Love

Everyone agrees on the ethics of a universal love and compassion.

Posted: 1 March 2008 (printer-friendly permalink)

The Plot Thickens

Elinor and Marianne

True Love

The Plot Thickens

In Sterne and The Demise of Sentimentality we saw John Mullan discussing the fatal problem with the Eighteenth Century sentimental novel.

From the first, sentimental virtue led to weakness or illness.  Richardson’s Pamela, a resolute heroine who endures suffering triumphantly, also sometimes collapses under the pressure of her feelings.  The heroines who follow her, up to and including the Gothic novels of Ann Radcliffe, are made sick by their sensitivities.  Time and again, the protagonists of sentimental fiction fail to find a social space in which the sympathies can operate.  They fall ill because their sympathies are turned inwards.  In a sense, this is sentimentalism’s acknowledgment of its own failure.  For it tried to imagine the communicability of human sentiments, transcending all difference and leading individuals away from mere self-interest into the delights of sympathy.

John Mullan, Sentimental Novels, pp. 250-1

Like television in our time Eighteenth Century novels were criticised for encouraging a kind of mind-numbing passivity in which sympathy would be delightfully and effortlessly stimulated and improved without any effort on the part of the reader, and Austen was highly interested on the interaction between fictional and real worlds.[1]  Great novels yield more as each level is penetrated but Austen may have been setting the reader sentimental as well as intellectual, challenges which need to be met to get the right feeling, as well as understanding.  This would be particularly appropriate for a novel that is making the case (as we have been arguing) that allowing understanding and feeling to become separated and inhabit parallel universes is to invite trouble and that active management is needed to avoid such bifurcation; Austen seems to be engineering a crisis in the reader that mirrors Marianne’s, but only if the reader acquiesces with Marianne and her mother’s dismissal and cheapening of Elinor’s sterling qualities, centred on her careful management of her mind as it comes under pressure from within and without.  It is of course true in general that on rereading a great novel the sympathies for the various characters will transform and deepen, but Austen seems to be presenting the reader with a sharper problem; rather than using her considerable powers as a novelist to make us sympathetic to the heroine and hero and her ‘sympathetic’ characters she seems to be using these powers in the first half of the novel to subtly undermine our sympathies for them; to get the right reading it seems we have to actively manage our sympathies to avoid getting drawn into Marianne’s delusional world while dismissing Elinor’s claims on our interest, as Marianne and their mother do.  If the reader does see the novel as a story of Marianne’s romantic fulfilment, then they will likely end up feeling it to be a very disappointing novel, but if this is avoided, there may be no shortage of tears in the second half of the novel, sustained on each rereading (possibly amplified by a sense of the abuse heaped on the lovers by posterity).

Marianne’s illness and Willoughby’s account of his conduct stand as the final crises in the novel: they precipitate judgment both in Marianne and in Elinor and its this I want to look at now.

Vivien Jones, How to Study a Jane Austen Novel, p. 30

When Vivien Jones say that ‘Marianne’s illness and Willoughby’s account of his conduct stand as the final crises in the novel’, this is manifestly not true: Marianne’s crisis has passed and Willoughby has explained his conduct; this would indeed be the crisis if the novel were about Marianne, but Elinor’s story is not resolved.  The interest of Elinor’s story will be considered in Elinor’s Story but first we should go back to the point where Marianne’s illusory Willoughby burst and Marianne ‘almost screamed with agony’ when finally confronted with a very ugly Willoughby, more consistent with his history.

Elinor, who knew that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its course, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent itself, and then turning eagerly to Willoughby's letter, read as follows: […]

With what indignation such a letter as this must be read by Miss Dashwood, may be imagined.  Though aware, before she began it, that it must bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their separation for ever, she was not aware that such language could be suffered to announce it; nor could she have supposed Willoughby capable of departing so far from the appearance of every honourable and delicate feeling—so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to send a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of bringing with his desire of a release any professions of regret, acknowledged no breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever—a letter of which every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be deep in hardened villainy.

Vol. II, Ch. VII (29.12)

For Mary Lascelles the novel starts to become unreal from this point.

