might at least helped raise her with values that would have shielded her from the charms of such a cad.

These two observations about Brandon are not my own, by the way, but were mentioned by several speakers at the AGM. My opinion is the opposite and runs counter to the observation that:

Colonel Brandon is a consolation prize for Marianne

So many people have said to me that Marianne “learned to love” Colonel Brandon that I have thought it a line from the book, but in fact we find this:

Marianne Dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate. She was born to discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her conduct, her most favourite maxims. She was born to overcome an affection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to give her hand to another!—and THAT other, a man who had suffered no less than herself under the event of a former attachment, whom, two years before, she had considered too old to be married,—and who still sought the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!

I think it pretty evident that Austen is being a little snarky at Marianne’s expense as she now equates Marianne’s love for Brandon to Elinor’s love for Edward, which was also based on friendship and her esteem of his character.

Later we read: “Marianne could never love by halves; and her whole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband, as it had once been to Willoughby.” She thoroughly loves Brandon, as she should.

In my high opinion of Brandon, I admit I am entirely swayed by Alan Rickman’s amazingly tender performance in the Ang Lee film. When I first watched this, I had not yet read S&S and so was not prepared to have a good opinion of the character. Rather I should naturally have thought any character portrayed by Rickman would be a villain, but I was immediately impressed by the character’s decency and having once read the book, it was clear to me that Brandon was a hero, and that if anything Marianne scarcely deserved his love and admiration.

Duel? What duel?

I know that Austen wrote what she knew and as she did not know a lot about dueling, may have decided not to write the dueling scene. Instead all we know of the duel is this:

“I [Brandon] could meet him [Willoughby] no other way. Eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, I to punish his conduct. We returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad.”

Well I’m sorry but this won’t do. I remember the first time I was asked what I thought about the duel and my admission that I was unaware a duel had been fought between Brandon and Willoughby. Austen should have written this scene, or at least expanded it for this dull elf.

Lucy Steele is not as evil a character as popularly thought

I think I am pretty much alone in this opinion, and it is the largely the result of my inattention when first reading the novel (and watching the film, apparently). Fortunately I enjoyed all of Austen on first reading, but only on second and third reading have I really understood Lucy’s perfidy. That is, of course, the joy of Austen, that every time you read one of the novels you discover a new layer of meaning.

But despite my newfound knowledge, I still cannot judge Lucy too harshly. It has been said that she seduced Edward Ferrars while he attended her father’s school, but I think they were on equal footing. To my knowledge she did not misrepresent herself or drug him or hypnotize him. He proposed marriage with full possession of his faculties. And having secured that proposal, I also cannot judge Lucy too harshly for her efforts to dissuade Elinor. Again, she does not misrepresent the facts of the matter. She may have very cunningly displayed Edward’s handkerchief, but she did not steal it for that purpose.

Nor can I censure her for attaching herself to Robert Ferrars. Edward has made it very clear from his actions — disappearing to Oxford after he is disinherited — that he no longer desires Lucy as wife. And how often do we learn from Austen how important it is to secure a good marriage. Lucy has taken herself off the market in the years that she has been secretly engaged to Edward and she must make up for lost time. And again I do not see that she had seduced Robert Ferrars anymore than she seduced Edward, unless we equate flattery with seduction.

(I also find interesting Austen presenting Lucy as unschooled, as evidenced by her ungrammatical and common speech. Lucy did after all grow up in the home of the same man who educated Edward. Austen seems to have borne Lucy a grudge similar to her grudge with Edward.)

Finally, I found confusing the impression that she was engaging in one last triumph over Elinor when she told the Dashwood servant Thomas of her marriage to Mr. Ferrars. After all, Thomas says: “I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma’am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady too, Miss Steele as was …” And later “Yes, ma’am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look up;—he never was a gentleman much for talking.”

The gentleman in this case was clearly Mr. Robert Ferrars; it would make no sense that it would be Edward, still hiding out in Oxford. So it might just be possible that Lucy being clever, noticed that Thomas could not clearly discern whether it was Edward or Robert in the carriage, and so decided to misrepresent to Thomas that she had married Edward. This impression of Lucy getting one last poke at Elinor was mentioned twice to me at the AGM, but it was not until I looked at the text upon my return that I realized it was just Austen having one last poke at poor Elinor, perhaps as a final payback for Elinor’s over dedication to sense.

In conclusion, I think I have discovered that S&S’s“problems” are really what make it so intriguing, and it only after writing out these problems for my own edification that I realized that most of the presenters at the AGM were of this opinion too. S&S is a book that requires rereading, where you can view Willoughby’s wooing of Marianne in terms of his admissions to Elinor after Marianne’s illness or Edward’s inability to break his promise as a failure of his own fortitude.

S&S, like Mansfield Park, is often viewed as a moralistic tale, where sense competes with sensibility, but by viewing what might be called problems I think it makes clear the book is anything but a simple black and white tale.