Huh?

Sense and Sensibility Book 3, Chapter 11 (Chapter 47 in some editions)

 I think one of the things that we ought to do more often when reading the great texts, and Sense and Sensibility is one of them, is to read closely. To not just skim lightly over the text but let its seeming incongruities stop us dead now and then. This chapter features a real head scratcher, a thought that come out of left field. In the middle of a discussion of Willoughby's failings Elinor drops this thought on us:

"One observation may, I think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the story -- that all Willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first offence against virtue, in his behaviour to Eliza Williams. That crime has been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present discontents." 

Nothing up to this point in the chapter seems to justify this oddly dogmatic assertion of Elinor's.  Yes, Willoughby is selfish as she convinces Marianne—everything he does is selfish. Further, there is no reason to even suggest that Willoughby's behaviour towards Eliza Williams is anything but despicable. But how does it follow that that act was the cause of his later "difficulties" (and that is Elinor's word choice here).

This is about a clear an example as you will ever get of the differences between someone who thinks in terms of virtue and someone who thinks purely in terms of moral rules (deontology). For Elinor, and for Jane Austen, the pursuit of virtue is almost pragmatic. The best moral choices are those that give the happiest life.

I say almost pragmatic because the happy ending she proposes here is not absolutely conventional. Marianne will get the typical ending of being married to the wealthy man with the large estate but she clearly is less happy than Elinor who will get something that looks far more like what we would now describe as a conventional middle class marriage rather than her sister's more fairy-tale like ending. The greater wealth and comfort of Marianne's life will not bring equal happiness, however, because Marianne is not Elinor's equal. Even at the end as Marianne has come to recognize her own failings she is not, and cannot be, as good at being a human being as Elinor is.

Anyway, if we see things this way then my current moral choices will have a definite impact on my ability to make future moral choices. That is the gist of Elinor's remark about Willoughby and Eliza.. He was running away from his dalliance with Eliza—a dalliance that brought him sexual satisfaction but not love–when he ran into Marianne. When the consequences of that action caught up with him, he had to run away from Marianne to marry a rich woman.

What Elinor rather diplomatically leaves unsaid is that the very same could be said of Marianne and Mrs. Dashwood. They too thought only of their pleasure and not of their happiness. There is nothing wrong with pleasure from Elinor's perspective. She feels it. It is pleasure as an end in itself she objects to. Pleasure is something that can lead to happiness and Elinor would countenance no life without pleasure.

That, for those commentators who think her sexually repressed, includes sexual pleasure. If you doubt me, reread Willoughby's apology to Elinor again and notice how she reacts to his saying that Eliza wanted the sex just as much as he did. She accepts that claim at face value; she has no trouble seeing that Eliza would be moved by sexual desire because she knows herself what that desire feels like. The failing in Willoughby, strange as this may seem to us, is not a failure to respect Eliza's honour. Once she abandons that pursuit herself, he can do as he wishes sexually without any affront to her. The problem is that by doing so without regard to his own greater happiness he has committed a a failing towards himself.

This, incidentally, is straight Aristotle. In our modern ways of thinking about morality, when my desires clash with moral rules, either the rule should be changed or I should act against my desires. If my neighbour's teen-aged niece forgets to close her curtains and starts to get undressed I will either look away even though I really want to see her naked or I will convince myself that the rules against my watching are outdated and puritanical. What we moderns do not consider is that there might be something else—the desire to be a certain kind of man—that might mean even more to me than seeing a young woman naked. (And Sartre was onto something when he used the example of voyeurism to undermine moral rules: it is when we are all alone watching someone else that the rules just disappear.)

Elinor is not unaware or repressed sexually. She there is no reason to believe that she does not like, as Cyndi Lauper put it, messing with the danger zone and I have no doubt that she and Edward will make beautiful music together. But she will countenance that pleasure only if it is making a reasonable contribution to her greater happiness.

Here is how Alasdair MacIntyre puts it when discussing Aristotle:

Virtues are dispositions not only to act in particular ways, but also to feel in particular ways. To act virtuously is not, as Kant was later to think, to act against inclination; it is to act from inclination formed by the cultivation of the virtues. Moral education is an 'éducation sentimentale'.

And there you have the thing that separates Elinor from all those around her. She has trained herself to feel in certain ways. She feels Willoughby's sexual power over women just as intensely as Marianne and Eliza did but she sees past it to something else she desires even more and she desires that happiness even more because she has trained herself to do so.

Elinor is, as I've said before, the greatest of Austen heroes*, which is very different from saying Sense and Sensibility is the greatest of her books. She is one of a triumvirate of characters—the other two are Fanny Price and Anne Elliot—who begin the story with all the virtue they need to succeed. The drama that follows is all about them holding out for virtue in the face of the society around them and ultimately triumphing.

Other Austen heroines are those who need a sentimental education in order to be virtuous. Eliza Bennet, for example, is a little like an Eliza Williams who doesn't screw up. The two women start their respective stories off with similar faults but one  manages to acquire virtue through love and the other does not.

More of that later however.



*Autobiographical readings of Austen novels are a very dubious project but I'd bet that Cassandra is the model for, Elinor and Jane herself the model for Marianne.

Atonement

Sense and Sensibility Book 3, Chapter 10 (Chapter 46 in some editions)

Atonement is a difficult issue. Ian McEwan wrote a novel called Atonement and there is not the faintest trace of anything that could legitimately called atonement anywhere in it. The movie based on it is even worse. McEwan's "atonement" is a sort of narrative atonement in which events conspire to even things out but the actual people responsible for the various sins never do anything but live through the events.

More common is a kind of psychological atonement in which the person does no atoning but we forgive because it is better for us to forgive than to keep on seeking justice for wrongs committed against us. I was reading a book by Martin Seligman (whom I otherwise admire) in which he cited the example of a guy who forgave the man who'd murdered his grandmother. The odd thing was that the murderer did nothing to warrant this.

In order for psychological atonement to work, we have to erase the sin by explaining it away. "It's okay Alex, you were under a lot of stress." Or, Alex was insecure, or was a victim of racial discrimination all her life, or was abused as a child, or was nothing at all but we don't know what her life might have been like so we forgive her because how are we to know what she has suffered.

And then there is the "Christian" reading that holds us responsible to simply forgive all wrongs against us as a condition of being forgiven.

But what of the debts that are to be forgiven. Don't they have to exist in order to be forgiven? Don't they have to be acknowleged?

In this Chapter, Austen gives us her take on some of these issues. Marianne is getting ready to forgive Willoughby. She is also getting ready to atone for suffering her own excesses have caused in others.

Austen starts with Marianne's attitude towards Willoughby and I think that is interesting. The line that has to be in the back of our heads as we read this chapter has to be "And forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors." But what is Willoughby's debt? Here is how it plays out:

"As for regret," said Marianne, "I have done with that, as far as he is concerned. I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been for him, but what they are now . At present, if I could be satisfied on one point -- if I could be allowed to think that he was not always acting a part, not alwaysvery wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl" -- deceiving me; -- but above all, if I could be assured that he never was so

   She stopt. Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered --

   "If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy."

