Judgement

Judging people and philosophies.

Posted: 1 March 2008 (printer-friendly permalink)

The Role of Judgement

Elinor’s Judgement

Mrs. Dashwood’s Judgement

The Role of Judgement

A complication of the novel is the amount of feeling Austen encourages the reader to have for Marianne.  Marianne’s name signals some danger; it was the name used in revolutionary France at the time to signify a female figure of liberty, in deliberate replacement of the Virgin Mary; this fact probably also explains Jane West’s choice of ‘Marianne’ as the name for Louisa Dudley’s selfish sister in A Gossip’s Story (1796), a novel that some have seen as an influence on Austen’s.  If Marianne is a mistaken revolutionary, she is nevertheless a sympathetic one.  In her position as the younger of two sisters, as in her tastes in poetry and music, Marianne strongly resembles Jane Austen, who had to play second to her beloved elder sister Cassandra, who seems to have been somewhat prim, and who did not lack some elder-sisterly bossiness.  Jane, like Marianne, was the only musician in her family—her sister, like Elinor, was a graphic artist (and drew the only portrait we have of the novelist).  In the novel, Austen may develop situations from the standpoint of Cassandra, but the sympathy for the younger of the two girls remains, a sympathy at times even heightened by the fact that Marianne is the object of Satiric humour.  She is over-ardent in her enthusiasm, and very absolute in her judgements.  She talks rather too decidedly and authoritatively for such a young lady, and is fond of making final pronouncements, as on the lack of love to be expected in a marriage between a man of thirty-five and a woman of twenty-seven. (p. 29). […]

Marianne is forgivable because there is such a great deal she does not know.

Margaret Anne Doody, Introduction to Sense and Sensibility, p. xv-xxix

Of course Marianne is forgivable, and so are Lucy Steele, Robert Ferrars, Mrs Ferrars and  John and Fanny Dashwood; for the religious and secular alike everyone is forgivable, as Marilyn Butler reminded us, the novel is peculiarly well adapted to demonstrating  that to ‘understand a character is to forgive him’.[1]  We see a careful reckoning of Elinor’s forgiveness after Edward and Lucy’s secret engagement has been revealed by an unfortunate communication between their sisters, provoking uproar in Edward’s family and the immediate rupture between the unfortunate Steele sisters and their future in-laws.

She could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event really was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of Edward and Lucy.  What Mrs. Ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more anxious to know how Edward would conduct himself.  For him she felt much compassion;—for Lucy very little—and it cost her some pains to procure that little;—for  the rest of the party none at all.

Sense and Sensibility, Vol. III, Ch. I (37.9)

Here ‘compassion’ is doing much work, as is Elinor to gather as much as she can on the account of the various parties, but judgement is caught up in it.

Elinor throughout, like Marianne at the end, is regulated by religion and reason.[2]  From a religious point of view, the ideal is clearly universal forgiveness, so Elinor’s statement could reflect the fact that she is no saint (i.e., unreasonably virtuous) and that this is as far as she has gone in approaching the Christian ideal, but this seems unlikely as the statement is too categorical to represent work in progress—there can be little doubt that the statement is intended to reflect a judgement on the various parties, or more precisely the actions of the various parties.  Although Edward has hurt her the most by engaging her affections without any decent prospects of them being formalised because of his secret arrangement with Lucy, it was founded in an understandable weakness which he shows every sign of trying to address with all that ungallant behaviour that draws near universal derision, inside and outside of the story.

Although the Dashwoods and Ferrars have hurt her least—indeed their action is quite aligned with Elinor’s and Edward’s best interests in trying to break up the engagement between Edward and Lucy—she is quite in agreement with Mrs Jennings when she says, ‘I have no pity for either of them.  I have no notion of people's making such a to-do about money and greatness.’[3]  Some have assumed that Austen didn’t really know what she was doing with Mrs Jennings, that Mrs Jennings mysteriously transforms herself into a sympathetic character.[4]

When Elinor criticizes Marianne for her failure to see in Mrs. Jennings’s anything but a vulgar busybody,[5] she forgets that she has herself been Mrs. Jennings severest critic—and I suspect that her author forgot it too, and, half aware later of what happened, pushed her unruly creature out of sight and allowed no more to be heard of her in the close of the story than might be remind us of Mrs. Jennings in the opening.

Mary Lascelles, Jane Austen and Her Art, p. 151

Elinor was by no means her severest critic and went to some pains to get Marianne to understand that Mrs Jennings’ qualities and to get Marianne to treat her with some respect, as we see when Elinor explains her objections to their visiting Mrs. Jennings in London.

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

“That is very true,” replied her mother, “but of her society, separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing at all, and you will almost always appear in public with Lady Middleton.”

“If Elinor is frightened away by her dislike of Mrs. Jennings,” said Marianne, “at least it need not prevent my accepting her invitation.  I have no such scruples, and I am sure I could put up with every unpleasantness of that kind with very little effort.”

Elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards the manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in persuading Marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved within herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go likewise, as she did not think it proper that Marianne should be left to the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that Mrs. Jennings should be abandoned to the mercy of Marianne for all the comfort of her domestic hours.  To this determination she was the more easily reconciled, by recollecting that Edward Ferrars, by Lucy's account, was not to be in town before February; and that their visit, without any unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.

[…]

Elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with less reluctance than she had expected to feel.

Vol. II, Ch. III (25.12-20)

(This should gives the lie to ‘Elinor’s rules of good sense and expediency’.[6])  Elinor is critical of Mrs Jennings suitability as a chaperone, which is not wholly unreasonable given the Dashwoods’ experience of her in their short acquaintance, and their mother agrees.  However, after a chapter to get the Miss Dashwoods installed in London we find that they…

… had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with Mrs. Jennings's style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her behaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind.  Every thing in her household arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and excepting a few old city friends, whom, to Lady Middleton's regret, she had never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction could at all discompose the feelings of her young companions.  Pleased to find herself more comfortably situated in that particular than she had expected, Elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much real enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at home or abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her.

