Happiness

The happiness of Elinor.

Posted: 1 March 2008 (printer-friendly permalink)

Happiness

Elinor’s Story

Willoughby Hunts

Colonel Brandon’s Proposal

Elinor and Mrs Dashwood

Elinor’s Crisis

Edward Arrives

Discussion:  (huh?)

Happiness

It matters far more that the most deeply disturbing aspect of all anti-jacobin novels, their inhumanity, affects this novel more than Jane Austen’s skilled mature work.  In a way, Sense and Sensibility is worse affected than many clumsy works by lesser writers, because it is written naturally, and with more insight into at least some aspects of the inner life.  The reader has far too much real sympathy with Marianne in her sufferings to refrain from valuing her precisely on this account. […] Unfortunately, in flat opposition to the author’s obvious intention, we tend to approach Marianne subjectively.  Right or wrong, she has our sympathy: she, and our responses to her, are outside Jane Austen’s control.

Marilyn Butler, Jane Austen and the War of Ideas, p. 195-6

The author probably had a better handle on our responses than she has been given credit for, and the novel was well received, but Butler, like many critics, adheres to the idea that the novel is a kind of rigged popularity contest in which the reader is manipulated into preferring the ethical prudent heroine over the natural passionate heroine.  If Austen were really doing this then it poses her the problem of how much Elinor should suffer (or be seen to suffer): if she suffers then why should anyone go to all the effort to be sensible; if she doesn’t suffer the reader’s sympathy ends up with the wrong candidate.  Was Austen too dim to see this problem?

The idea that the novels use the devices of sentimental fiction as a tool of propaganda in an ideological war is central to Butler’s thesis but we have been arguing that Austen’s projects was  less sentimental and more critical, indeed criticising the very notion that sentiment can be used to form judgements that are at all coherent without critical assistance (or that meaningful judgement is possible in the absence of candour).

For Austen’s scheme to hold up the simple morality tale must hold as each layer is peeled off the onion, and this is the most delicious irony, that the simplistic morality tale continues to confront the critic as each layer is removed.  Elinor, despite having to cope with the malicious machinations of Lucy, that perversion of prudence, fairs better that Marianne does with Willoughby, the ‘extravagant and vain’[1] corruption of sensibility; and after her illness the reformed Marianne shows better prospects in her quest for happiness and fulfilment.

There is of course no reason at all why the reader shouldn’t be sympathetic to Marianne, and extend this sympathy to every other character in the novel—the more the better—as long as the respective causes of confusion and misery, balance and happiness are understood.  As Elinor says,

"No, Marianne, never.  My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the understanding.  All I have ever attempted to influence has been the behaviour. You must not confound my meaning.  I am guilty, I confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"

Vol. I, Ch. XVII (17.39)

Being sympathetic to the pre-illness Marianne doesn’t mean the reader has to ‘conform to [her] judgment in serious matters’.

Jane Austen made vivid the horrors of living socially.  The many scenes with the Dashwoods are filled with grating stupidity and nastiness, shrieking children and unendurable disputes about their height.  Elinor’s insight shields her from none of this, but both her and Marianne are finally granted peace – one of the profoundest blessings in their world: ‘among the merits and the happiness of Elinor and Marianne, let it not be ranked as the least considerable, that though sisters, and almost living within sight of each other, they could live without disagreement between themselves or producing coolness between their husbands’ (p. 380).

Everett Zimmerman, Admiring Pope No More Than Is Proper: Sense and Sensibility, pp. 120-1

There is no doubt that Elinor at points, like Marianne, would rather she was elsewhere and had more congenial company—this is just the way it is, and dependent women had much more of that kind of thing to put up with than most as Austen herself was well aware, but there is an important issue at stake here: how can the reactions of the critics to the ‘grating stupidity and nastiness, shrieking children and unendurable disputes about their height’ be separated from the reactions of the protagonists.  Zimmerman has certainly given an accurate reflection of Marianne’s relationship to such scenes (and very much to the author’s purpose as we have argued), but can we conclude from this that it reflects Elinor’s own feelings?  We need to look at what is happening with Elinor.

Elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a little of that address which Marianne could never condescend to practise, gained her own end, and pleased Lady Middleton at the same time.

Vol. II, Chap. II (24.24)

Undoubtedly Elinor was more skilful in social situations which can’t but make them less trying.  The problem is (again) that they are presented through Marianne’s ‘irritable refinement’ so we are encouraged to feel Marianne’s sentiments and if they are accepted uncritically then the reading experience corresponds with Marianne’s, but if the counterpart of Elinor’s ‘self-command’ is brought into it, taking a more critical view of what is passing, it is possible to come closer to Elinor’s experience.

