by Jane Austen
Lucy Steele, Elinor’s rival for Edward’s affections, is perhaps the most conniving female character. Ironically, Elinor and Lucy are both highly skilled actresses. But while Lucy’s deceptions are based on her own narcissism and sense of competition, Elinor’s are based on a sense of pride and self-restraint. In Lucy’s confession to Elinor of her secret engagement to Edward, every word seems calculated to unmask Elinor, who is able only with great effort to subdue her powerful emotions. Lucy remarks, “Though you do not know him so well as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him” (pp. 107-8) . Lucy’s idea that Elinor must have seen enough of Edward to ascertain his value reveals her own inability to read people and situations.
Visual cues in the novel are usually deceptive. Lucy’s proofs of her connection to Edward are objects: a miniature of Edward, a letter, and the ring that Elinor has seen on Edward’s finger. All these clues lead Elinor to surmise that Lucy is telling the truth. These props, however, are not evidence of Edward’s affections, but rather, signs of old-fashioned forms of romance rituals. Just as with Mrs. Palmer’s observations about the accessories of Willoughby’s marriage, Lucy’s visual evidence of her attachment to Edward suggests that for Austen there is something more important than the theatrical staging of romantic relationships; what appears on the surface has to be read, analyzed, and cleverly interpreted.
What we see of Elinor is also complex. In the scene where the characters are admiring Elinor’s decorated screens, it seems particularly important that we never see what the screens look like. The decorations are not described, and there is no opportunity for the reader to use visual metaphors to analyze Elinor. What is more significant is how Elinor’s screens are passed around the drawing room for inspection. Austen writes: “Before her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted a very pretty pair of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted and brought home, ornamented her present drawing-room; and these screens, catching the eye of John Dashwood on his following the other gentlemen into the room, were officiously handed by him to Colonel Brandon for his admiration” (p. 192). John Dashwood offers his analysis of Elinor’s artistic talents: “ ‘These are done by my eldest sister,’ said he; ‘and you, as a man of taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them. I do not know whether you ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she is in general reckoned to draw extremely well’ ” (p. 193). John Dashwood, of course, has no opinion of his own to offer on Elinor’s work, only what others have in general “reckoned about her,” but the rude Mrs. Ferrars pronounces them “ ’very pretty‘—and, without regarding them at all, returned them to her daughter” (p. 208). This provokes a discussion of Miss Morton (Edward’s intended fiancée), who paints “most delightfully” (p. 193), a comparison that inspires Marianne’s wrath on the part of her injured sister. She exclaims: “This is admiration of a very particular kind! what is Miss Morton to us? who knows, or who cares, for her?—it is Elinor of whom we think and speak” (p. 193).
Using a theatrical setup, Austen stages a scene of subtle insults in which Marianne is the only character who reveals her true feelings. Screens—objects used to shield oneself from the heat and sparks of a fire—can be seen as theatrical props used for protection and disguise. The screens function as a metaphor for the layers of concealment operating in the scene. Elinor cannot reveal to Mrs. Ferrars that she is in love with Edward. She is also watching Lucy interact with Mrs. Ferrars, who is under the mistaken impression that Edward will soon be engaged to Miss Morton. John Dashwood feels guilty about not providing for his sisters and must make up for it by attempting to praise them in front of visitors. Colonel Brandon, in the midst of all this, is observing Marianne, the woman he secretly loves, who is miserable about having been jilted by Willoughby. Elinor’s opaque screens suggest that her art is in her acts of concealment. She is the best at remaining calm in this scene. In the larger scheme of the novel she remains closed to us, except for what Austen allows us to see with entry into her private thoughts. In addition, the screens highlight the fact that visual cues in Sense and Sensibility are usually misread; very few characters see anything correctly and even fewer have the intelligence or thoughtfulness required to read or interpret information.
The episodes of Sense and Sensibility are divided between the more theatrical world of London and the private, quieter space of the country. London mirrors the pressures of the external world. The potentially damaging consequences of exposure, publicity, and revelation are illustrated in the episodes that occur away from the Dashwood’s country home. Marianne’s obsession with getting in touch with Willoughby provides the narrative tension for the middle section of the novel. Her encounter with Willoughby at the ball is a terrifying scene in which what she imagines to be true—her engagement to Willoughby—is irrevocably denied by the reality of his performance: He ignores her and appears attached to another woman. Although Austen provides readers with some clues about Willoughby’s character—his reading of Hamlet, for example—we are still struck by his cruelty and Marianne’s inability to accept that she has misunderstood Willoughby’s intentions. Elinor sees that “to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect, was impossible, for Marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness” (p. 145). The anxiety inherent in misreadings becomes, for Austen, a way of emphasizing a need for new methods of interpretation that take into account both external and internal information.