Vol. II, Ch. V (27.11)

If Lady Middleton regretted those friends hadn’t been cut then we are meant to approve of them.  Here it looks as if Austen may be quietly poking a bit of fun at Elinor’s primness and broadening her horizons as she warms to the vulgarians.

Nothing was wanting on Mrs. Palmer's side that constant and friendly good humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome.  The openness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want of recollection and elegance which made her often deficient in the forms of politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face, was engaging; her folly, though evident was not disgusting, because it was not conceited; and Elinor could have forgiven every thing but her laugh.

Vol. III, Ch. VI (42.13)

Austen’s sustained ironical attack on the preoccupation with surface aesthetics at the expense of deeper qualities is often lost.  Some of her most pointed satire in the novels is reserved for the likes of General Tilney, the Bingley sisters and the Crawfords; Emma is not so far from Mrs Elton as she thinks before her epiphany, and Lady Russell turns out to have failed her old friend and young protégé after all, sharing the shallow-Eliot preoccupation with surfaces; the vulgarians often look somewhat less despicable with a closer look, with, for example, Mr Bennett rather than his wife bearing much of the responsibility for the Bennett’s tribulations.

In Sense and Sensibility the warm-hearted vulgarians consistently win out over the cold-hearted aesthetes in the head-to-heads, with the matriarchal sympathy going to Mrs Jennings rather than Mrs Ferrars and Lady Middleton’s cold selfish preoccupation with elegance making her sister, husband and mother look attractive; thanks to Lucy’s cynicism we come to almost like the silly Nancy and Mr Palmer doesn’t come over as superior to his wife and mother-in-law as he thinks (and we think better of him when he thaws somewhat at home), and Robert supercilious superiority over Edward is no more attractive, despite Edward’s private education, lack of social graces and simple tastes.  A novel advocating calculating prudence it is not.

But a novel of judgement it is.  Marianne, shortly after Willoughby’s exit, is in no mood to entertain the Steele sisters’ folly, so Elinor is left with them when the good-natured Sir John almost forces the Dashwoods into the society of the Steeles.

Lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; and as a companion for half an hour Elinor frequently found her agreeable; but her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of information in the most common particulars, could not be concealed from Miss Dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to advantage.  Elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities which education might have rendered so respectable; but she saw, with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her flatteries at the Park betrayed; and she could have no lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made every shew of attention and deference towards herself perfectly valueless.

Vol. I, Ch. XXII (22.2)

Lucy’s problem is that while she is clever, due to a failure of education is misusing her natural intelligence to manipulate others and hide her shortcomings.  This is not to say that Lucy’s personality is a product of her education but, for whatever reason—be it for a lack of opportunities or a failure to make good use of the opportunities that have come her way (most likely some combination of both)—she has failed to develop hersel, and left unchecked as it has, has led to a ‘thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude, and integrity of mind’ all of which is in marked contrast to Elinor’s assessment of Lucy’s fiancée.

I have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure.

Sense and Sensibility, vol. I, ch. IV (4.9)

Despite Edward’s mother and siblings Edward has put the education at Lucy’s uncle’s to good use.  Although happiness may be eluding Edward for most of the novel, and, like Marianne’s favourite poet, may have a natural disposition towards depression—quite apart from the excellent personal chemistry between Elinor and Edward (which we are initially told about rather than shown)—Elinor has identified an integrity of mind and a disposition to cultivate his mind that she sees as critical for a long-term, close relationship.  She has also fallen in love with Edward, of course, but is careful to allow that love and friendship to advance as far as her head and heart allow—they must remain as one.

Lucy show no inclination to develop herself, and no inclination to better use her time with Elinor to try and learn anything of importance;  despite ‘pit[tying] her for, the neglect of abilities which education might have rendered so respectable’ (22.2), even at this early stage Elinor understands the importance of keeping Lucy at a distance, otherwise Elinor may become more like Lucy instead of the reverse.  In Austen’s world judgement is important in choosing intimate companions.

Realistic judgement need not be incompatible with a good heart and this principle, and Elinor’s character, are at the centre of the puzzle of Sense and Sensibility.  Elinor felt little compassion for Lucy after she was thrown out by Fanny, but she did go to ‘some pains to procure that little’.  It is doubly important that she should do so as her own peace of mind and justice are involved.  The more she can put herself in Lucy’s shoes the easier it is to understand her and feel compassion for her, and so ward off bitterness—a real risk as we see at Fanny Dashwood’s party[7], and there are grounds for compassion.

Edward has been foolish in getting himself tangled up with Lucy, consenting to an engagement based on passing sentiment without determining whether he and Lucy are really compatible, but is honourably sticking to the engagement, still having failed to properly understand Lucy’s character and not realising that she is cynically exploiting him.  Lucy Steele, however, is in the unfortunate position of many of Austen’s young women, of being on the borders of gentility and looking for a means of shoring up her social position with the only means open to her—marriage.  Edward is her best option and she doesn’t want to let him go until she can secure a better alternative.  It isn’t pretty but there are grounds for compassion.

However, as Mrs. Jennings makes clear, the distress of the Ferrars is both ludicrous and entirely self-inflicted.  At a deeper level, the Ferrars’ mixed up values are grounds for a more subtle compassion, implied in the novel’s resolution, and while Elinor no doubt understood this, Austen was only ever interested in realistic heroines (not saints), hence Elinor’s apparent careful rationing of compassion, and the ‘pains to procure’ it, suggesting—scandalous idea—that effort may be useful in maintaining a good heart as well as sound judgement.

Elinor’s Judgement

Some have questioned Elinor’s judgement.