   "Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it; -- for not only is it horrible to suspect a person, who has been what he has been to me , of such designs, -- but what must it make me appear to myself? What in a situation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could expose me to -- "

   "How then," asked her sister, "would you account for his behaviour?"

   "I would suppose him, -- Oh! how gladly would I suppose him, only fickle -- very, very fickle." 

There are a couple of things here that ought to shock us a little. The first is how little Austen and her characters (and, presumably, her first readers) care to see Willoughby do the honourable thing and marry Brandon's ward Eliza*.  Given Willoughby's standing he cannot be made to do the right thing as Wickham will be made to do in Pride and Prejudice. Austen, astoundingly, expects us to simply accept that this is how the world is.

The second thing that ought to shock us is how Austen expects people to not only bear up under the consequences but to embrace them. Lots of people have noted that Marianne's marriage is not  the equal of Elinor's. Austen herself acknowledges this through Elinor's dissent in the previous chapter when her mother suggests that Brandon will make Marianne as happy as she can be. There is an assumption here that Marianne has ruined her chance to be as happy as she can be.

And there we might stop a second and contemplate just how different Austen's morality is from most modern reality. The reason that Ian McEwan and Martin Seligman and your typical Christian spout such empty-headed notions of atonement is because they do not see, as Austen does see, that sin and forgiveness is only part of morality. Virtue is the rest of the story. Marianne may forgive and atone but she can never be Elinor's equal.

Last words, for now, to Marianne. As you read these, note the religious assumptions that have to have always been in Austen's mind as she understood her own story (and all her other novels as well by the way):

"I am not wishing him too much good," said Marianne at last with a sigh, "when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant than my own. He will suffer enough in them."

   "Do you compare your conduct with his?"

   "No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with yours."

   "Our situations have borne little resemblance."

   "They have borne more than our conduct. Do not, my dearest Elinor, let your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure. My illness has made me think -- It has given me leisure and calmness for serious recollection. Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I was perfectly able to reflect. I considered the past; I saw in my own behaviour since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness to others. I saw that my own feelings had prepared my sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the grave. My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself, by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the time to be wrong. Had I died, it would have been self-destruction. I did not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such feelings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery, -- wonder that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once. ...

Marianne is preparing herself for a life of atonement not for a single act that will make everything go back to normal.



*No, I do not think it is an accident that she has the same name as the heroine of Pride and Prejudice.

Mighty Elinor?

Book 3, Chapter 9 (Chapter 45 in some editions)

Last chapter, Willoughby unleashed a charm offensive on Elinor. How did she fare?

Shaken to her very foundations. Even though she knows it is wrong, Elinor sympathizes deeply with Willoughby. Here is the relevant paragraph with some added emphasis:

Willoughby -- he whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most worthless of men -- Willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made her think of him as now separated for ever from her family with a tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged within herself to his wishes than to his merits. She felt that his influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction -- that open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess; and by that still ardent love for Marianne, which it was not even innocent to indulge. But she felt that it was so, long, long before she could feel his influence less. 

Notice how hard Elinor's good sense is working to overcome her feelings here and yet is failing on every front. Okay, we might say, but she'll get over it.  She doesn't. In a stunning turnabout that most readers, including not a few readers with degrees in English literature, miss, we now discover that feelings matter far more to Elinor than they do to any other character in the novel.

 She is torn by thoughts of "poor Willoughby" that night and even entertains the fantasy that his wife might die leaving him free (and rich enough) to marry Marianne after all.

And when Mrs. Dashwood reveals next day that Colonel Brandon has revealed his love for Marianne, Elinor has decidedly mixed feelings. She raises all the concerns that modern readers who do not like the marriage raise. When Mr.s Dashwood says she things Marianne will be happier with Brandon than she would have been with Willoughby, Elinor silently reviews all the reasons this is nonsense:

Elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because satisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age, characters, or feelings, could be given ....

 And, just in case, we had any doubts, the whole issue is raised a  second time so that Elinor can, privately, reject it that second time.

"And his manners, the Colonel's manners, are not only more pleasing to me than Willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind I well know to be more solidly attaching to Marianne. Their gentleness, their genuine attention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity, is much more accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness, often artificial, and often ill-timed, of the other. I am very sure myself, that had Willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved himself the contrary, Marianne would yet never have been so happy with him , as she will be with Colonel Brandon."

She paused. Her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence. 

The irony, dramatic irony, in the situation is that it is Mrs. Dashwood's feelings that now prevent her from seeing that her assessment of Marianne's feelings is not accurate.


Perhaps even more shocking is the last line of the chapter where we learn that Elinor is not primarily concerned with Marianne's feelings:

... Elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her friend, and yet, in wishing it, to feel a pang for Willoughby. 

At the risk of of offending, the  prize in the story right now is Marianne. The novel in these chapters is very much about, as Mrs. Jennings earlier put it, who will "get" her. Marianne has very little control over her destiny now. Prepare to be shocked as it soon will be obvious that Jane Austen thinks that is more or less her due. The two sisters are about to get their just rewards and only one is going to get a marriage based on love.

A comic scene

Sense and Sensibility, Book 3, Chapter IV (Chapter 40 in cheap editions)
This chapter is almost entirely taken up with a bit of situation comedy. But it's not just funny.

Assuming anyone coming by here has already read the book, the joke is that Mrs. Jennings has overheard snippets of a conversation in which Colonel Brandon tells Elinor of his plans to offer Edward Ferrars a living. Mrs. Jennings assumes that he is in fact proposing to Elinor. This all happens in Chapter III.

In Chapter IV both women express their satisfaction with what what they understand to be the situation never realizing that they completely misunderstand one another.

Now, pause for a moment and think of how a scene like this would be handled on a situation comedy on television. Imagine it on Seinfeld. The whole point of such a set up would be the revelation when all would be revealed and we'd all laugh at the stupidity of at least one of the people involved. Austen does no such thing. The actual revelation is of no dramatic importance at all:

The deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for Mrs. Jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation of the first. 

So why does Austen create all this comic misunderstanding? (And yes, there is a significant omission of any discussion of Elinor's feelings above—an ironic admission for the truth is that Elinor had no happiness to lose to begin with—but I'll leave that for others to ponder.)

Well, I think the explanation is in Mrs. Jennings' reaction above. Unlike Seinfeld, where all the characters are calculating, manipulative jerks, the entire misunderstanding in this chapter is driven by charity. Everyone assumes that the others have the best motives whatever it is that they are doing. And they are correct in this. So the revelation, when it comes, brings not humiliation but good feeling. (And there is some terribly good advice about how to live our lives embodied in this.)

I say "everyone" above and not "both" because a similar misunderstanding soon crops up with Edward who shows up and is ushered upstairs to see Elinor by Mrs. Jennings. Elinor had been writing a letter to Edward to tell him of the living and now finds herself telling him in person.

And Edward promptly assumes that Elinor had something to do with bringing this generous action of the Colonel's about. So Elinor gets credit she doesn't deserve. Or does she maybe deserve something after all? She did not have anything to do with convincing the Colonel to do this generous thing to be sure but her response to an event that is against her hopes but in Edward and Lucy's interest is generous. This living will make it possible for Edward and Lucy to marry after all.