His [Willoughby’s] interview with Elinor is ineffectual, not because Jane Austen cannot contrive a crisis—it is not, for her, an exhilarating task, but she performs it well enough in the course of Marianne’s illness; it is ineffectual because she has allowed the occasion of the interview to remain wholly unreal for her.  This is betrayed by the very phrase she uses when Willoughby begins to show what he is—‘deep in hardened villainy’[2]—which, as Jane would surely have told Anna had she used it, is ‘such through novel slang—and so old, that I dare say Adam met with it in the first novel he opened’.

Mary Lascelles, Jane Austen and Her Art, pp. 73-4

And she says in a footnote to this passage:

[Jane Austen's Letters, no. 108, p. 277][3]  It is the rarity of this false touch in J. A.’s writing that makes it significant.

But Jane Austen could have been signalling through this ‘false touch’ what she has been at, namely using the conventions of sentimental fiction to draw the reader into Marianne’s illusory world, and if the reader sees the novel as about Marianne’s fulfilment through successful courtship then the world of the novel could start to feel quite hollow once Marianne’s bubble bursts, giving the resolution of the novel an anti-climactic feel that mirrors Marianne’s own depression.

With such a confederacy against her—with a knowledge so intimate of his goodness—with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself, which at last, though long after it was observable to everybody else—burst on her—what could she do?

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

But so it was.  Instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible passion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting,—instead of remaining even for ever with her mother, and finding her only pleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in her more calm and sober judgment she had determined on,—she found herself at nineteen, submitting to new attachments, entering on new duties, placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the patroness of a village.

Vol. III, Ch. XIV (50.14)

It is as if Austen is baiting any reader expecting a resolution in line with the Willoughby’s courtship by hitching Marianne through an arranged marriage to the decrepit middle-aged colonel (who is in his mid-thirties and challenges Willoughby to a duel).  Its not that Austen couldn’t do glamorous marriages, or disapproved of them per se—we see that with Elizabeth Bennett—but that the novel wasn’t about Marianne’s courtship; Marianne must first learn to respect the real world, the only stable basis for a meaningful happiness and she must start paying attention to the heroine, as must the reader, and cultivate a critical relationship to sentiment.

There is an interesting four way symmetry between Elinor and Marianne and the first part of the novel—up to Marianne’s near-death, resurrection and enlightenment—and the latter part of the novel.  In the first part Elinor is much more in her head, needing to keep a tight reign because of the confusing situation with Edward and Lucy and Marianne and Willoughby, while Marianne is giving free reign to her emotions; and while the reader is told about Elinor’s courtship, Marianne’s courtship is shown.  After Marianne’s reprieve things get reversed somewhat with Elinor in a more straightforward situation waiting for news of Edward’s marriage or, more agreeably, ‘some more eligible opportunity of establishment for the lady’[4] and the break up of his engagement with Lucy; in this latter phase we see more of Elinor’s emotions while Marianne is being more thoughtful.  In the second half of the novel we are also shown Elinor’s engagement with Edward but are told about Marianne’s courtship and Marriage to Colonel Brandon—the reader is challenged, as with Elinor and Edward’s courtship, to imagine it sympathetically without it being shown.

Elinor and Marianne

Elinor, we are told in Chapter 2,  ‘had an excellent heart—her disposition was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern them’ and not long after Marianne ‘almost screamed with agony’[5] we see Elinor’s own distress when she and Lucy are invited to Fanny Dashwood’s for dinner where they are presented to Mrs Ferrars who proceeds to sleight Elinor and favour Lucy, not realising that the portionless Lucy’s actual engagement to Edward has blocked any prospect of him proposing marriage to Elinor.

Elinor could not now be made unhappy by this behaviour.—A few months ago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in Mrs. Ferrars' power to distress her by it now;—and the difference of her manners to the Miss Steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made to humble her more, only amused her.  She could not but smile to see the graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very person—for Lucy was particularly distinguished—whom of all others, had they known as much as she did, they would have been most anxious to mortify; while she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound them, sat pointedly slighted by both.  But while she smiled at a graciousness so misapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which it sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with which the Miss Steeles courted its continuance, without thoroughly despising them all four.

Vol. II, Ch. XII (34.16)

If affectionate Elinor’s excellent heart, with her strong feelings, is ‘despising them all four’ then Mrs Ferrars actions have the power to distress her, if not ‘hurt her exceedingly’.  After the dinner, Mrs Ferrars gets another opportunity to snub Elinor, which she doesn’t let pass, provoking a typical reaction from Marianne.  Fanny is commenting to her mother on one of Elinor’s screens:

“Do you not think they are something in Miss Morton's style of painting, Ma'am?—She does paint most delightfully!—How beautifully her last landscape is done!”