During the visit to Sotherton in Mansfield Park Julia Bertram provides us with a picture of discontent.

Poor Julia, the only one out of the nine not tolerably satisfied with their lot, was now in a state of complete penance, and as different from the Julia of the barouche-box as could well be imagined.  The politeness which she had been brought up to practise as a duty made it impossible for her to escape; while the want of that higher species of self-command, that just consideration of others, that knowledge of her own heart, that principle of right, which had not formed any essential part of her education, made her miserable under it.

Mansfield Park, Chapter 9

This is just the kind of talking that gets Mansfield Park into so much trouble but the reader can’t be in any doubt that Fanny Price in that situation would be in a reasonably tranquil state, attending to her companions or recalling some verses of Cowper as the occasion demanded.  Different temperaments will find different ways of justly and cheerfully reconciling other people’s claims and our own: the whole point of Fanny Price was that she wasn’t Elizabeth Bennett, and they will find different resolutions.

Marianne is different from Julia Bertram in one important respect, though: she refuses to adhere to social conventions as a matter of policy being ‘a disgraceful subjection of reason to common-place and mistaken notions’[2]; nevertheless ‘the irritable refinement of her own mind’, which the author puts us inside so effectively, does make her miserable.

One final observation about the part played by language in the book.  Aware of the centrifugal and contrary tendencies of the self, society and language, Jane Austen clearly saw balance as a prime virtue to be aimed at, and so when characters achieve equilibrium their speech also tends towards balance.  For instance when Marianne’s illness brings her to a more ‘balanced’ awareness of things her speech reflects this change.  ‘“Do not, my dearest Elinor, let your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure.”’  By adding the scansion one can see her sentence starting to stabilize and balance themselves; then syntactical and metrical harmony of the speech are symptoms of a mind more in harmony with itself.  It is the way Jane Austen herself often writes; thus, of Elinor – ‘impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter’.

Tony Tanner, Original Penguin Classics Introduction to Sense and Sensibility, pp. 375

Austen’s subtle use of dialogue to convey the state of mind of the speaker emphasise that Marianne before her illness is not stable, hardly ever content and perpetually in conflict with almost everything in her environment.  Even in Marianne’s ‘season of happiness’[3] there is a manic quality to her that hardly suggests she is contented.

“Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed.  It is not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them.”

“Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see,” said Elinor, “she is not at all altered.”

“She is only grown a little more grave than she was.”

“Nay, Edward,” said Marianne, “you need not reproach me. You are not very gay yourself.”

“Why should you think so!” replied he, with a sigh. “But gaiety never was a part of my character.”

“Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's,” said Elinor; “I should hardly call her a lively girl—she is very earnest, very eager in all she does—sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation—but she is not often really merry.”

“I believe you are right,” he replied, “and yet I have always set her down as a lively girl.”

“I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes,” said Elinor, “in a total misapprehension of character in some point or other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the deception originated.  Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge.”

Vol.  I, Ch. XVII (17.30-7)

This passage reflects the novel’s general theme about the untrustworthiness of surfaces—nicely set off by Marianne’s opening comment—but it also hinting that the surface Marianne on view may be a false one, brought about by a slavish adherence to romantic opinions[4].  The exchange alerts the reader to mistakes that are being made by Edward and Marianne concerning Marianne; of course, the reader may be making the same kind of mistake.  Like Marianne the reader could confuse her  with her neo-romantic philosophy (‘at my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed’), and like Edward it is easy to assume that the vivacity, the ardour, the liveliness with which she pursues her philosophy is a reflection of her social persona—that she is a lively, merry girl; that she is gay; that she is happy.  Marianne is, as Elinor reminds us, somewhat more earnest than Elinor herself.  All of which suggests a mismatch between the surface Marianne that Edward sees and the underlying one that her sister knows; Marianne’s ardent romantic opinions are forced and reflect underlying insecurities.  The reader could get involved in this conflict by seeing Marianne with her ‘tolerably fixed’ opinions, causing a rupture when the underlying Marianne emerges after her illness.

Elinor’s discipline (‘self-command’) shields her from the worst of the suffering that Marianne undergoes through the ‘irritable refinement of her own mind’[5].  The stability of Elinor’s mind is most clearly illustrated not in some trying social situation but the first of two developments that gives her real joy: her sister’s recovery from her illness.

Marianne was in every respect materially better, and [Mr Harris] declared her entirely out of danger.  Mrs. Jennings, perhaps satisfied with the partial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their late alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted, with unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the probability of an entire recovery.