Edward praises Elinor for an imagined selfless act but what is selfless about her is her generous feelings. In fact, Elinor, Edward and, yes, even Mrs Jennings all display generous, selfless feelings here. Feelings that do connect with something outside them.

What is the "sense" that connects these feelings with something outside them? I think Austen is a profound and sophisticated moral philosopher but in this case I think the right answer is the one that is right on the surface. All three have feelings that connect with something outside the person feeling them because they are disciplined feelings. There is nothing more to it than that.

Then again, that is a little like saying that all you need to do to learn to play a musical instrument or a second language is to practice regularly. That is true enough but why do so many people fail then?


By the way, I finding I'm going at this very slowly again despite promising to go faster. I know, I know but Austen herself moves so deliberately in these final sections. Again, the contrast with modern attempts to do the same is strong. The final scene of The Jane Austen Book Club movie, for example, is just a montage of people kissing and taking one another's clothes off.

In a sense, this book is over now. However the details might work out, it's all inevitable from here on in. And yet Austen moves slower than ever.

Sensibilities revisted

As I plug along through Sense and Sensibility, reading it as slowly as I have ever done, I keep being reminded that I'm not really sure what to make of the issue of feelings.  There are some things we do know. I think I can set out a sort of creed of what I believe to be true of Austen on feelings.

1. Having sensibilities is a good thing and, all else being equal, the person with strong feelings is a better person than the one without.
2. Sensibility is not something we are born with like blue eyes but something we must develop like the ability to play a musical instrument.
3. There is no difference whatsoever between Marianne and Elinor in terms of the depth of their feeling. The only difference is that Marianne's feelings are not governed and Elinor's are.
4. Governing your feelings means controlling them so they do not lead you to act in ways that run counter to society or (as we shall soon see) the basic facts of life.

But what about the ways in which sensibility makes us a better person? There I think the answers are not so easy to tease out. We can see, for example, that it is to Elinor's credit that she can sense Edward's love for her even though he is not a liberty to declare it or even allow it to show. Even Marianne is not, we will later learn, wrong in thinking Willoughby loves her for he does love her.

Conversely, we should probably condemn Lucy for failing to see that Edward does not love her anymore. And she should realize this even though Edward not only cannot say he does not love her but must go on saying he does.

How, for example, would Elinor respond if she were the one that Edward had made the youthful engagement to but she now sensed that he was no longer in love with her? She would know that simply offering to set him free would not work because he would be honour-bound to refuse her. I think, in such a situation, she would choose to tell Edward that she no longer loved him and ask him to free her. Then his honour would oblige him to accept. That would be a terribly lonely choice, a point I'll come back to, but her feelings would demand it.

By the way, should Edward actually be in love with Lucy even now? I mean, if constancy is a virtue then surely having been in love and having made his engagement , perhaps Edward should nurture his love and keep it alive. That would certainly be a challenge. Or does that only come after marriage?

And feeling, whatever it is, seems to be a lonely thing. Elinor, Marianne and Colonel Brandon all have feeling and it seems to isolate them. Willoughby, to give the devil his due, is also isolated by his feelings.

Given all this, we might wonder if feelings are such a good thing to have.

Or is the point more simply that feelings without sense are bad precisely because feelings are not connected to anything outside of us?

The appeal of Edward

Sense and Sensibility
 One of the things about Austen's society that is alien to our more romantic one is the necessity of understanding one another without speaking. This is necessary because people may not speak. Given his secret engagement to Lucy there is much that Edward Ferrars may not say to Elinor. He not only may not tell her that he loves her he may not even let it show.

And yet he wants her to know and she wants to know. In a more romantic culture, someone telling a story of this kind would contrive to bring about a situation in which Edward would accidentally blurt out the truth to Elinor. Ann Radcliffe does exactly that in The Italian by having Vivaldi hang around outside Ellena's window when she conveniently decides to confess to her mirror that she loves him (even though they have not yet spoken to one another at this point).

Elinor, to the contrary, must judge Edward by externals alone. It is precisely that he does not casually blurt out things to her that assures her he does not blurt out to others. Well, that he doesn't do easily anyway. Because it is important that he does blurt out at as it were. (And yes, we should think of sex here.) She does not want a cold fish.

And here the weird paradox of Edward's love for Lucy. Elinor has comforted herself with the belief that Edward cannot be in love with Lucy because she has seen the way he responded to her own presence and knows that, whatever his reasons for restraint, Edward does love her. She can see he is he is holding back.

[And we might pause to remember the conflict between Marianne and Elinor in Book 1 about whether Edward had strong feelings of any sort. Elinor is sure he does. It is the reserve, the classical sense of a smooth outward appearance being achieved because everything underneath is under perfectly balanced tension. A perfectly balanced tension that is intense enough that there is always some fear of tearing.]

Think of someone who is doing their very best to conceal that they are in pain but you can see it. We might respond to such a person by telling them we know they are in pain in order that they know we care and sympathize. But suppose they had very good reason to keep this a secret from others. In that circumstance, we might want to pretend we didn't notice the pain to help. If we were really confident of our abilities, we might want to occasionally let it show that we understood in a way that only the person concealing their pain would know we knew, intending by this to show we support them.

But it would be a delicate manœuvering to achieve this. And that is where Elinor is. She wants Edward to know she sympathizes but she is aware that it will only make his life more difficult if he thinks she knows he loves her.

Why?

Because they both believe constancy is important. They both see this virtue is the foundation that the whole house of virtues is built on. No matter how much Elinor wants Edward (and she craves him) she can only want him if he has constancy. She can only want him of he will keep his promise to marry Lucy.

There is a double standard. A woman can end an engagement even though a man cannot. The only way out is if Lucy releases Edward.

Elinor is not without self interest. She means to get Edward is she can and it is not hard to see her taking a certain pleasure in the difficulties standing in the way of any marriage between Edward and Lucy. For example, consider her musings about what she has learned of the predicament from the elder Miss Steele.

Elinor was left in possession of knowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though she had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen and foreplanned in her own mind. Edward's marriage with Lucy was as firmly determined on, and the time of its taking place remained as absolutely uncertain, as she had concluded it would be; -- everything depended, exactly after her expectation, on his getting that preferment, of which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance. 

It's hard not to see a certain self-satisfaction in that. 

But how will she act? We'll see.

In our world, the sort of intimacy that feeds Elinor's desire for reserve in feelings is largely gone.

Meanwhile Elinor is ...

Marianne has been doing her Ophelia routine, sitting around moping, playing favourite songs over and over again, getting morally self-righteous.

This last is an interesting part of the Ophelia sensibility--an extreme intolerance for injustice in the world. Neither Austen nor Shakespeare connects the dots on this but it is no doubt a function of projecting one's own feelings of having been unjustly treated onto the whole world. The need for personal vindication after having been treated badly by someone who was supposed to love us makes us see everything in terms of the innocent trampled by the unjust.

This never occurred to me before now typing this, but I was like that once about twenty years ago now.