But one of the deepest and most methodically contrived ironies of Sense and Sensibility is that not all of Elinor’s scepticism can save her from erroneous conjectures, nor all her modesty preserve her from depending upon Edward.  When she espies a lock of hair upon Edward’s finger, she is “instantaneously” satisfied, “beyond all doubt” (SS 98-99) that it is her own, and proceeds to take hope.[8]  But what appears to prove Edward’s affection for herself only proves his loyalty to Lucy Steele, of whose existence Elinor is ignorant.  And once she learns about Lucy, she quietly harbors the fantasy that Edward will somehow free himself.  After hearing of Edward’s supposed marriage, Elinor realizes 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” (SS 357).  Elinor’s fantasies here and elsewhere about the “reform” of Mrs. Ferrars and the joyous liberation of fettered inclinations and repressed children (SS 102)[9] have a touch of the visionary about them, but they are no less personal than Marianne’s cherished wishes, and her disappointment when they are shattered is no less crushing.  True, the upshot is more fortunate for Elinor than for Marianne—Edward is unpredictably but honorably extricated.

Claudia Johnson, Jane Austen: Women, Politics and the Novel, p. 63

We follow Elinor’s mind summing up, registering reactions, comforting her.  She is of course ultimately right about Edward’s love for her, although Elinor in the middle of the novel decides that Willoughby had no real love for Marianne.  Being right about Edward’s love—while he is engaged to another and has been bungling and deceitful—may seem a cold comfort.  (What is Edward’s ‘love’ worth anyway? one might ask.)  But it is all that Elinor has.  And she always has some fractional belief, born of fantasy, that he will get free and come to her.  That is not a reasonable hope though it is what she has to live on.  The abrupt loss of such hope, and her total rejection by the man she has loved, plunge Marianne into a sorrow which seems almost too much to bear.  It is true that Elinor never has to bear what Marianne does.  The sensible woman ironically has more comfort from delusive hope—as long as Edward is not actually married.

Margaret Anne Doody, Introduction to Sense and Sensibility, pp. xxii-xxiiii

It is worth looking at this more closely because, if Claudia Johnson and Margaret Anne Doody are right, Austen is being epistemologically sceptical, and cynical to the point of nihilism[10]—the modern philosophy no doubt—but does Sense and Sensibility support it?  One of the best articles on the matter has been written by Claudia Johnson.

By consistently striving to place her characters in the “twilight of probability,” Austen dramatizes the fallibility of the inferential process itself—and she does not let the reader in on the irony, as she does in Pride and Prejudice and even Emma.

Claudia L. Johnson, The "Twilight of Probability": Uncertainty and Hope in Sense and Sensibility, p. 176

Unfortunately, irony, like an engagement, is of doubtful utility if it is insufficiently explicit.

Mrs. Dashwood and Marianne consistently fail to exercise judgment:

“Like him!” replied her mother with a smile. “I feel no sentiment of approbation inferior to love.”

“You may esteem him.”

“I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love.” (p. 16)

Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation which Elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste. (p. 19)

These passages unquestionably exhibit the warm sensibility of Marianne and her mother, but they also demonstrate an eager tendency to compress distinctions between ideas, much as Marianne will later equate competence and wealth, or a touch of rheumatism with virtual decrepitude.  In such cases, Marianne does not discriminate, and yet she believes her opinions so firmly that the discovery that they are not shared or borne out prompts her to exclaim ingenuously “How strange this is!” (p. 39)—as if the problem did not originate in her own hasty judgments.  These are but small miscalculations compared to her more serious and more plausible mistake of believing Willoughby.

Elinor, of course, does make distinctions and, unlike Marianne, does not cherish her determinations too confidently. […]

Elinor’s is the only voice of cautionary dissent.  She alone seems to recognize that all live in a “twilight of probability” and that judgments therefore must be formed tentatively.

Claudia L. Johnson, The "Twilight of Probability": Uncertainty and Hope in Sense and Sensibility, pp. 173-5

Marianne and her mother are prone to make hasty, bipolar judgements, whereas Elinor assesses the evidence, which not only means trying to establish what is going on, but also to ascertain how sure she is of her conclusion, all of which tends to irritate Marianne and her mother.

“It was not inclination that he wanted, Elinor; I could plainly see that.  He had not the power of accepting it. I have thought it all over I assure you, and I can perfectly account for every thing that at first seemed strange to me as well as to you.”

“Can you, indeed!”

“Yes. I have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way;—but you, Elinor, who love to doubt where you can—it will not satisfy you, I know; but you shall not talk me out of my trust in it.  I am persuaded that Mrs. Smith suspects his regard for Marianne, disapproves of it, (perhaps because she has other views for him,) and on that account is eager to get him away;—and that the business which she sends him off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss him.  This is what I believe to have happened.  He is, moreover, aware that she does disapprove the connection, he dares not therefore at present confess to her his engagement with Marianne, and he feels himself obliged, from his dependent situation, to give into her schemes, and absent himself from Devonshire for a while.  You will tell me, I know, that this may or may not have happened; but I will listen to no cavil, unless you can point out any other method of understanding the affair as satisfactory at this. And now, Elinor, what have you to say?”

“Nothing, for you have anticipated my answer.”

“Then you would have told me, that it might or might not have happened.  Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings!  You had rather take evil upon credit than good. […]”

Vol. I, Ch. XV (15.24-28)

We see Elinor’s mother quite contrite by the end of the novel, and well she might be after this (but we are still asked to believe that this contrition was ironic).  Mrs Dashwood knows perfectly well the situation (‘every thing that at first seemed strange to me as well as to you’) and she is just as capable as Elinor of reading the situation and her accusing Elinor of a lack of candour is as unfair as it is unpleasant; Elinor is willing, as she says, to give Willoughby the benefit of the doubt, but a mother of a teenage daughter, that may or may not be engaged to  a young man of as yet uncertain character, and who has behaved somewhat erratically has certain responsibilities, and ought to be trying to assess and be aware of all the probabilities, and the likely consequences for her vulnerable daughter, but she opts instead to stick to the romantic script rather than let reality intrude.