Elinor could not be cheerful.  Her joy was of a different kind, and led to any thing rather than to gaiety.  Marianne restored to life, health, friends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with sensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent gratitude;—but it lead to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words, no smiles.  All within Elinor's breast was satisfaction, silent and strong.

Vol. III, Ch. VII (43.23-4)

Good hearted Mrs Jennings lacks Elinor’s stability, her restless mind ceaselessly speculating and trying to improve things that which is in no need of improvement.

Stuart Tave has caught eloquently Elinor’s qualities of mind in comparing Austen’s writings with Wordsworth’s.

There is, further, a sense of duty understood and deeply felt by those who see the integrity and peace of their own lives as essentially bound to the lives of others and see the lives of all in a more than merely social order.

Stuart M. Tave, Jane Austen and One of her Contemporaries, p. 68

It is fitting, and revealing, that such a fine critique of the positive philosophy at the heart of Sense and Sensibility should come from an essay linking Austen with the writings of a great Romantic poet.

Jane Austen and Wordsworth both had younger brothers who were officers in British ships in the heroic years of the early nineteenth century and those happy warriors were impulses to triumphant and serious composition.  The Englishness of character of the sort both authors admire is an inner wealth supportive in its strength of a community.  Mr Knightley, with his strong sense of duty, with his manner, morals, and estate all in ‘the true English style’ (E 99, 149, 360), enters the novel in chapter 1 to be immediately cheerful where he is needed.  Anne Elliot, who has submitted and suffered in acting with a perfect rightness, has not suffered in her conscience and has nothing to reproach herself with: she has no fortune and no family to bestow on her husband, but ‘if I mistake not,’ she says, ‘a strong sense of duty is no bad part of a woman’s portion,’ and that she brings to her English captain (P 246).  She can bring only her own dowry because her father, who had not principle or sense enough to maintain himself in the situation in which Providence had placed him (248), has lost his estate; her father has lost, in Wordsworth’s language, the fireside and heroic wealth of hall and bower which, in selfishness, forfeited ‘the ancient English dower/Of inward happiness.’  That last phrase is from the sonnet on the Milton who should be living at this hour; if Milton’s great soul was like a star and dwelt apart, in the concluding lines he brings us the compendious example of manners, virtue, freedom and power:

So didst thou travel on life’s common way,
In cheerful Godliness; and yet thy heart
The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

The heart that goes life’s common way in cheerful godliness laying its duties on herself is, in its domestic form, a heroine we can all recognize.  It is even true that Jane Austen’s heroines dwell apart as they maintain their societies, as Elinor Dashwood was stronger alone, her firmness unshaken, to others her appearance of cheerfulness invariable as possible (SS 141).  They keep their secret and they serve.  Elinor remains calm and cheerful, containing the lonely pain, supported by the feeling that she is doing her duty; she owes that to her family and her friends, even to her enemy (262-4).  When Marianne learns to take strength from her sister’s example, it becomes explicit that this kind of cheerfulness and duty and attention even to the practice of the civilities, the lesser duties in life, has a religious seriousness, that its peace of mind in daily life looks to God (341-2, 345-7).[6]  Wordsworth climbing to the top of Snowdon in the conclusion of the Prelude is a long way from Marianne Dashwood who made a false step on a projecting mound in Devonshire, but one of the things Wordsworth perceives, when he reflects in calm thought on his final vision, is that higher minds are not dependent on such extraordinary scenes exhibited to bodily senses: ‘they build up greatest things/From least suggestions’; minds on the watch, willing to work and to be wrought upon, ‘They need not extraordinary calls/To rouse them.’  Such minds, he says, are truly from the Deity, for they are Powers; theirs the highest bliss that flesh can know, the consciousness of Whom they are habitually infused throughout their lives within and without.  The consequent rewards for them are great, within a few lines, the peace that passeth understanding, and in this context what is evidently an outward sign of that inner grace: ‘Hence cheerfulness for acts of daily life’ (Prelude, xiv, 101 ff.).

Stuart M. Tave, Jane Austen and One of her Contemporaries, pp. 68-9

Elinor’s cheerfulness, her refusal to allow any one thing to dominate her to the exclusion of everything else serves herself as well as it serves those around her.  She tries to explain this to Marianne.