Anyway, what of Elinor? Oddly enough for those who believe that this is a book about too much sensibility versus too much sense, Elinor now begins a slow and steady evolution towards more sense. That is to say, she becomes even less like her sister and her mother.

We get our first hint of this when Willoughby's perfidy is generally known and Elinor has to deal with the well-meaning but unhelpful responses of her friends. After noting that the coolness and distance of Lady Middleton is easier to bear than the effusive support of others, Austen observes that Elinor "was sometimes worried down by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to comfort than good-nature."

It's the reluctant acceptance of good breeding that is telling here. If we have taken Elinor to be a binary opposite to Marianne, this should not be. What we are seeing in these chapters is not the two girls moving closer together but two girls who were once to one side of divide—one more extreme than the other—both finding their understanding of the world challenged. One, Marianne, is digging in her heels and refusing to give up her former vies, while Elinor is moving more easily into the sense camp.

When the uncomfortable meeting between Lucy, Edward and Elinor takes place, Elinor is firmly determined to hide her feelings and let only her good nature show:

But Elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and her own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment's recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost easy and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still improved them. She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much regretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley Street. She would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of Lucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her. 

And then Marianne walks into the room and is nothing but good-natured and is absolutely useless to everyone raising everyone's level of discomfort.

Elinor's increased focus on sense does not come at the expense of her sensibilities but she is rather cool in her responses. I particularly love her response to the opinions of Mr. Robert Ferrars: "Elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the compliment of rational opposition."

More sincerity

Wittgenstein at one point challenges a classic sci-fi notion. You can, of course, imagine a world in which everyone is but you is an automaton but try walking down the street imagining that everyone you see is actually an automaton. You can't do it.

We had a reminder of this yesterday afternoon when we walked Montmorency down by the waterfront here in Barrie. As we walked along he boardwalk, Montmorency walked up to people expecting to be loved as he always is. One guy, however, reached forward and pushed him away. It was odd because Montmorency had already figured out there was no love forthcoming and was walking past him.

Everything about the guy was creepy. He didn't say a word and couldn't even make eye contact. Just another creepy loser as I say and you just hope his creepiness is confined to the kinds that doesn't involve hurting people.

But you see right away that something, sincere human feeling, is missing in the guy.

Where is the sin in sincere?

I'm on the road—sitting in a discount hotel by the highway in Barrie, Ontario as I type this. Besides the highway, you can see several other discount hotels.

Anyway, the long overdue Jane Austen entry. The Serpentine One and I listened to Sense and Sensibility in the car driving over. It got me thinking about sincerity. Sincerity gets a lot of abuse. If we are to trust Lionel Trilling and Alasdair MacIntyre, it isn't much of a virtue at all.

Trilling would have us believe that authenticity is the real virtue. Further, both men would have us believe that Jane Austen is one of the people who first deconstructs sincerity.

And it isn't hard to see why they might think this reading this book and Mansfield Park. In both the man who can read with great feeling is revealed to be a cad and the men who can only be themselves seem better. This reading of Austen is reminiscent of the old show business joke: "Sincerity is the key, once you can fake that ..."

But that is clearly too simple a reading. When Brandon and Elinor discuss Marianne, Brandon says he wouldn't like to see Marianne disabused of her romantic ideals at all. He worries they would be replaced by something baser.

Sincerity arises because we want to know if ourselves and others are really what we say we are. Am I in love? Well, do I really mean it when I say I am? This is a question about feelings.

And that does matter. It matters a whole lot whether or not I am sincere. Take away sincerity from my love and all that is left is animal instincts. That is Brandon's point and it is a good one.

I know what you're thinking:

As Coroner I must aver, I thoroughly examined her, and she's not only merely dead, she's really most sincerely dead.

But that is a joke. Likewise, it is only as a joke that we would say that a rapist is sincere. Sincere does not mean simply that I really want to do X. It doesn't mean it as in "I must sincerely say I really hate you."

Marianne is right about feelings.

Two liars

Having satisfactorily determined that Edward is indeed guilty of something but forgivably guilty and that he cannot truly be in love with Lucy Steele any more, Elinor plans her course of action. She has no real reason for hope at this point. At least none that she tells us of but one slim reason for hope will reveal itself as we go along.

So what does she decide to do? She decides to lie to Lucy. Not just for the pleasure of fooling Lucy—although Elinor does enjoy doing that—but to solicit information.

Now, a bit of a digression on morality. If you believe that morality consists of dutifully following rules—and most people do—this will come as a bit of a shock. That ethics, which is formally called deontology is the dominant way of thinking about ethics in our time. Jane Austen's ethics are virtue ethics. That ethics is based on performance and character.

So let's look at the performance. Elinor doesn't just lie, she lies really well.

"Thank you," cried Lucy warmly, "for breaking the ice; you have set my heart at ease by it; for I was somehow or other afraid I had offended you by what I told you that Monday."

"Offended me! How could you suppose so? Believe me," and Elinor spoke it with the truest sincerity, "nothing could be farther from my intention, than to give you such an idea. Could you have a motive for the trust that was not honourable and flattering to me?" 

 "Elinor spoke with the truest sincerity." And she did. Nothing could be further from her intention than to give Lucy reason to believe that she was offended. It's a nice trick BTW. If you need to lie, emphasize any phrases you speak that are actually true.

And then this beautiful dig: "Could you have a motive for the trust that was not honourable and flattering to me?" But of course Lucy did. She only mentioned her engagement to Elinor to open up a wound in Elinor that she now plans to rub salt in.

It's not that Lucy is a bitch and Elinor isn't. To the contrary, Elinor is much better at being a bitch than Lucy. Quite frankly, we have good reason to believe she is better at everything than Lucy; and and is going to be be better at everything she undertakes if you catch my drift.

And on we go. In the course of a chapter in which neither of the women stops lying for even a second, Elinor learns want she wants to learn. She confirms that Lucy is self-serving and has a weak character. And she demonstrates her own strength of character. Do go and read it again. It is is something of a measure of Austen that she shows us more with lies than most writers can do with truths.

Off to London
And then we get the manœuvering to get the two sisters off to London. There is a bit of story telling going on here.  I mean by that that I'm reminded of certain action movies wherein the hero deplores violence even though he is a great martial arts expert. Luckily for him, his opponents keep putting him in situations where he has no choice but to reluctantly use his power. And so poor Elinor, who only wants to stay at home and do needlepoint and read to her mother, is reluctantly obliged to go to London where she will be in her very element.

Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes, with less reluctance than she had expected to feel. With regard to herself, it was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not; and when she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all her usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow herself to distrust the consequence. 

With "less reluctance" indeed. Had this been a martial arts movie—and it bears more similarity than some Austen fans might be willing to admit—this would be the moment when the hero quietly packs his or her Ninja gear. Elinor's Ninja gear doesn't need packing, however, because she carries it with her all the time in her character. Like any person of real virtue, she thrives on using her virtue to achieve things. (And not, I will point out for the umpteenth time, by sheltering it like Pamela and her virginity.)

We also see a brief glimpse of something positive in Marianne in this paragraph. Now that she is going to London, where she might see Willoughby, Marianne is again hopeful.