Marianne’s desire for news of and contact with Willoughby, and everyone else’s desire to understand the nature of their relationship, reflect a larger societal hunger for gossip and intrigue. What is overheard and discovered in coffeehouses and shopping districts becomes a valuable commodity. Austen questions the nature of value in a scene where Elinor observes a man (who she later learns is Robert Ferrars, Edward’s brother) purchasing a toothpick-case. She writes:
He was giving orders for a toothpick-case for himself; and till its size, shape, and ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining and debating for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to bestow any other attention on the two ladies than what was comprised in three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to imprint on Elinor the remembrance of a person and face of strong, natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first style of fashion (p.181).
Robert Ferrars’s attention to the minute details of a toothpick-case is contrasted with what he fails to notice: the presence of the two ladies. His “sterling insignificance” is analogous to his need for such a superfluous decorative item. Elinor then meets her brother, and the topic of conversation for the rest of the chapter is all about various types of value: a discussion of Colonel Brandon’s financial situation is followed by an assessment of Edward’s proposed fiancée’s worth; an evaluation of the property value of Norland connects to a list of the items the Dashwoods needed to purchase when moving into their new home; and ultimately, the conversation ends with praise for Mrs. Jennings, whom Mr. Dashwood considers to be “ ‘a most valuable woman indeed,’ ”judging by her house and her style of living (p. 185). Linking toothpick-cases to houses, linen, china, and people, Austen cleverly questions the notion of what is intrinsically valuable and what passes for “inventive fancy.” In highlighting the com modification of language, feeling, and relationships, Austen points to the larger impact on individuals of a rapidly emerging commercial economy. The real world of London, outside the safety and comfort of the country, is seen as both potentially devastating and ridiculous.
On the other hand, London presents Elinor with a series of distractions. She is able to put her own feeling aside for the moment while Edward and Lucy are temporarily offstage and Marianne is fretting about Willoughby. It also seems
clear that the country as it once was, epitomized by Marianne’s affection for poems about cottages and trees, as well as her soliloquy when leaving her ancestral home—“Dear, dear Norland! ... when shall I cease to regret you!” (p. 23)—is rapidly disappearing. Marianne’s constant references to eighteenth-century aesthetic tastes, picturesque landscapes, ruined cottages, and collapsed trees suggest that she views the country through a clouded nostalgic visual lens. The pressures of renovation and renewal threaten to transform the landscape. When Mrs. Dashwood speaks of changing Barton Cottage, the sentimental Willoughby remarks, “And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement!” (p. 61).
Willoughby’s desire to keep things as they were is an interesting corollary to his position as an eighteenth-century figure (the libertine) in a nineteenth-century novel. Austen renovates his character by including a scene at the end of the novel in which he attempts to apologize for his behavior toward Marianne. Unlike the classic libertine, who exhibits no remorse for his horrible actions, Willoughby, when faced with the possibility of Marianne’s death, admits that he loved her all along and will suffer forever for his unfortunate choices. Even Elinor is moved by his confession, in part because it allows her to hope that Edward might always regret his choices as well. Although Willoughby cannot recover from his mistakes, Edward and Colonel Brandon, who both also have shady pasts, are able to reinvent themselves and emerge as new, improved suitors for Elinor and Marianne. While Austen critiques her characters’ passion for novelty, she also seems wary of relying too much on the customs and traditions of an antiquated world. Her attention to modes of renewal in the novel, of spaces, characters, and relationships, reflects her interest in renovating the novel form. Marianne’s final acceptance of “second attachments” points to a revised vision of what might work for nineteenth-century heroines.