“Four months!—and yet you loved him!”—

 “Yes. But I did not love only him;—and while the comfort of others was dear to me, I was glad to spare them from knowing how much I felt.  Now, I can think and speak of it with little emotion.  I would not have you suffer on my account; for I assure you I no longer suffer materially myself.  I have many things to support me.  I am not conscious of having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my own, I have borne it as much as possible without spreading it farther.  I acquit Edward of essential misconduct.  I wish him very happy; and I am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though now he may harbour some regret, in the end he must become so.  Lucy does not want sense, and that is the foundation on which every thing good may be built.—And after all, Marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and constant attachment, and all that can be said of one's happiness depending entirely on any particular person, it is not meant—it is not fit—it is not possible that it should be so.—Edward will marry Lucy; he will marry a woman superior in person and understanding to half her sex; and time and habit will teach him to forget that he ever thought another superior to her.”—

Vol. III, Ch. I (37.26-7)

Here Elinor explains how she manages to remain cheerful in the teeth of a painful situation that could well have overwhelmed her if she had allowed it to, and her main antidote is reality itself.  As much as it is tempting to engross the mind in the ‘bewitching’ idea of a ‘single attachment’ on which ‘one’s happiness depend[s] entirely’, ‘it is not meant—it is not fit—it is not possible that it should be so’.  Here Austen is careful to make Elinor’s speech ambiguous.  On one level Elinor is saying, though the prospect of the marriage to Edward is ‘bewitching’, it ‘is not possible’, but she is also saying that it is a fantasy, a truly bewitching fantasy, to have all happiness dependent entirely on ‘any particular person, it is not meant—it is not fit—it is not possible that it should be so’.  Indeed, it is a gross distortion of reality to believe that happiness can be entirely contingent upon a single person, which a couple of moments consideration can confirm.  Elinor ‘did not love only him’ and by attending to the needs of those around her, by remaining focused on the positive features of the situation, Elinor prevents it from overwhelming her, but it requires a strength of mind which can only be acquired through habit, as is painfully obvious when she tries to coach Marianne in her grief on receiving Willoughby’s note:

“Poor Elinor! how unhappy I make you!”

“I only wish,” replied her sister, “there were any thing I could do, which might be of comfort to you.”

This, as every thing else would have been, was too much for Marianne, who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, “Oh! Elinor, I am miserable, indeed,” before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.

Elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in silence.

“Exert yourself, dear Marianne,” she cried, “if you would not kill yourself and all who love you.  Think of your mother; think of her misery while you suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself.”

“I cannot, I cannot,” cried Marianne; “leave me, leave me, if I distress you; leave me, hate me, forget me! but do not torture me so.  Oh! how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk of exertion!  Happy, happy Elinor, you cannot have an idea of what I suffer.”

Vol. II, Ch. VII (29.19-24)

Even after Elinor revealed her situation, Marianne still assumes that because Elinor is exerting herself that she has no reasons to be unhappy.

“If such is your way of thinking,” said Marianne, “if the loss of what is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be wondered at.—They are brought more within my comprehension.”

Vol. III, Ch. I (37.28)

And we are given every opportunity to share Marianne’s assessment because the novel is told from Elinor’s point of view, and one of the prime concerns that Elinor has skilfully used to displace her own disappointment is in the care of Marianne herself, exposing the reader to all of Marianne’s ‘histrionic display’, making it easy to repeat Marianne’s and her mother’s mistake of assuming that Elinor doesn’t suffer because she has been so effective in coping with it.  Elinor now powerfully disabuses Marianne, but it is still telling Elinor’s situation, and only has only a temporary effect on Marianne and maybe the reader, if the reader hasn’t already made a sympathetic connection with Elinor.

“I understand you.—You do not suppose that I have ever felt much.—For four months, Marianne, I have had all this hanging on my mind, without being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it would make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least.—It was told me,—it was in a manner forced on me by the very person herself, whose prior engagement ruined all my prospects; and told me, as I thought, with triumph.—This person's suspicions, therefore, I have had to oppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent where I have been most deeply interested;—and it has not been only once;—I have had her hopes and exultation to listen to again and again.—I have known myself to be divided from Edward for ever, without hearing one circumstance that could make me less desire the connection.—Nothing has proved him unworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to me.—I have had to contend against the unkindness of his sister, and the insolence of his mother; and have suffered the punishment of an attachment, without enjoying its advantages.—And all this has been going on at a time, when, as you know too well, it has not been my only unhappiness.—If you can think me capable of ever feeling—surely you may suppose that I have suffered now.  The composure of mind with which I have brought myself at present to consider the matter, the consolation that I have been willing to admit, have been the effect of constant and painful exertion;—they did not spring up of themselves;—they did not occur to relieve my spirits at first.—No, Marianne.—then, if I had not been bound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely—not even what I owed to my dearest friends—from openly shewing that I was very unhappy.”—

Marianne was quite subdued.—

Vol. III, Ch. I (37.29)

While Elinor has been wounded by her treatment at the hands of Lucy, she has managed to stop the rot spreading through a ‘constant and painful exertion’.