Unfortunately, hope for Marianne is just a feeling and it is focused entirely on her goal. Pretty soon we see her at her old selfish ways, caring only for the things her sensibilities validate and otherwise treating opther people as conveniences.

They were three days on their journey, and Marianne's behaviour as they travelled was a happy specimen of what her 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. To atone for this conduct, therefore, Elinor took immediate possession of the post of civility which she had assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to Mrs. Jennings, talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever she could ....

Okay, Austen does rather lay it on with a trowel at times. The first part here describing Marianne's selfishness is perfectly apt. We rebel a little, and rightfully so, at the description of Elinor atoning for Marianne. This writing is bad enough to be something by one of the Brontës—and for the same reason—Elinor is being a  demure little romantic victim just like the insufferable Jane Eyre or the even more insufferable Agnes Grey will be.

What redeems her, however, is her sense; something no one would accuse a Brontë or one of their heroines of having . I mentioned up at the top that Elinor has little reason to be hopeful—an issue she dwells on herself during a quiet moment. But she does have reason to continue to esteem Edward even if it now looks as if her chances of marrying him are minuscule.

And she continues to esteem him for the very quality that she worries that Willoughby lacks, constancy. Edward, and Brandon as we see when he appears, has constancy. And so does Elinor. If we read Austen well, we will recognize that the actual outcome matters little at this point. Elinor's life will be one of virtue whether she marries Edward or not.

That, by the way, is the big reason Austen's comedic endings are so successful. Her endings would be less pleasing if the heroine did not get the right kind of marriage for her troubles but they would still be convincing from a moral perspective either way

To the end of Book one

The rape of the locks
When Willoughby procures a lock of Marianne's hair—and we never really know whether she actually says yes to his doing so—Elinor takes this as proof that the couple are to be engaged.

This sort of interaction seems ambiguous to us today. Perhaps we might sense something special about a woman willingly handing over something that was once part of her but that sort of signal seems to have no place in our modern exchanges.

Moving the plot along

A sort of syncopated approach today.

Willoughby leaves
And what to make of it? Well, that's what all the characters are also trying to do, so let's just leave it until we know better.

Marianne's reaction to the departure
Now, this is interesting. 

Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby. She would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than when she lay down in it. But the feelings which made such composure a disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it. She was awake the whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it. She got up with an headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment; giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all attempt at consolation from either. Her sensibility was potent enough! 

Some have read this as proof that Marianne is just acting the part but I think that is wrong. Note first the sentence: "But the feelings which made such composure a disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it." Then note the last sentence: "Her sensibility was potent enough!" The exposition here is, I think, a glance inside Marianne's head but it doesn't show her acting the part it shows her doubting her heroic status. Luckily, her feelings are potent enough.

The question we might ask ourselves, however, is how exactly does her heroism differ from narcissism? Let's go back to the contrast between feelings natural and feelings heroic from Northanger Abbey:

Feelings rather natural than heroic possessed her; instead of considering her own dignity injured ....

Doesn't Marianne do the exact opposite here. That is to say, isn't her own dignity the first, second and last thing she thinks of? She is possessed by feelings heroic rather than natural.

[And, as I have suggested before, we should keep Hamlet and Ophelia in mind when we think of Willoughby and Marianne.  How exactly does the romantic hero differ from a narcissist?]


The arrival of Edward Ferrars
Now, here something fascinating happens. We get a  scene that ought to feel heavy-handed but does not. I mean the scene where Elinor says that wealth is important and Marianne claims she would be happy with only "a competence". Marianne's competence, as Elinor predicts, turns out to be the exact amount of Elinor's wealth.

While this is going on, however, Austen slips an interesting revelation into the mix. Let's flash back a bit. Remember how when Marianne criticized Edward's lack of sensibility and Elinor responded that she and he had been "a good deal thrown together" and that, therefore, she knew his opinions on art and literature, better that Marianne? Well, we suddenly learn ow that Marianne and Edward have a whole history of talking about these things. He knows her opinions, he knows her favourite authors.

Now, we might be tempted to think that he knows these things because Elinor and he have discussed Marianne but there is a very good reason to conclude not.

The picturesque
As I have said before, there is a discussion of the picturesque in every single Austen novel. When it comes up here, in Chapter 18, we learn that Edward has a whole series of defence mechanisms in place to use against Marianne.

"You must not inquire too far, Marianne -- remember, I have no knowledge in the picturesque, and I shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste, if we come to particulars. I shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold! surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere. You must be satisfied with such admiration as I can honestly give. I call it a very fine country -- the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug -- with rich meadows and several neat farm houses scattered here and there. It exactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with utility -- and I dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you admire it; I can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me. I know nothing of the picturesque."

"I am afraid it is but too true," said Marianne; "but why should you boast of it?" 

The crucial detail here is that Edward is lying in the emphasized text. He says he has no knowledge if the picturesque but goes on to show us that he knows it very well. he uses all the correct vocabulary in the correct way while supposing to demonstrate that he cannot. And Marianne misses it entirely.

There is an implied backstory here that Austen leaves up to our imagination. Marianne obviously made some attempt to shape Edward's sensibilities just as she did with Willoughby. But Edward rebuffed her. Did she try to win him over in love too? My guess is yes. And Edward rebuffed her.

And how like Marianne to see a man's rejecting her as evidence of his lack of sensibility!

The rape of locks on Thursday.

Oh yeah, before moving on, catch this:

 "I wish with all my soul," cried Sir John, "that Willoughby were among us again."

This, and Marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to Edward. "And who is Willoughby?" said he, in a low voice, to Miss Dashwood, by whom he was sitting.

She gave him a brief reply. Marianne's countenance was more communicative. Edward saw enough to comprehend not only the meaning of others, but such of Marianne's expressions as had puzzled him before; and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round to her and said, in a whisper, "I have been guessing. Shall I tell you my guess?"

"What do you mean?"

"Shall I tell you?"

"Certainly."

"Well, then, I guess that Mr. Willoughby hunts."

Marianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling at the quiet archness of his manner, and, after a moment's silence, said, "Oh! Edward! How can you? -- But the time will come, I hope... I am sure you will like him."

"I do not doubt it," replied he, rather astonished at her earnestness and warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of her acquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing between Mr. Willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to mention it.

Interesting, isn't it, that Marianne is suprised and confused to find that Edward was able to figure this out? She has no notion of how easy it is for others to read her behaviour. She is so focused on her feelings that she can't see that the very people she disdains have no trouble understanding her.

Making sense of sensibility

Is it possible for me to describe an experience someone else has not felt in a way that makes sense to them?

In some sense, the answer is yes. People who were born blind can come to have some understanding of colour. They can, for example, use expressions such as "red hot" or "cool blue" in a meaningful way. They can even grasp a whole lot of the meanings for "black" and "white" such as meaning opposites, a clear distinction or in racial terms.

But we would still say, for all that, they cannot know what it is to be conscious of redness.