Marianne is particularly reckless about the management of her mind.  Willoughby’s departure creates a vacuum in her life which she endeavors to fill first by recollection and then by anticipation, thus dramatizing Johnson’s formula for the mind’s behavior when the present is “unable to fill desire or imagination with immediate enjoyment” (Rambler, no. 203).  Marianne indulges sorrowful recollections as a “duty” (p. 77).  Such behavior is typical of countless heroines of sensibility, but the basis of Austen’s critique of it can best be traced to Johnson, for whom the indulgence of sorrow is an invitation to obsession:

[M]ournful ideas, first violently impressed and afterwards willingly received, so much engross the attention, as to predominate in every thought, to darken gayety, and perplex ratiocination.  An habitual sadness seizes the soul, and the faculties are chained to a single object, which can never be contemplated but with hopeless uneasiness. (Rambler, no. 47)

Johnson also treats this process in the chapter devoted to Nekayah’s grief in Rasselas.  Like Marianne, Nekayah resists consolation, ritualizes her sorrow as a duty, feels ashamed when her thoughts stray elsewhere and exploits memory in order, as Johnson elsewhere puts it, to renovate “the impression which time is always wearing away, and which new images are striving to obliterate” (Idler, no. 72).  By courting “the misery which a contrast between the past and present was certain of giving” (p. 83), both women attempt to arrest their minds.  Austen explicitly presents Marianne’s behavior not merely as an excess of sensibility, but more fundamentally as a misuse of the mind itself.  Elinor can walk with Marianne in order to protect her from the dangers of seclusion, but she realizes that she cannot force Marianne to turn her thoughts elsewhere: “Marianne’s mind could not be controlled” (p. 85, emphasis Austen’s).

Claudia L. Johnson, The "Twilight of Probability": Uncertainty and Hope in Sense and Sensibility, p. 178

Claudia Johnson also reminds us that Marianne is ‘as careless about indulging anticipations’ (p. 178), dramatised by her conviction that the respective approaching of Edward and Colonel Brandon in Barton and London are really Willoughby.  Clearly there is a suggestion that Marianne throughout has been projecting her own Willoughby; the difference between wimpy Edward, the decrepit Colonel and dashing Willoughby is that Willoughby was in a position to play along, which he duly did:

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. […]

Marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her ideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable.  Willoughby was all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his abilities were strong.

Vol. I, Ch. X (10.3-10)

Of course, Elinor is confronted by the same kinds of problems.

Elinor, in spite of every occasional doubt of Willoughby's constancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of Marianne, without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheerless her own state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly she would engage in the solicitude of Marianne's situation to have the same animating object in view, the same possibility of hope.

Vol. II, Ch. IV (ch. 26.1)

Elinor has to deal with the same pressures of her own hope and fear, and to try and make sense of the same misleading signs:

“I never saw you wear a ring before, Edward,” she cried. “Is that Fanny's hair? I remember her promising to give you some.  But I should have thought her hair had been darker.”

Marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt—but when she saw how much she had pained Edward, her own vexation at her want of thought could not be surpassed by his.  He coloured very deeply, and giving a momentary glance at Elinor, replied, “Yes; it is my sister's hair.  The setting always casts a different shade on it, you know.”

Elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise.  That the hair was her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as Marianne; the only difference in their conclusions was, that what Marianne considered as a free gift from her sister, Elinor was conscious must have been procured by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself.  She was not in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and affecting to take no notice of what passed, by instantly talking of something else, she internally resolved henceforward to catch every opportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all doubt, that it was exactly the shade of her own.

Vol. I, Ch. XVIII (18.12-14)

Elinor is likewise impelled by her own desires to jump to comforting conclusions; but note that though she ‘instantly felt as well satisfied as Marianne’ (emphasis added) that the hair was hers, she also ‘resolved henceforward to catch every opportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all doubt, that it was exactly the shade of her own’.  Some critics have cited this, and her attribution of Edward’s hanging back to his mother’s disapproval, as evidence that Elinor is just as much of a delusional never-never land as Marianne, similarly fuelled by an unreasonable belief in Edward’s reciprocation and constancy,[11] but neither mistake was that unreasonable (as witnessed by Marianne jumping to the same conclusion with the ring), but Elinor is aware of the pressure of her own desires and eschews the bipolar approach and tries to read the signs and assess the reliability of her conclusion.

By subjecting what she perceives to be partial appearances to her judgement, Elinor avoids Marianne’s stubbornness of opinion as well as her credulity.  Elinor frequently practices the same kind of suspension assent which Marianne wishes Willoughby had practised when she supposes a wicked woman has calumniated her name: “Whatever he might have heard against me—ought he not to have suspended his belief?”  (p. 190).  If Elinor candidly refuses to decide upon imperfections in the mass” (p. 51), she also declines to decide upon perfections in the mass.  Alerted by Willoughby’s inconsistency, Elinor suspends her belief in him, content instead to “acknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all” (p. 82) her mother’s explanations.  Elinor is just as wary about believing in Edward, though doubt and impartiality here require considerably more effort.  Marianne and Mrs. Dashwood eagerly await her imminent marriage to Edward, but Elinor resists.  She “required greater certainty of it to make Marianne’s conviction of their attachment agreeable to her” (p. 21).  Aware that Edward’s affection for her is “doubtful” and not yet “fully known,” Elinor resolves “to avoid any encouragement of [her] own impartiality, by believing or calling it [Edward’s regard] more than it is” (p. 21).  Elinor’s concern with the control of assent itself is made even more explicit when, after allowing Marianne to believe whatever she pleases about the extent of her own affection for Edward, she insists that Marianne refrain from deciding upon Edward’s affection: “… farther than this you must not believe” (p. 21).

Claudia L. Johnson, The "Twilight of Probability": Uncertainty and Hope in Sense and Sensibility, p. 175-6

Elinor has to cope with the same internal and external problems as Marianne; what separates them is how they deal with these problems.