“Beautifully indeed!  But she does every thing well.”

Marianne could not bear this.—She was already greatly displeased with Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor's expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth,

“This is admiration of a very particular kind!—what is Miss Morton to us?—who knows, or who cares, for her?—it is Elinor of whom we think and speak.”

And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's hands, to admire them herself as they ought to be admired.

Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, “Miss Morton is Lord Morton's daughter.”

Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at his sister's audacity.   Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne's warmth than she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon's eyes, as they were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister slighted in the smallest point.

Marianne's feelings did not stop here.  The cold insolence of Mrs. Ferrars's general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell such difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart taught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of affectionate sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister's chair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers, said in a low, but eager, voice,

“Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind them.  Don't let them make you unhappy.”

She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her face on Elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears.  Every body's attention was called, and almost every body was concerned.—Colonel Brandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he did.—Mrs. Jennings, with a very intelligent “Ah! poor dear,” immediately gave her salts; and Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the author of this nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat to one close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of the whole shocking affair.

Vol. II, Ch. XII (34.33)

Here Marianne, as she does in crucial points throughout the novel, mirrors Elinor’s well governed strong feelings, but more than ‘Colonel Brandon's eyes’ are ‘fixed on Marianne, declar[ing] that he noticed only what was amiable in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister slighted in the smallest point’; so are ours.  Here Marianne can hardly be criticised for behaving selfishly and her spontaneous anarchic response to the ‘mean-spirited folly’ seems quite as valid as Elinor’s and may lead us to wonder whether the exemplary Elinor is so wise to persist in upholding the social conventions of such a corrupt social order; Marianne’s ‘form’ was ‘not so correct as her sister’s’,[6] but maybe it is more appropriate after all.

Volume three ends with a chapter that brings Elinor, Lucy, Edward and Marianne together, and Marianne’s anarchic presence breaks through again.  The chapter opens with Elinor fending off Lucy’s ‘civil triumph’ at the introduction to their future mother-in-law the previous night.

“Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to Edward's love, it is the greatest comfort I have.—Poor Edward!—But now there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty often, for Lady Middleton's delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall be a good deal in Harley Street, I dare say, and Edward spends half his time with his sister—besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will visit now;—and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good to say more than once, they should always be glad to see me.—They are such charming women!—I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I think of her, you cannot speak too high.”

But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she should tell her sister.  Lucy continued.

“I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took a dislike to me.  If she had only made me a formal courtesy, for instance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way—you know what I mean—if I had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, I should have gave it all up in despair.  I could not have stood it.  For where she does dislike, I know it is most violent.”

Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by the door's being thrown open, the servant's announcing Mr. Ferrars, and Edward's immediately walking in.

It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each shewed that it was so.  They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to advance farther into it.  The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them.—They were not only all three together, but were together without the relief of any other person.  The ladies recovered themselves first.  It was not Lucy's business to put herself forward, and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up.  She could therefore only look her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him, said no more.

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

Vol. II, Ch. XIII (35.15)

Lucy has Edward and Elinor just where she wants them, sworn to secrecy and Edward’s engagement ‘to keep [his] heart as safe and sacred as [his] honour’.[7]  Although Edward has been deceived by Lucy (he believes she still loves him), Elinor has not, yet she continues to maintain all the social forms with Lucy, and it leaves us wondering why and whether Marianne’s refusal to play the game isn’t better.

Of course, Elinor represents the philosophy of working within social conventions as much as Marianne represents that of setting them aside when adherence to them comes into conflict with feelings, responding to baseness ‘with disgust, with contemptuous silence, but never with smooth civility’.[8]  Lucy on the other hand exploits social conventions, selfishly, unethically, ruthlessly and perfectly successfully, keeping herself between Edward and Elinor, and Edward tethered to her until she has wormed her way into his family, exploiting first Robert’s vanity, then his mother’s; with someone so ruthlessly and successful at exploiting social conventions why should someone like Elinor continue to play by the rules, even when she can see what Lucy is up to.  Lucy Steele is a novelistic Ring of Gyges.  In Austen’s ethical project Lucy Steele embodies the rival  who can act ruthlessly and escape all worldly consequences, and Austen and Elinor have to demonstrate that ultimately she won’t profit from her unethical behaviour, and more importantly, that Elinor does profit from sticking to her ethical principles even when dealing with such a rival.