Elinor belongs to that school of thought which considers virtuous conduct can be an arduous business, involving painful adjustments to the controlling forms of society, and unpleasant frustration of personal proclivities.  Such a school of thought we may identify as Christian, or Stoic, or even, vaguely Classical.

Tony Tanner, Original Penguin Classics Introduction to Sense and Sensibility, p. 377

Critics repeatedly assert that Elinor’s means of dealing with her difficulties don’t make her happy but she makes it clear that they do, and it ought to be obvious that they do.

Happiness, like most things, of course is relative so we need to consider whether a given course of action leaves one happier than the alternative—all other things being equal.  Her grandfather’s negligence, her brother’s meanness, Lucy’s maliciousness and Edward’s engagement to her are simply out of Elinor’s control, having no origin in her own actions, and more importantly, can’t be altered by any (ethical) intervention.  It is of course a tenet for Austen that unethical action may be used to cut corners but will not lead to long-term, stable happiness, so the external situation is stuck, which is the pattern for most of the action novels.  If a spiral into despair is halted by responding a certain way to a disappointment, then that course must be effective where happiness is concerned.  To argue that Elinor’s philosophy is ineffective is like surveying sea defences in a tempest and concluding that they are ineffective because they are letting some water in; it is true that they are but take them away and a whole lot more may come in, but in any case they might work quite well in normal situations. 

Marianne on the other hand exacerbates her situation at every turn—it is inconceivable that a John Willoughby would cause anything like the same grief for Elinor if she became his object—and, as Marianne finds out, the middle of a storm is not the time to start trying to build defences.

Just as Marianne has to exert herself to avoid seeing the whole world as centred on Marianne, so does the reader, and if, like Marianne, this hasn’t been done from the outset it will be difficult to break the spell when Marianne’s delusory world collapses.

Elinor’s Story

As I have been arguing, Austen is presenting the reader with the same kind of dilemma facing the Dashwood sisters, or more properly their mother.  All of the conventions of sentimental fiction are brought to bear to connect the reader to Marianne’s story and to disregard Elinor’s story.  Like Marianne’s mother the reader can accept the romantic script and see this as the story of Elinor and Marianne’s fulfilment through marriage, lose interest in Elinor’s story and become absorbed in Marianne’s only to find an anticlimax when Marianne’s world collapses and she opts for a very unromantic fulfilment through a near-arranged marriage with the Colonel—in this reading, as one of its early critics noted, ‘it ends stupidly’.[7]

However, if the reader from the start, like Elinor, resolves to counteract the insidious designs of the author then it is possible to find a rewarding narrative that is just as sympathetic to Marianne but with (in the sense of sentimental novels) plenty of interest, but we have to do a better job than their mother in understanding Elinor and Marianne’s situation.

The remainder of the section will comment on five passages in the novel making the case that Elinor’s story is worthy of notice, making for a far from stupid ending.

Willoughby Hunts

One of the obstacles to the reader better identifying with Elinor is Edward: he only has a token presence at Norland when Elinor is getting to know him, the only ‘objective’ assessment available is Marianne’s ‘there is something wanting’ (3.18) and, as Elinor says, at ‘first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome’, and remains firmly in his shell throughout until his release at the end.  However, we get a brief glimpse of a different Edward but, as we should expect, it is an exchange with Marianne that provides the flash.

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 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.

Vol. I, Ch. XVIII (18.23-31)

Although ostensibly discussing the attractiveness of Marianne’s suitor, the real issue is the attractiveness of Elinor’s suitor.

Colonel Brandon’s Proposal

At the start of the third volume Mrs Jennings’ imagination leads her to believe that Colonel Brandon is proposing marriage to Elinor—not so unreasonable a conjecture as it turns out—but the Colonel is actually offering a living to Edward, which as Mrs Jennings anticipates will make Lucy’s marriage to Edward viable, and wants Elinor to convey his offer to Edward.  The warm-hearted colonel in trying to help Miss Dashwood’s brother-in-law, having been thrown off so unreasonably by the rest of his family, and is of course doing the worst possible thing, bringing forward the final separation of the lovers.  Overlaid on this situation is Elinor’s growing admiration for the colonel and Edward’s jealousy, making for some bitter-sweet comedy, with the enlightened protagonists well-motivated but hopelessly at cross purposes.

How she should begin—how she should express herself in her note to Edward, was now all her concern.  The particular circumstances between them made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have been the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too much or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen in her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of Edward himself.

He had met Mrs. Jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he came to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not returning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that Miss Dashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular business.

Elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her perplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself properly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the information by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, to force her upon this greatest exertion of all.  Her astonishment and confusion were very great on his so sudden appearance.  She had not seen him before since his engagement became public, and therefore not since his knowing her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of what she had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her feel particularly uncomfortable for some minutes.  He too was much distressed; and they sat down together in a most promising state of embarrassment.—Whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on first coming into the room, he could not recollect; but determining to be on the safe side, he made his apology in form as soon as he could say any thing, after taking a chair.

“Mrs. Jennings told me,” said he, “that you wished to speak with me, at least I understood her so—or I certainly should not have intruded on you in such a manner; though at the same time, I should have been extremely sorry to leave London without seeing you and your sister; especially as it will most likely be some time—it is not probable that I should soon have the pleasure of meeting you again.  I go to Oxford tomorrow.”

“You would not have gone, however,” said Elinor, recovering herself, and determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as possible, “without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been able to give them in person.  Mrs. Jennings was quite right in what she said.  I have something of consequence to inform you of, which I was on the point of communicating by paper.  I am charged with a most agreeable office (breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke.)  Colonel Brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to say, that understanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure in offering you the living of Delaford now just vacant, and only wishes it were more valuable.  Allow me to congratulate you on having so respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish that the living—it is about two hundred a-year—were much more considerable, and such as might better enable you to—as might be more than a temporary accommodation to yourself—such, in short, as might establish all your views of happiness.”

What Edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected that any one else should say for him.  He looked all the astonishment which such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of exciting; but he said only these two words,

“Colonel Brandon!”

“Yes,” continued Elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the worst was over, “Colonel Brandon means it as a testimony of his concern for what has lately passed—for the cruel situation in which the unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you—a concern which I am sure Marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share; and likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character, and his particular approbation of your behaviour on the present occasion.”

“Colonel Brandon give me a living!—Can it be possible?”

“The unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find friendship any where.”

“No,” replied be, with sudden consciousness, “not to find it in you; for I cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, I owe it all.—I feel it—I would express it if I could—but, as you well know, I am no orator.”

“You are very much mistaken.  I do assure you that you owe it entirely, at least almost entirely, to your own merit, and Colonel Brandon's discernment of it.  I have had no hand in it.  I did not even know, till I understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it ever occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift.  As a friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps—indeed I know he has, still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe nothing to my solicitation.”

Truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of Edward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably contributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently entered it.  For a short time he sat deep in thought, after Elinor had ceased to speak;—at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said,

“Colonel Brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability.  I have always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother I know esteems him highly.  He is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentleman.”

“Indeed,” replied Elinor, “I believe that you will find him, on farther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be such very near neighbours (for I understand the parsonage is almost close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he should be all this.”

Edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house much greater.

“Colonel Brandon, I think, lodges in St. James Street,” said he, soon afterwards, rising from his chair.

Elinor told him the number of the house.

“I must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not allow me to give you; to assure him that he has made me a very—an exceedingly happy man.”

Elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest assurance on her side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on his, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it.

“When I see him again,” said Elinor to herself, as the door shut him out, “I shall see him the husband of Lucy.”

And with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of Edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent.

Vol. III, Ch. IV (40.24-36)

Elinor and Mrs Dashwood

When Mrs Dashwood arrives at Cleveland to find that Marianne has passed through her crisis she then proceeds to relate to Elinor the news that Brandon is in love with Marianne.  But Elinor, believing that Edward is lost to her has clearly been nurturing the hope that her friendship with the colonel could flower into something more.  Her heart must be wringing to find the colonel passing her over for her younger sister, who has done nothing but treat him with contempt.  This is compounded as her mother continues to indulge her romantic imagination, entirely overlooking that her eldest daughter has just as much of a reason to be suffering from a wounded heart as Marianne.  If the reader is in Marianne’s world then Mrs Dashwood’s priorities will predominate, but the emotional pressure on Elinor is intense and her crisis is yet to come.

Marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of Mrs. Dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world.  Elinor could not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes wondering whether her mother ever recollected Edward.  But Mrs. Dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment which Elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it.  Marianne was restored to her from a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to Willoughby, had contributed to place her;—and in her recovery she had yet another source of joy unthought of by Elinor.  It was thus imparted to her, as soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred.

“At last we are alone.  My Elinor, you do not yet know all my happiness.  Colonel Brandon loves Marianne. He has told me so himself.”

Her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and not surprised, was all silent attention.

“You are never like me, dear Elinor, or I should wonder at your composure now.  Had I sat down to wish for any possible good to my family, I should have fixed on Colonel Brandon's marrying one of you as the object most desirable.  And I believe Marianne will be the most happy with him of the two.”

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;—but her mother must always be carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject, and therefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.