Austen’s concern with the management of the mind is not limited to judgment or assent in any dryly intellectual sense.  She is also concerned with how beliefs are complicated by wishes, hopes or fears. […]

As usual, the judicious Elinor observes that conjecture is tenuous knowledge indeed, and that wishing, hoping and expecting are related but distinct activities which imply different degrees of assent.  To wish is to express a desire, to hope is to desire with some confidence, and to expect is to anticipate something as a virtual certainty.  The way Marianne and her mother eagerly and carelessly pass from wishful speculation to cherished and certain conviction recalls Johnson’s cherished observation, “what men allow themselves to hope, they will soon believe” (Rambler, no. 8).  This path towards delusion which Johnson so often delineates is difficult to avoid, for the “natural flights of the human mind” are and should be “from hope to hope” (Rambler, no. 2).  At the same time, however, hopes tend to take violent and unshakable possession of the mid as they are admitted and believed in as actualities.  The astronomer’s madness, for instance, begins with no more than a wish.  Austen’s debt to Johnson is usually assessed stylistically or normatively.[12] But the most dynamic and suggestive aspect of Johnson’s legacy to Austen is his distinctive conception of psychology, his emphasis on the operations of hope and anticipation or, conversely, regret and memory, and his conviction that these activities must be properly regulated.[13]  While later novels such as Mansfield Park and Emma explore the need to regulate such mental activities as wit and memory within an explicitly moral context, Sense and Sensibility explores how the limitation of what we can know for certain requires us to regulate what we hope in the interest of preserving sanity.  Austen’s concern here is to show how the mind animated by hope is later shackled by expectation and finally despondently arrested by disappointment, and how any hope or sorrow can become what Johnson call a “pertinacious adhesion” (Idler, no. 72).

Claudia L. Johnson, The "Twilight of Probability": Uncertainty and Hope in Sense and Sensibility, pp. 176-8

 (Claudia Johnson makes an interesting observation about the different psychological problems faced by men and women.

Austen’s subject matter is particularly well-suited to this set of psychological concerns, for the passivity and circumspection of women’s lives gives rise to intense situations of hope, fear or—later perhaps—regret.  Because they do not have what Henry Tilney terms “the advantage of choice”`(NA, p. 77), women can only wait for and conjecture about the possibility of proposals.

Claudia L. Johnson, The "Twilight of Probability": Uncertainty and Hope in Sense and Sensibility, p. 177

Men do have to grapple with the ‘twilight of probability’ too, as Mr Collins and Mr Darcy found out in Pride and Prejudice, the contrast in their response to their refusals being crucial to the ultimate fate of their suits.)

Elinor is careful to check out Edward’s character and only gradually does she commit herself to him as it is revealed, being thoroughly tested throughout the action.  She immediately senses that something is wrong, and the source of her information is Edward himself. 

Keeping to verbal undertakings and holding to engagements is a central theme of the novel.  The root injustice of the novel arises from John Dashwood’s failure to carry through an undertaking made to his dieing father to compensate his half-sisters for being cut out of the estate by their grandfather.  Nobody is censored within the novel for holding to an engagement— Marianne doesn’t reproach Elinor at all for honouring Lucy’s confidence that was ‘forced’ on her with ‘triumph’ (37.29) and far from expecting Edward to break through the engagement or blow Lucy’s cover, Elinor expects him to keep to the engagement, which he does under great pressure.

Mrs. Jennings was very warm in her praise of Edward's conduct, but only Elinor and Marianne understood its true merit.  They only knew how little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain to him in the loss of friends and fortune.  Elinor gloried in his integrity; and Marianne forgave all his offences in compassion for his punishment.

Sense and Sensibility, Vol. III, Ch. II (ch. 38.1)

When Marianne sees Edward’s ring, he is in a somewhat unpleasant situation; he can’t tell the truth without, in effect, revealing the secret engagement.  Edward’s principle crime, apart from consenting to the secret engagement, is to fall in love with Elinor four years later, and not to take enough care that Elinor shouldn’t do likewise.  His behaviour is quite different from Willoughby’s feckless treatment of Marianne, having for the most part no intention other than of toying with Marianne’s affection.[14]

He [Edward] was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him than even Elinor herself.  To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness which she had often observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour.  On Edward's side, more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a lover ought to look and say on such an occasion.  He was confused, seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by questions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection.  Marianne saw and listened with increasing surprise.  She began almost to feel a dislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a contrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect. […]

Elinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their visitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by talking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c. extorting from him occasional questions and remarks.  His coldness and reserve mortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to regulate her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, she avoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated him as she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection.

Vol. I, Ch. XVI (16.23-43)

He [Edward] joined her [Elinor] and Marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning before the others were down; and Marianne, who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves.  But before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see Edward himself come out.

“I am going into the village to see my horses,” said he, “as you are not yet ready for breakfast; I shall be back again presently.”

Vol. I, Ch. XVIII (18.2-3)

A fair amount of Edward’s coldness and reserve, as we learn later, is to keep Elinor at a distance, which of course looks very undashing next to Willoughby, but reflects better on his integrity, and is emotionally honest, and Elinor reads these signals correctly (and tries to explain this to Marianne with little success in the fourth chapter [4.11]).

Making sense of what is going on the world is generally a difficult business and nowhere is it an exact science.  Financial analysts, for example, tend to be highly skilled and they know that their forecasts can be wrong, sometimes quite wrong.  Their employers don’t conclude from this that their substantial remuneration packages can be dispensed with and unskilled people employed—their reports are bound to contain errors after all—but to the contrary, that the person with the better analysts, with the best penetration, is going to be at a decided and lucrative advantage.