So I can imagine meeting someone whose ability to experience things is more profound than mine and still have a meaningful conversation with her about her experiences. But what is that ability? The Serpentine One can hear nuance in music that I cannot. I know this because she will sometimes say something about a piece and I will go look up the score and find out she is right. I trust that sort of claim by her and others because I know there is such a thing as musical expertise. Maybe if I'd been a more determined student of music I might have developed a similar expertise.

But is there anything else? I mean, is there general quality called consciousness that we can speak of in degrees. Everyone can be conscious of course and some people can be conscious of things that others are not. But does it make sense to say that one of two people looking at the same red blanket experiences it more profoundly because of their greater consciousness?

If we could then it would make sense to say the following, as Harold Bloom does:

Hamlet appears to immense a consciousness for Hamlet ...

I read that and I keep thinking, how could this be? What is an immense consciousness? And isn't this just appalling vanity on Bloom's part? How could he know this unless he too had an "immense consciousness"?

And this is important because it is Hamlet's consciousness that justifies the man in the eyes of Bloom (and others). As I've said before, if we judge him the way we would judge anyone else, Hamlet is villain.

1. His treatment of Ophelia is appalling.
2. He stabs Polonius in a fit of mad rage and later feels no remorse for having done so.
3. He abuses all sorts of minor figures he runs across for no reason other than because they toady up to him when they don't have much choice but to do so.
4. He not only wants to kill Claudius, he wants to do so at a time that will ensure his damnation.
5. He jumps into Ophelia's grave and fights with her grieving brother because, get this, he is unhappy with the way Laertes is expressing himself.
6. He not only has Rosencrantz and Guildenstern killed he insists that they be killed before they can make any confession of their sins. Not only does he have two people whom he has no reason to believe guilty of anything killed, he has it done in a way that is calculated to ensure their damnation. And when he tells us of this, he tells us that they are nothing to him.

And there is more that I could cite. And yet Hamlet is seen as a hero. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern aren't just nothings to Hamlet, they are nothings to modern audiences. Some productions have the men playing two characters switch roles confident that no one will notice.

It's not just Hamlet by the way. We all take Achilles to be a hero and yet if you list the actual acts of Achilles he is an appalling villain. Don't believe me? Well, read a summary yourself and see what you think.

You could do an equally damning chronology for the Bible's Kind David.

So, to get back to Sense and Sensibility, in what sense could the greater sensibilities of Marianne and Willoughby justify them given that both do things normally would be taken as moral evils. Does their greater sensibility someone change the significance of these acts?


We should keep an eye out for the words "significance" and "signify" by the way, particularly signify. Only two characters in the novel use the word signify but every time they do use that word it is terribly important. And yes, one of the two is Mrs. Jennings. No, the other one is not Elinor.

Austen's Classicism

Back in the saddle again. Real life got me a bit too busy to do much blogging for a while there.

One of the things that I think is really important when reading Jane Austen is to have a good edition. There is a really easy test to determine whether your edition is or is not. Check to see if it is split up into three volumes. Because, outside Northanger Abbey all the Austen books were originally written in three volumes. If you went to a lending library in the early 19th century—and this is where most people got their reading—you would have gotten not all of Sense and Sensibility but one third of it. When you were finished that one third, you would have returned it and then paid to borrow the next third.

Now that may seem like so much artificial nonsense now. We don't do that and, damnit, I want the whole book.

But Jane Austen wrote her books with this structure in mind. She didn't write until the page count hit a hundred and twenty and then pack that off as volume one. She constructed each volume as a unit with a story that builds up to a crucial turning point and then works its way towards a significant ending. Only the last volume is meant to have a satisfying ending such that we can put the book down contented but the others have endings. It may not seem like much but having an edition that shows you where the volumes begin and end tells us how the action flows. If we just have all the chapters consecutively numbered with no volume breaks, we can miss these transitions.

[I wish this weren't the case, but the worst offenders here are American publishers. And it's not just Jane Austen books, in reading almost any great English novel, Americans are better off if you spend the time and money to get a good foreign edition. That is also true of French novels by the way. Even if you are reading in translation, try and get a quality British edition.]

In any case, we have just passed the climax of Volume 1. The very centre of this first volume is all about Mrs. Jennings the sleuth. It is about her need to uncover what Colonel Brandon's business in town is and to uncover what Willoughby and Marianne were up to when he whisks her away in his curricle.

If we read Volume 1, Chapter 13 again, in a dispassionate way, the stunning thing about it is that Mrs. Jennings gets more lines than anyone else. Recall it in your imagination and you will think about the visit to Allenham or maybe Colonel Brandon's departure. But all three of these characters are determined to keep their lives as secret as possible.

What really happens here is that Mrs. Jennings very determinedly, and successfully drags the feelings of Colonel Brandon and then Marianne and Willoughby out  into the light. She doesn't get all the facts (not yet anyway). We don't know what the Colonel's business is and we don't know what did or didn't happen on the threshing room floor at Allenham. But the sensibilities—the things that Marianne and Willoughby believe to be the source of their superiority over anyone as crude as Mrs. Jennings—she gets at with no troubles at all.

And she isn't here as a plot device. That is to say, she isn't in the story merely to provide a convenient way for us to discover what otherwise would be a secret. We couldn't replace her with exposition or with the camera. No, the whole point of the chapter is to show us how the world really works. No matter how little Willoughby and Marianne think of Mrs. Jennings, she is a formidable character.

And now, dear reader, I want you to consider a rather unattractive proposition. Who else in this story resembles Mrs. Jennings? Who else is a crude voyeur hungry for the juicy details of these people's lives?

Why yes, we are. No matter whom we might fantasize about being in this story, Mrs. Jennings is who we are most like. And that is telling, no?

And let's not content ourselves with the notion that we are interested in the finer things, that our curiosity is not, after all, pornographic. Because neither is Mrs. Jennings' curiosity.  She doesn't wonder what the couple did at Allenham, she is interested in the path of the relationship just like we are.  There is no more accurate portrait of a devoted Jane Austen fan than Mrs. Jennings.

Be honest, when you replay this in your mind, don't you minimize her? Wouldn't you rather focus on all the elements that are most fun to watch, to dream about and to imagine? But we also minimize ourselves don't we? We want to disappear in the face of the story. We want to forget that we are leering voyeurs hungry to learn the intimate details of these people's lives. Jane Austen won't play ball with our fantasies, however and she determinedly forces Mrs. Jennings on us.

At the climax of Volume 2—and the climax of the whole book—when Marianne's letters to Willoughby are revealed to us, Mrs. Jennings will be there. At the climax of Volume 3, Marianne's dangerous illness, Mrs. Jennings will be there. We can't say she is the most important character because the story isn't her story but it is very much about her.

And she has to be there because—make sure you swallow any liquids before reading further—because Mrs. Jennings is the voice of sense in Sense and Sensibility. Any time we might get tired of all these people going on with their feelings and we want to ask ourselves but what is the real meaning and significance of this, Mrs. Jennings, and not Elinor Dashwood, is our guide.