Vol. III, Ch. IX (45.7-11)

Elinor’s Crisis

Elinor now learns—mistakenly—that Edward is married to Lucy, and the damn bursts.  Elinor’s world for some time has been dominated by the selfishness and folly of those around her and has been nurturing the hope that Edward—someone who understands her, cares little for the flashy, false values in such high demand, and combines real sense, integrity and strength of mind—would escape Lucy’s stranglehold and propose marriage.  It comes as quite a shock that he would actually proceed to marry someone he has come to barely respect and Elinor implodes on hearing the news, brilliantly reflected in her younger sister and mother’s reaction.  For the first time Elinor’s mother and the reader are brought into full contact with the pain that Elinor has been shielding from herself and everyone else.

Elinor grew impatient for some tidings of Edward.  She had heard nothing of him since her leaving London, nothing new of his plans, nothing certain even of his present abode.  Some letters had passed between her and her brother, in consequence of Marianne's illness; and in the first of John's, there had been this sentence:—“We know nothing of our unfortunate Edward, and can make no enquiries on so prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at Oxford;” which was all the intelligence of Edward afforded her by the correspondence, for his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters. She was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures.

Their man-servant had been sent one morning to Exeter on business; and when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary communication—

“I suppose you know, ma'am, that Mr. Ferrars is married.”

Marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon Elinor, saw her turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics.  Mrs. Dashwood, whose eyes, as she answered the servant's inquiry, had intuitively taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by Elinor's countenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards, alike distressed by Marianne's situation, knew not on which child to bestow her principal attention.

The servant, who saw only that Miss Marianne was taken ill, had sense enough to call one of the maids, who, with Mrs. Dashwood's assistance, supported her into the other room.  By that time, Marianne was rather better, and her mother leaving her to the care of Margaret and the maid, returned to Elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so far recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just beginning an inquiry of Thomas, as to the source of his intelligence.  Mrs. Dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself; and Elinor had the benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.

“Who told you that Mr. Ferrars was married, Thomas?”

“I see Mr. Ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in Exeter, and his lady too, Miss Steele as was.  They was stopping in a chaise at the door of the New London Inn, as I went there with a message from Sally at the Park to her brother, who is one of the post-boys. I happened to look up as I went by the chaise, and so I see directly it was the youngest Miss Steele; so I took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me, and inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, especially Miss Marianne, and bid me I should give her compliments and Mr. Ferrars's, their best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had not time to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to go forwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but however, when they come back, they'd make sure to come and see you.”

“But did she tell you she was married, Thomas?”

“Yes, ma'am. She smiled, and said how she had changed her name since she was in these parts. She was always a very affable and free-spoken young lady, and very civil behaved.  So, I made free to wish her joy.”

“Was Mr. Ferrars in the carriage with her?”

“Yes, ma'am, I just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look up;—he never was a gentleman much for talking.”

Elinor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself forward; and Mrs. Dashwood probably found the same explanation.

“Was there no one else in the carriage?”

“No, ma'am, only they two.”

“Do you know where they came from?”

“They come straight from town, as Miss Lucy—Mrs. Ferrars told me.”

“And are they going farther westward?”

“Yes, ma'am—but not to bide long.  They will soon be back again, and then they'd be sure and call here.”

Mrs. Dashwood now looked at her daughter; but Elinor knew better than to expect them.  She recognised the whole of Lucy in the message, and was very confident that Edward would never come near them.  She observed in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going down to Mr. Pratt's, near Plymouth.

Thomas's intelligence seemed over.  Elinor looked as if she wished to hear more.

“Did you see them off, before you came away?”

“No, ma'am—the horses were just coming out, but I could not bide any longer; I was afraid of being late.”

“Did Mrs. Ferrars look well?”

“Yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was always a very handsome young lady—and she seemed vastly contented.”

Mrs. Dashwood could think of no other question, and Thomas and the tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed.  Marianne had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more.  Mrs. Dashwood's and Elinor's appetites were equally lost, and Margaret might think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as both her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had often had to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to go without her dinner before.

When the dessert and the wine were arranged, and Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a similarity of thoughtfulness and silence.  Mrs. Dashwood feared to hazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation.  She now found that she had erred in relying on Elinor's representation of herself; and justly concluded that every thing had been expressly softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness, suffering as she then had suffered for Marianne.  She found that she had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her daughter, to think the attachment, which once she had so well understood, much slighter in reality, than she had been wont to believe, or than it was now proved to be.  She feared that under this persuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her Elinor;—that Marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged, more immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness, and led her away to forget that in Elinor she might have a daughter suffering almost as much, certainly with less self-provocation, and greater fortitude.