Nor does this mean that we are all in a Hobbesian state of war.  Willoughby was hardly malicious, his selfishness and carelessness being quite sufficient to do the job of malice.  The ‘proprieties’, the conventions that make up the social fabric, are not merely useful providing social structure (though they do that) but as the novel illustrates so well, they can play a crucial role in structuring our mental processes.  Eliza’s and Marianne’s reckless enthusiasm drew him into commitments that he was unable to keep due to his own profligacy and general spinelessness.  Eliza’s and Marianne’s unchecked enthusiasm hurt themselves first, but Willoughby by no means profited from them in this view.   Though a cynical view can be taken of Willoughby’s and Lucy Steele’s worldly success, the novel makes clear at the close that they haven’t purchased any real happiness for themselves; that can only come from the kind of qualities that we see concentrated at Delaford at the close, the kind of ‘rectitude, and integrity of mind’ that Lucy so unfortunately lacked (22.2).

Under very trying circumstances, Elinor has to read Edward’s character and his heart, and it is no accident that she succeeds; Edward is tested for the length of the action before Elinor commits her heart to him, during which her main battle is to manage expectations and preserve peace of mind; Marianne, however, commits her heart to Willoughby somewhat sooner:

“You are mistaken, Elinor,” said she warmly, “in supposing I know very little of Willoughby.  I have not known him long indeed, but I am much better acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the world, except yourself and mama.  It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy;—it is disposition alone.

Sense and Sensibility, vol. I, ch. XII

It is understandable that a sixteen year old should believe this in the heat of passion, but it is not so clear why critics should reduce Sense and Sensibility to this philosophy.

It is true that Elinor never has to bear what Marianne does.  The sensible woman ironically has more comfort from delusive hope—as long as Edward is not actually married.

Margaret Anne Doody, Introduction to Sense and Sensibility, pp. xxxii-xxxiii

If all of the novel is so structured that all Elinor’s care puts her in no better position than Marianne then Marianne’s philosophy would indeed be hold: if no knowledge can be gleaned from the ‘sensible’ taking time and effort to get to know people and paying attention to signs like Willoughby’s and Edward’s erratic behaviour then it is really true that it ‘is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy’; it might just as well be ‘disposition alone’.

Being right about Edward’s love—while he is engaged to another and has been bungling and deceitful—may seem a cold comfort.  (What is Edward’s ‘love’ worth anyway? one might ask.)

Margaret Anne Doody, Introduction to Sense and Sensibility, p. xxxii

The bearing of the Eliza stories on Edward’s treatment of Elinor and Lucy Steele, on the other hand, is, though submerged, more disturbing, because Edward is often regarded as the positive foil to Willoughby: modest, retiring, indifferent to dead leaves.  But Edward too forms as early attachment out of the idleness endemic to landed gentlemen as presented in Sense and Sensibility.  Although Edward, unlike Willoughby, is still under a parent’s thumb, he too is holding out for an inheritance that will give him the money and the independence that he needs to sustain, not an extravagant, but still a rather aimless life as a private gentleman.  In the meantime, he expresses no interest in the energetic management of a country estate and discloses no enthusiasm or talent for a profession, not even the Church.  Edward himself describes his relationship withy Lucy Steele as a “fancied attachment” (SS 362), and as such is not different from Willoughby’s early feelings about Eliza, whose tenderness towards him [Willoughby] “for a very short time, had the power of creating [a] return” (SS 322).  But gentlemen in Sense and Sensibility are uncommitted sorts.  They move on, more or less encumbered by human wreckage from the past.  No sooner does Edward, like Willoughby, bind himself to one woman than he proceeds to engage the heart of another.  Elinor moralizes on Willoughby’s faults.  But not so quick to “scold the imprudence which complements” herself (SS 368), she is not inclined to worry about Edward’s similar, though less glaring, defects.  When Elinor chides him for being inconstant to Lucy, Edward tepidly replies:

“I was simple enough to think, that because my faith was plighted to another, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred as my honour.  I felt that I admired you, but I told myself it was only friendship … [that] I am doing no injury to anybody but myself.” (SS 368)

Elinor chalks up Willoughby’s “behaviour … from the beginning to the end” to “selfishness” (SS 351), but she appears not to notice that Edward’s self-defense is animated solely by self-concern.  While Willoughby at least at least admits to having amused himself with Marianne “without any designs of returning her affection” (SS 320), Edward never hints of any consciousness that he may have carelessly have created an attachment in Elinor that he had no intention of reciprocating.

Claudia Johnson, Jane Austen: Women, Politics and the Novel, p. 58

Nobody was harsher than Edward was on his lack of profession and it is clearly a product of Edward and his mother not seeing eye-to-eye on his preferred profession, or lack of it (being dependent upon his mother, he would need her assistance in his chosen profession).[15]   That Edward’s treatment of Lucy should be considered comparable with Eliza seems odd, to say the least—he has maintained the engagement, at Lucy’s insistence, for four years though long wearied of it, and indeed suffered just the fate that Willoughby was threatened with for not marrying the pregnant Eliza because Edward refused to break the engagement with Lucy, an engagement that he would, by this stage, very much like to be shot of.

Elinor is aware that he has some explaining to do in allowing things to get too far with her while the engagement to Lucy was still unresolved—we know this because she taxes him with it at the first opportunity (49.27)—and he tells what we know must be the case anyway: that he got in too deep before he realised it—if his motivations were really unprincipled selfishness then, as Lucy’s only hold over him at this stage was his promise, why wouldn’t he immediately cut the engagement with Lucy?

All of which begs the question as to why some critics are making the case for Elinor’s ineffectiveness and Edward’s mendacity—historically radical theses—with such unpromising material to work with.  The answer seems to be caught up with Marianne’s and Willoughby’s romantic philosophy which is obviously being critiqued through Elinor’s and Edward’s  exemplary adherence to conventional, objective ethics.  While Marvin Mudrick argues that ‘Marianne, the life and center of the novel, has been betrayed’[16] Claudia Johnson and Margaret Anne Doody argue that Elinor tries to take the conventional route and fails just as surely as Marianne does, therefore society—that great edifice of conventionality—is at fault.