Throughout Sense and Sensibility Marianne’s public and private selves are indistinguishable. Her inability to disguise her feelings is linked to her idea that everyone must see the world in the same way she does. “Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid. She expected from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on herself” (p. 164). Austen suggests that the most dangerous thing for women is to reveal themselves and to assume that they will be understood and valued. All they have of their own is an ability to safeguard a realm of privacy, a place of no access—metaphorically demonstrated by Elinor’s screens. But this lesson, like everything else in Austen’s world, threatens to break down; Elinor can’t keep up her façade of tranquillity in parts of the novel, and her constant self-policing leads to resentment, anger, and depression.
By the end of the novel Marianne learns to subdue her sensibility for her own good, and she settles in to the more boring, conventional role of dutiful wife. Austen writes:
Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible passion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting, instead of remaining even for ever with her mother, and finding her only pleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in her more calm and sober judgment had determined on,—she found herself at nineteen submitting to new attachments, entering on new duties, placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the patroness of a village (p. 311).
Marianne’s loss of passion, and her submission to her new role as mistress of the neighborhood, provides evidence for Charlotte Brontë’s critique of the nonemotional nature of Austen’s work. In a letter to a friend, Brontë wrote of Austen:
Her business is not half so much with the human heart as with the human eyes, mouth, hands, and feet. What sees keenly, speaks aptly, moves flexibly it suits her to study; but what throbs fast and full, though hidden, what the blood rushes through, what is the unseen seat of life and the sentient target of death—this Miss Austen ignores (Barker, The Brontës, p. 635).
Reading Sense and Sensibility, one is tempted to point out that the story is, in fact, all about “the human heart” and what conspires against it. Austen explores the layers subtly covering Brontë’s notion of what “throbs fast and full”: the inarticulate, intangible disquiet that haunts drawing rooms and country houses; the terrifying reality of not being loved and ending up alone, the frustration of being misread and misunderstood. In her attention to both the exterior theatrics of display along with the interior workings of the psyche, Austen invites her readers to consider new methods of interpretation. Even in its unsatisfying conclusion, Sense and Sensibility leaves one thing intact: The bond between Elinor and Marianne is ultimately more restorative than any romance or happy ending.
Laura Engel received her B.A. from Bryn Mawr College and her M.A. and Ph.D. from Columbia University. She is an assistant professor in the English Department at Duquesne University in Pittsburgh where she specializes in eighteenth-century British literature and drama. Her previous publications include essays on the novelists A. S. Byatt and Edna O‘Brien. She is currently working on a book that explores the connections between women and celebrity in eighteenth-century culture.
Volume the First.
CHAPTER I.
The family of Dashwood had been long settled in Sussex. Their estate was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of their property, where for many generations they had lived in so respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintances. The late owner of this estate was a single man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his life had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister. But her death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received into his house the family of his nephew, Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal inheritor of the Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to bequeath it. In the society of his nephew and niece, and their children, the old gentleman’s days were comfortably spent. His attachment to them all increased. The constant attention of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid comfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the children added a relish to his existence.
By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one son; by his present lady, three daughters. The son, a steady, respectable young man, was amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large, and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age. By his own marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his wealth. To him, therefore, the succession to the Norland estate was not so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent of what might arise to them from their father’s inheriting that property, could be but small. Their mother had nothing, and their father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the remaining moiety of his first wife’s fortune was also secured to her child, and he had only a life interest in it.1
The old gentleman died; his will was read, and like almost every other will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure. He was neither so unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew; but he left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the bequest. Mr. Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife and daughters than for himself or his son; but to his son, and his son’s son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way, as to leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most dear to him, and who most needed a provision, by any charge on the estate, or by any sale of its valuable woods. The whole was tied up for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his father and mother at Norland had so far gained on the affections of his uncle, by such attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or three years old: an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his
own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh all the value of all the attention which, for years, he had received from his niece and her daughters. He meant not to be unkind, however, and as a mark of his affection for the three girls, he left them a thousand pounds apiece.
Mr. Dashwood’s disappointment was at first severe; but his temper was cheerful and sanguine, and he might reasonably hope to live many years, and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the produce of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate improvement. But the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was his only one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle no longer; and ten thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained for his widow and daughters.
His son was sent for, as soon as his danger was known, and to him Mr. Dashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which illness could command, the interest of his mother-in-lawa and sisters.
Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the family; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at such a time, and he promised to do everything in his power to make them comfortable. His father was rendered easy by such an assurance, and Mr. John Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there might prudently be in his power to do for them.