And that is important to remember lest we make the crude and ignorant mistake that critic Jane Nardin makes. She thinks that Elinor Dashwood's standards of propriety are "excessively rigid and stoical". Jane Austen doesn't have any illusions about standards of propriety because, for her, they grow out of the facts of life. Like Margaret Thatcher, Jane Austen is quite willing to accept that the facts of life are blunt and brutal things and it is this understanding that made both women conservative. Ms. Nardin correctly notes that Elizabeth Bennet's standards of decorous behaviour are easier to swallow than Elinor's but forgets that Elizabeth comes to see that her standards are not good enough; forgets that she comes to accept the more rigid standards of Mr. Darcy as superior.

Manners are never a perfect reflection of truths about character and moral truth in Jane Austen but it always turns out to be the case that attempts to throw manners aside and just "get to reality" fail. (And the most spectacular of these failings is Captain Wentworth. He has to be humbled before he can be happy.)

In this respect, it is worthwhile noting what a philosophically sophisticated writer Jane Austen was. There is always an entire world of sense outside our sensibilities but Jane Austen would never descend to the crude and vulgar realism of a Voltaire. We, rightly, see Austen pushing away the excesses of Romanticism here but she is also pushing off the excesses of Enlightenment rationalism. (I almost said crude Enlightenment rationalism but there is no other kind.)

She also never forgets that neither stories nor reality have an independent existence.  She always knows that the story has to have readers to exist and she is always right there reading it along with us.

What is sense?

A bit more about the conflict between Elinor and Marianne.

Last night I was at a course for people who provide care for people with serious and incurable illness including those dying of these illnesses. The facilitator was making some very good points but at one point she said something quite jarring. She said "feelings can't be wrong."

In context, what she meant by that was "You can't be wrong about your own feelings." I didn't debate the point because what she wanted us to learn is that when a person in need of caring talks about their feelings you should let them and you should pay attention to what they say about those feelings. That's true. That said, you can be wrong about your feelings. You can determine that you feel cheated when you really feel threatened, for example.

It is also often maintained that feelings cannot be wrong in a logical sense. Whether or not Bill is actually being neglected, the argument will go, he can't be wrong about feeling neglected.

Part of the problem here is the vocabulary we use. If we take feelings as reporting facts about ourselves, then the notion of their being wrong seems crazy. But let's expand our vocabulary a bit. Feelings, very "real" feelings, can be inappropriate. Feelings can also be premature, unjustified, unrestrained, self-defeating.

As Elinor tries to convince Marianne (and Willoughby) to respect sense, she runs into the flip side of that problem. Because sense also does not tie neatly with binary notions of truth and falsehood. So when Elinor says that Colonel Brandon is esteemed by others, Willoughby can simply reply that those others—Mrs. Jennings and Lady Middleton—are boors. Why should he take their judgments seriously?

Marianne learns this lesson from him and when Elinor later tries convince Marianne that she has caused scandal by going to Allenham alone with Willoughby, Marianne uses the same response.

"If the impertinent remarks of Mrs. Jennings are to be the proof of impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives. I value not her censure any more than I should do her commendation. I am not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over Mrs. Smith's grounds, or in seeing her house. They will one day be Mr. Willoughby's, and" -- -- 

 And what exactly? We all know what Marianne is assuming will happen.

In any case, her argument is interesting in two regards. First, she also takes it as a given that feelings cannot be wrong. She is not sensible of doing anything wrong, ergo she didn't do anything wrong.

Second, though, and maybe more significant here, Elinor does not have a slam dunk reply either. For, as Pilate might say, "What is sense?" It's not synonymous with truth in that truth can imply a moral significance. Nothing about Mrs. Jennings, however, inspires great moral awe and Marianne is well within her rights to refuse to take her judgments seriously. So far anyway.

What can Elinor say? Well here is what she does say:

"If they [meaning Allenham and its grounds] were one day to be your own, Marianne, you would not be justified in what you have done." 

Notice that the objective sense of what Elinor is saying is that the impropriety is sexual. If Marianne were engaged to Mr. Willoughby, it would still be wrong. We can't ignore sexuality here. It runs through everything that happens in this book.

And Marianne's reaction is fascinating.

She blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her; and after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her sister again, and said with great good humour, "Perhaps, Elinor, it was rather ill-judged in me to go to Allenham; but Mr. Willoughby wanted particularly to shew me the place; and it is a charming house I assure you. ...

Elinor can get Marianne to recognize that she has done something wrong but she can't get Marianne to feel the wrongness of it. (Note also that feelings aren't private. We forget so easily but others can read what Marianne is feeling right off of her face. Even things that she is feeling in   .. how to put this delicately...how about they can even read things she is feeling in an intimate way from her facial expressions.)

Suddenly it is beginning to look like sense and sensibility aren't opposites even though they are different things. We might even begin to wonder if they aren't a little like pitch and rhythm. To make music, you need both. Marianne is a lot like someone who has only listened to pop music all her life. She is aware, although not profoundly aware, of pitch and harmony but she only feels the rhythm. She hasn't developed any feeling for the rightness or wrongness of the notes she is striking.

Elinor comes along ...

... and seems determined to spoil everything.

"Well, Marianne," said Elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for one morning I think you have done pretty well. You have already ascertained Mr. Willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of importance. You know what he thinks of Cowper and Scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring Pope no more than is proper. But how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such extraordinary dispatch of every subject for discourse! You will soon have exhausted each favourite topic. Another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask -- -"

And here we have a short version (only two names) of that familiar list poets again. These same poets come up for young Anne Shirley a century later. No one reads them now but they had very impressive staying power in their day. I'd guess the Beatles—coming up on fifty years now—will not last nearly as long in the public consciousness.

And then there is that new name. Alexander Pope does noes not feature much in the imaginations of Romantically inclined girls. And Marianne, as a good Romantic, has been sure to determine that Willoughby does not admire Pope too much.

Pope's most famous work is The Rape of the Lock. It's interesting because it makes much comedy out of girls like Elinor and Marianne. It's also interesting because it trades on the theft of a lock of hair. Pretty soon in our story we are going to have three girls obsessing about locks of hair that may or may not have been obtained by theft.

The "rape" of the lock is about a crime against a symbol. The lock symbolizes the girl's body and the theft of it is, therefore, symbolic rape. Pope teases the targets of his satire for taking the symbolic act as having the same moral consequence as the real thing. It's a mistake we could see Elinor and Marianne having in this story except that neither is offended at the thought when it happens. Quite the opposite in fact. (BTW: I'll come back to this but I'd say Austen means to be critical of Pope too albeit for different reasons than Marianne. Her point will be that symbolic sexual exchanges are very important indeed and not something to be laughed off as the product of silly girls' imaginations.)

Which brings us to that perennial question: Does Marianne put out or doesn't she? As I've said before, I think you can read it either way. What you can't do is to read it both ways at the same time. It's like one of those optical illusions that is either a woman sitting at her vanity with a mirror or a skull. You can alternate but you can't see both images simultaneously.

Austen plainly wants us to think about sex here. It is in the bit I cite above that the issue of second loves—a major sticking point for Marianne—comes up for the first time. By having Elinor say "second marriages" with the implication of consummated love, Austen tips the scales in a decided way.