Sense and Sensibility, however, goes much further than parading a conventional success story while poking fun at romantic straw men but illustrates how crucial objective conventions are to the flourishing of just and loving relationships: by the ease with which John Dashwood is made to compromise the promise to his father after it was frustrated from being formalised in law by the old gentleman, through Fanny’s pressure acting on John’s own weakness; and by the ease with which Willoughby was able to, even against his own will, compromise Marianne when they fail to formalise their relationship, and just how much of Marianne’s catastrophe was precipitated by the subsequent confusion caused by their breaking of social conventions.  Ethics no less than aesthetics are based on conventions, and cannot subsist by pure sentiment, being neither psychologically nor socially viable (see Conventions).

Mrs. Dashwood’s Judgement

The whole family perceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of liberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all selfish parents.

Vol. I, Ch. XVII (17.1)

Motherhood is one of the novel’s themes—motherhood critically and unsentimentally treated.

Margaret Anne Doody, Introduction to Sense and Sensibility, p. xix

Indeed, motherhood and parenting is one of the most important themes in Austen’s novels,[17] and Austen’s first-published novel firmly establishes this theme.  Most of the major characters are involved in parenting, and we get to see their tactical and strategic successes and failures, and often get to compare the outcome with more than one sibling.  We can see how Mrs Ferrars parenting philosophy diversely affects Fanny, Robert and Edward, and hear some of Edward’s parenting philosophy; we see how Mrs Jennings faired with Charlotte and Lady Middleton, and in turn how Lady Middleton is getting on with her ‘four noisy children’[18], and Charlotte’s transition to motherhood; we can see how Nancy and Lucy Steele cope with their arguably inadequate preparation for the social circles they are moving in and are told about how Colonel Brandon, his brother and Eliza senior fared with the Colonel’s unscrupulous and greedy father, and in turn see how the colonel fairs as a surrogate parent with Eliza junior; we see the marked similarities and differences with John, Elinor and Marianne, and are warned of future problems for Margaret if her mother isn’t careful.

Courtship must take place while daughters are under the protection of their families and is itself the genesis of further families, the love and friendship between siblings and children and parents continuing throughout and acting as a model for the loving bonds that come from courtship.  Austen keeps Marianne’s emotional drama at the centre, which, if the reader isn’t careful, is allowed to overwhelm everything else, a fact reflected in much criticism of Sense and Sensibility.

But what happens after Willoughby first leaves her and then treats her with such incomprehensible cruelty goes beyond the affectations of an emotional schoolgirl.

Tony Tanner, Original Penguin Classics Introduction to Sense and Sensibility, p. 360

Marianne’s behaviour after Willoughby first leaves are the affectations of an emotional schoolgirl; she ‘is so locked in to the convention [of romantic love] that she almost postures herself to death’[19].

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 a 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!

Vol. I, Ch. XVI (16.1)

Elinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was out of the house, busily employed herself the whole day, neither sought nor avoided the mention of his name, appeared to interest herself almost as much as ever in the general concerns of the family, and if, by this conduct, she did not lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented from unnecessary increase, and her mother and sisters were spared much solicitude on her account.

Such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no more meritorious to Marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her.  The business of self-command she settled very easily;—with strong affections it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit.  That her sister's affections were calm, she dared not deny, though she blushed to acknowledge it; and of the strength of her own, she gave a very striking proof, by still loving and respecting that sister, in spite of this mortifying conviction.

Vol. I, Ch. XIX (19.10-11)

And so well was she [Elinor] able to answer her own expectations, that when she joined them at dinner only two hours after she had first suffered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one would have supposed from the appearance of the sisters, that Elinor was mourning in secret over obstacles which must divide her for ever from the object of her love, and that Marianne was internally dwelling on the perfections of a man, of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly possessed, and whom she expected to see in every carriage which drove near their house.

Vol. II, Ch. I (23.5)

That it is the emotions of a school girl does not make them any less real, as any parent of a teenage girl will readily testify, as do the profitability and popularity of teenage pop bands.  This is no laughing matter as a report from the British Medical Association on mental health in adolescents makes clear.  Over one in ten teenage girls in England are committing acts of self-harm, and 2-3 per cent will attempt suicide.  It is on the increase, it tends to propagate among young people and it is largely a problem of adolescence, starting at around puberty.  The BMA report says that the problem is poorly understood and that there is a marked tendency for carers to ignore the underlying mental health problems and focus on the symptoms.[20]

As such she is a self-authenticating figure of protest with a complaint which nothing and no one in the novel can ever really answer.

Tony Tanner, Original Penguin Classics Introduction to Sense and Sensibility, p. 369

That Marianne’s suffering is that of an adolescent doesn’t make it any less real; indeed that it is the suffering of an adolescent makes it’s intensity all the more plausible, and the recklessness of the management of her mind go some way to explaining her complete inability, finally, to handle Willoughby’s wanton cruelty.

Primary responsibility for the catastrophe lies with Marianne’s mother, as she realises later on.  A subtle failure of parenting is often behind the action in most of Austen’s novels.  The failure is subtle, because Austen takes great care that the parent in question—Mr Bennett, Sir Thomas Bertram, Miss Taylor and Mr Woodhouse and Lady Russell—is placed in as sympathetic a context as possible, and so it is with Mrs Dashwood.  She is much closer to Marianne in temperament, but she is just as loving towards ‘my dear prudent Elinor’[21] and has a welcome that will melt away all Edward’s defensive ‘shyness, coldness [and] reserve’ much more effectively even than his lover:

Mrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural.  Her joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder.  He received the kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not stand against such a reception.  They had begun to fail him before he entered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating manners of Mrs. Dashwood.  Indeed a man could not very well be in love with either of her daughters, without extending the passion to her; and Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like himself. His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his interest in their welfare again became perceptible. He was not in spirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was attentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits.  The whole family perceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of liberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all selfish parents.