Vol. III, Ch. XI (47.21-46)

Edward Arrives

This is the last malicious flourish of Lucy, who can’t break the habit of tormenting Elinor over Edward, even after dumping him for his independent younger brother, all of which sets up a brilliant comic resolution that continues to mock romantic conventions (the lovers flying apart), anticipates some to come (Edward spoiling the sheath with the scissors), culminating in Edward’s quitting of the house for some fresh air and a walk in the village—very English and very cool (but too cool for some).

Elinor now found the difference between the expectation of an unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it, and certainty itself.  She now found, that in spite of herself, she had always admitted a hope, while Edward remained single, that something would occur to prevent his marrying Lucy; that some resolution of his own, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of establishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of all.  But he was now married; and she condemned her heart for the lurking flattery, which so much heightened the pain of the intelligence.

That he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) he could be in orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the living, surprised her a little at first.  But she soon saw how likely it was that Lucy, in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure him, should overlook every thing but the risk of delay.  They were married, married in town, and now hastening down to her uncle's.  What had Edward felt on being within four miles from Barton, on seeing her mother's servant, on hearing Lucy's message!

They would soon, she supposed, be settled at Delaford.—Delaford,—that place in which so much conspired to give her an interest; which she wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid.  She saw them in an instant in their parsonage-house; saw in Lucy, the active, contriving manager, uniting at once a desire of smart appearance with the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her economical practices;—pursuing her own interest in every thought, courting the favour of Colonel Brandon, of Mrs. Jennings, and of every wealthy friend.  In Edward—she knew not what she saw, nor what she wished to see;—happy or unhappy,—nothing pleased her; she turned away her head from every sketch of him.

Elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in London would write to them to announce the event, and give farther particulars,—but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no tidings. Though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault with every absent friend.  They were all thoughtless or indolent.

“When do you write to Colonel Brandon, ma'am?” was an inquiry which sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on.

“I wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to hear from him again.  I earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should not be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day.”

This was gaining something, something to look forward to. Colonel Brandon must have some information to give.

Scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on horseback drew her eyes to the window.  He stopt at their gate.  It was a gentleman, it was Colonel Brandon himself.  Now she could hear more; and she trembled in expectation of it.  But—it was not Colonel Brandon—neither his air—nor his height.  Were it possible, she must say it must be Edward. She looked again.  He had just dismounted;—she could not be mistaken,—it was Edward.  She moved away and sat down.  “He comes from Mr. Pratt's purposely to see us.  I will be calm; I will be mistress of myself.”

In a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the mistake.  She saw her mother and Marianne change colour; saw them look at herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other.  She would have given the world to be able to speak—and to make them understand that she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to him;—but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their own discretion.

Not a syllable passed aloud.  They all waited in silence for the appearance of their visitor.  His footsteps were heard along the gravel path; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before them.

His countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for Elinor.  His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one.  Mrs. Dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of that daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be guided in every thing, met with a look of forced complacency, gave him her hand, and wished him joy.

He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply.  Elinor's lips had moved with her mother's, and, when the moment of action was over, she wished that she had shaken hands with him too.  But it was then too late, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and talked of the weather.

Marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal her distress; and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole of the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore took a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a strict silence.

When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very awful pause took place.  It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who felt obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well.  In a hurried manner, he replied in the affirmative.

Another pause.

Elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own voice, now said,

“Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple?”

“At Longstaple!” he replied, with an air of surprise.—”No, my mother is in town.”

“I meant,” said Elinor, taking up some work from the table, “to inquire for Mrs. Edward Ferrars.”

She dared not look up;—but her mother and Marianne both turned their eyes on him.  He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and, after some hesitation, said,—

“Perhaps you mean—my brother—you mean Mrs.—Mrs. Robert Ferrars.”

“Mrs. Robert Ferrars!”—was repeated by Marianne and her mother in an accent of the utmost amazement;—and though Elinor could not speak, even her eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder.  He rose from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not knowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice,

“Perhaps you do not know—you may not have heard that my brother is lately married to—to the youngest—to Miss Lucy Steele.”

His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but Elinor, who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such agitation as made her hardly know where she was.

“Yes,” said he, “they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish.”

Elinor could sit it no longer.  She almost ran out of the room, and as soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first she thought would never cease.  Edward, who had till then looked any where, rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw—or even heard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie, which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of Mrs. Dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word, quitted the room, and walked out towards the village—leaving the others in the greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his situation, so wonderful and so sudden;—a perplexity which they had no means of lessening but by their own conjectures.

Vol. III, Ch. XII (48.1-26)

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