But not so far as to oblige us to imagine there is actual sex between Willoughby and Marianne. What we have to have to accept is the tension. They are headed that way and given enough time, they would.

Elinor can see this. Marianne, as her reaction will now show does not. All she sees is a sort of foolish decorum that doesn't apply to a heroine like herself:

"Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of decorum! I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful. Had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared." 

Any young man of five-and-twenty

Lest this one slide by too easily, let's do the arithmetic. Willoughby is nine years older than Marianne. And not just any nine years, he is the nine years between 25, which is to say very much a man, and 16, which is to say very much a girl. For us it is, while technically not a crime, deeply immoral behaviour on his part and on her mother's part to let this romance happen.

Earlier we discussed the larger gap between Colonel Brandon and Marianne and between the Middletons. These age differences do not bother Jane Austen. In the town where I grew up—a rough and ready mill town—anyone doing what Willoughby does here, falling for the charms of a sixteen year old, would have been beaten for his trouble. Nowhere I know of would he be approved.

For Jane Austen and her time, it's a non-issue and that is worth remembering as we read this.

Our heroine rises to the occasion

One of my more unpopular opinions is that there is no point get upset about bad adaptations of Jane Austen because even the "good" ones seriously misrepresent her.

For example consider the 2008 version of Sense and Sensibility. I've read people getting upset about the "sex scene" before the credits and the duel. But both events are in the novel and that sex is hardly very sexual. The hundreds of shots of heaving breasts in empire-waist gowns in other filmed versions of Austen are far more shamelessly erotic.

In any case, both of these things—I mean the sex and the duel not the two heaving breasts—very clearly appear in the novel.

Something that no one gets very bothered about in the 2008 version is the scene where Willoughby pulls out a copy of Byron and educates Marianne about Romantic poetry. It's not just that Byron was still an unknown as the events in the book took place. The problem is that in the book it is Marianne who educates Willoughby about poetry.

Let's go to the text. Willoughby comes back the day after rescuing Marianne (Austen begins the chapter by mocking that rescue). Austen sets up his reaction by having the exposition suddenly become very male. And let's remember that Willoughby could, at this point, go for either sister.

 Miss Dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a remarkably pretty figure. Marianne was still handsomer. Her form, though not so correct as her sister's, in having the advantage of height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when, in the common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently outraged than usually happens. Her skin was very brown, but from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness which could hardly be seen without delight.

 This is—I categorically state on my own authority—a pretty classic male reaction and solid evidence that Austen really gets male attitudes.

Austen has not spent much time discussing the appearance of the two eldest Dashwood sisters before now. Now that a man is checking them out, she moves to that point. And one of the first things that the exposition notes is that, objectively speaking, Elinor has a better body than Marianne. Yes, I now it says so in English that seems more elegant than that but Austen says it in the ordinary talk of her day.

And I could put it more crudely if you want. "Elinor has nicer breasts but Marianne is taller and has a prettier face." That is the sentiment behind the language here.

Soon, however, personality takes over. It's not the eyes but the expression in them. Marianne Dashwood hits John Willoughby like a tsunami. It's not her looks that win the day—her sister is more than reasonable competition—what dooms him is her mind, her expression and her behaviour.

Read what happens when they discuss poetry and we see that every time Willoughby shows any initiative of his own, Marianne washes over him like another wave:

Encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous a delight, that any young man of five-and-twenty must have been insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence of such works, however disregarded before. Their taste was strikingly alike. The same books, the same passages were idolized by each -- or, if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed. He acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm, and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance. 

This effect is even more marked in Pride and Prejudice by the way. Eliza is the one who does in poor Mr. Darcy.

And here we come up against what might be called the Republic of Pemberley mindset. That is people who get upset not because the filmed version isn't true to Jane Austen but because it isn't true to their fantasies about Colin Firth improbably falling in love with them. For these fantasists, this all happens in a world where sex is absent. So much absent that they don't want to be reminded that Jane Bennet is considerably more attractive than her sister Eliza or that Elinor has a better body than Marianne and that Jane Austen is not only aware of sex, it is  major driving force in Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice and Mansfield Park.

Women in Austen do not "sit around waiting for things to happen to them" as Margaret Dashwood says in the 2008 television version. John Willoughby shows up after some boredom but Marianne Dashwood happens to him, he does not happen to her. And this is crucial because otherwise this is just another maudlin tale of an innocent girl swept up by a cheap seducer. Another tale in which virtue is reduced to the possession of a hymen. Willoughby is a schnook to be sure but what happens to Marianne in this story is very much her fault. That it is her fault is the whole point of the novel.

Here he comes

Marianne has fallen and sprained her ankle. Fortunately, there is a hero present and he goes to work:

  A gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was passing up the hill and within a few yards of Marianne, when her accident happened. He put down his gun and ran to her assistance. She had raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in the fall, and she was scarcely able to stand. The gentleman offered his services, and perceiving that her modesty declined what her situation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther delay, and carried her down the hill. Then passing through the garden, the gate of which had been left open by Margaret, he bore her directly into the house, whither Margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his hold till he had seated her in a chair in the parlour.

   Elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and while the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a secret admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he apologized for his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and so graceful, that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, received additional charms from his voice and expression. Had he been even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of Mrs. Dashwood would have been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the action which came home to her feelings.

   She thanked him again and again; and with a sweetness of address which always attended her, invited him to be seated. But this he declined, as he was dirty and wet. Mrs. Dashwood then begged to know to whom she was obliged. His name, he replied, was Willoughby, and his present home was at Allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the honour of calling to-morrow to inquire after Miss Dashwood. The honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more interesting, in the midst of an heavy rain. 

I try to keep my vulgar alter ego out of these discussions but here I think I should allow him to  crudely draw our attention to the unsavoury but undeniable fact that the three women are probably adding as much humidity to this scene as the heavy rain is.

As long as my vulgar alter ego is here ...

... he'd like to add something.

Our hero, as I say, distinguishes himself by his actions. Any remotely creative mind ought to be able to transpose those actions to other situations. In that light, consider the following action (with emphasis added):

The gentleman offered his services, and perceiving that her modesty declined what her situation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther delay, and carried her down the hill.

Any sixteen-and-half-year-old girl who can't distill a good sexual fantasy out of that bit of brew doesn't deserve to be a girl.

Action is character

This is quite simply true. There may well be other ways to express character but nothing expresses it better than action. As Wittgenstein said, the human body is the best picture of the human soul and nothing tells us of the character of a person better than what they do with their body.

Long before F. Scott Fitzgerald, the authors of medieval romances had figured this out. When Roland meets some evil character holding a damsel hostage, he does not deliberate. He also does not wonder if he is up to the task or worry about dying. He also doesn't worry if it might be better to hold off for fear the damsel might get hurt. He simply acts. Out comes his sword, off goes the villains head and Roland carries away the damsel to safety.

Do things sometimes go wrong for Roland? Yup. And when they do he mourns and suffers but he never changes. Next time he faces a crisis, out comes the sword and he is at it again.

The hero of medieval romance played a large part in the development of the Romantic hero. When we see Willoughby, he lives up to that ideal perfectly.