Vol. I, Ch. XVII (17.1)

And, like Marianne, is highly intelligent and, when her passions aren’t engaged, shows real wisdom.

“The consequence of which, I suppose, will be,” said Mrs. Dashwood, “since leisure has not promoted your own happiness, that your sons will be brought up to as many pursuits, employments, professions, and trades as Columella's.”

“They will be brought up,” said he, in a serious accent, “to be as unlike myself as is possible.  In feeling, in action, in condition, in every thing.”

“Come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want of spirits, Edward.  You are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike yourself must be happy.  But remember that the pain of parting from friends will be felt by every body at times, whatever be their education or state.  Know your own happiness.  You want nothing but patience—or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope.  Your mother will secure to you, in time, that independence you are so anxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must ere long become her happiness to prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent. How much may not a few months do?”

Vol. I, Ch. XIX (19.5-7)

It is fair enough to say that most of us would die for a mother like Marianne’s, but Marianne nearly does.  Mrs Dashwood enters entirely into Marianne’s reckless handling of Willoughby’s courtship and it is Elinor who has to step in and try to cover for the mother that doesn’t turn up, trying to get intelligence on his character, trying to warn Marianne to exercise some caution until his character is better understood, discouraging her solitary rambles after his abrupt departure and trying to persuade Mrs Dashwood to clarify whether they are engaged or not, but it is all adroitly presented as the officiousness of a joyless older sister that must have everything done by the book.  The heart is being goaded into siding with Marianne and her mother and over-ruling Elinor’s better judgement; we are being incited to repeat Marianne’s mother’s mistake of disregarding Elinor and buying into the Willoughby fantasy, not wanting to look too closely at the blissful romantic mirage and everything it represents. 

If the reader does buy into it then, in a sense, the reading experience may end up paralleling Marianne’s, the romantic fantasy becoming too attractive, and the alternative too unpalatable.  Sometimes clinging to the fantasy can have hideous consequences.

Saturday, 21 June 1941, produced a perfect summer’s morning.  […]

In the Soviet Embassy on the Unter den Linden officials were at their posts.  An urgent signal from Moscow demanded an ‘important clarification’ of the huge military preparations along the frontiers from the Baltic to the Black Sea.  […] As the morning passed, more and more urgent messages arrived from Moscow demanding news.  There was an atmosphere of repressed hysteria in the Kremlin as the evidence of the German intentions mounted, adding to more than eighty warnings received over the past eight months. […]

The Soviet ambassador in Berlin, Vladimir Dekanozov, shared Stalin’s conviction that it was all a campaign of disinformation, originally started by the British.  He even dismissed the report of his own military attaché that 180 divisions had deployed along the border. […] Other members of the mission, although they did not dare express their views too forcefully, had little doubt that Hitler was planning to invade.  They had even sent on proofs of a phrase book prepared for invading troops, which had been bought secretly to the Soviet consulate by a German Communist printer.  Useful terms included the Russian for ‘Surrender!’, ‘Hands up!’, ‘Where is the collective farm chairman?’, ‘Are you a Communist?’ and ‘I’ll shoot!’ […]

Schulmburg, a diplomat of the old school who believed in Bismarck’s dictum that Germany should never make war on Russia, had good reason to be astonished by the Kremlin’s ignorance.  Over two weeks before, he had invited Dekanozov, then back in Moscow, to a private lunch and warned him of Hitler’s plans. […] But Dekanozov, atonished at such a revelation, immediately suspected a trick.  Stalin, reacting in the same way, exploded to the Politburo: ‘Disinformation has now reached ambassadorial level!’  Stalin was certain that most warnings had been […] part of a plot by Winston Churchill, the arch-enemy of the Soviet Union, to start a war between Russia and Germany.  Since Hess’s flight to Scotland, the conspiracy had grown ever more complicated in his mind.

Stalin, who had refused to accept the possibility of an invasion until that saturday afternoon, still remained terrified of provoking Hitler.  Goebbels, with some justification, compared him to rabbit mesmerized by a snake.  A succession of reports from frontier guards told of tank engines being warmed up in the woods across the border, of German army engineers constructing bridges across rivers and removing barbed-wire entanglements in front of their positions.  The commander of the Kiev Special Military District warned that war would begin in a matter of hours.  Reports arrived that in Baltic ports, German ships had suddenly stopped loading and sailed for home.  Yet Stalin, the totalitarian dictator, still could not come to terms with the idea that events might be outside his control.

That night, after long discussions in his study with senior commanders of the Red Army, Stalin agreed to the dispatch in code of a signal to all military-district headquarters in the West.  ‘[…] The Task of our forces is not to yield to any provokations likely to prompt major complications.  At the same time, troops … are to be at full combat readiness, to meet a possible surprise blow by the Germans and their allies.’  The navy and some senior officials in the Red Army had quietly ignored Stalin’s orders against mobilization.  But for many units, the order came too late. […]

The hopes of even the most fanatic Kremlin optimist were crumbling. […] Stalin, on hearing the news [of the German declaration of war], apparently sunk into his chair and said nothing.  His succession of obsessive miscalculations offerred much material for bitter reflection.  The leader most famed for his ruthless trickery had fallen into a trap which was largely of his own making.

The news from the front was so catastrophic over the next few days that Stalin, whose bullying nature contained a strong streak of cowardice, summoned Beria and Molotov for a secret discussion.  Should they make make peace with Hitler, whatever the price and humiliation, just like the Brest-Litovsk deal in 1918?  They could give up most of the Ukraine, Belorussia and the Baltic States.  The Bulgarian ambassador, Ivan Stamerov, was later summoned to the Kremlin.  Molotov asked him if he would act as an intermediary, but to their astonishment he refused.  ‘Even if you retreat to the Urals,’ he replied, ‘you’ll win in the end.’

Antony Bevor, Stalingrad, pp. 3-9

Copyright © 2007 Chris Dornan
Background by www.digitalblasphemy.com

[TOP] [Next: Love]