Elinor’s ethics are equally under attack from Marianne’s example, who knows nothing about any of this in the exquisite comedy that ensues.

Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage enough to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy's, nor could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor's.

Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word; and almost every thing that was said, proceeded from Elinor, who was obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother's health, their coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about, but never did.

Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching Marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and that in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went to her sister.  When that was once done, however, it was time for the raptures of Edward to cease; for Marianne's joy hurried her into the drawing-room immediately.  Her pleasure in seeing him was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken.  She met him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the affection of a sister.

“Dear Edward!” she cried, “this is a moment of great happiness!—This would almost make amends for every thing?”

Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt.  Again they all sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at Edward and sometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other should be checked by Lucy's unwelcome presence.  Edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice Marianne's altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding London agree with her.

“Oh, don't think of me!” she replied with spirited earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, “don't think of MY health.  Elinor is well, you see.  That must be enough for us both.”

This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no very benignant expression.

“Do you like London?” said Edward, willing to say any thing that might introduce another subject.

“Not at all.  I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none.  The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank Heaven! you are what you always were!”

She paused—no one spoke.

“I think, Elinor,” she presently added, “we must employ Edward to take care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to accept the charge.”

Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even himself.  But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked of something else.

“We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley Street yesterday!  So dull, so wretchedly dull!—But I have much to say to you on that head, which cannot be said now.”

And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in private.

“But why were you not there, Edward?—Why did you not come?”

“I was engaged elsewhere.”

“Engaged!  But what was that, when such friends were to be met?”

“Perhaps, Miss Marianne,” cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on her, “you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no mind to keep them, little as well as great.”

Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the sting; for she calmly replied,

“Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that conscience only kept Edward from Harley Street.  And I really believe he HAS the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in performing every engagement, however minute, and however it may make against his interest or pleasure.  He is the most fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish, of any body I ever saw.  Edward, it is so, and I will say it. What! are you never to hear yourself praised!—Then you must be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to my open commendation.”

The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward, that he very soon got up to go away.

“Going so soon!” said Marianne; “my dear Edward, this must not be.”

And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy could not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he would go; and Lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit lasted two hours, soon afterwards went away.

Vol. II, Ch. XIII (35.21)

Elinor’s anger towards the slight of Marianne contrasts with Marianne’s the previous evening, Elinor’s being as well governed as Marianne’s ripped through the social façade at the dinner.  Marianne is seen in a very good light here, her anarchic presence, her warm-hearted naivety looking an attractive alternative to Elinor’s ‘general civility’ and well-governed strong feelings, and just the tonic for the ‘mean-spirited folly’ of Lucy Steele and her future mother-in-law.  While Marianne’s philosophy is thoroughly criticised throughout the novel, there is no evidence that Austen was criticizing her spirited approach to life, as has been suggested by some critics,[9] any more than was Elizabeth Bennett or Emma Woodhouse.

“What can bring her here so often?” said Marianne, on her leaving them.   “Could not she see that we wanted her gone!—how teazing to Edward!”

“Why so?—we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest known to him of any.  It is but natural that he should like to see her as well as ourselves.”

Marianne looked at her steadily, and said, “You know, Elinor, that this is a kind of talking which I cannot bear.  If you only hope to have your assertion contradicted, as I must suppose to be the case, you ought to recollect that I am the last person in the world to do it.  I cannot descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not really wanted.”

She then left the room; and Elinor dared not follow her to say more, for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to Lucy, she could give no information that would convince Marianne; and painful as the consequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was obliged to submit to it.  All that she could hope, was that Edward would not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing Marianne's mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of the pain that had attended their recent meeting—and this she had every reason to expect.

Vol. II, Ch. XIII (35.44)

It is not difficult to sympathise with Marianne’s outburst (according to Mudrick Elinor ‘is, from Marianne’s standpoint, on the enemy’s ground and deserves the same judgment’[10]); the secrecy which Elinor has been manipulated into is the source of much of the problem and Austen was to return to this theme with much grief for Fanny Price and Jane Fairfax flowing from their secret engagements, and one suspects Emma may have had the author’s agreement when she says  to Jane Fairfax ‘I love every thing that is decided and open!’.[11]

When Mudrick says Elinor is on the enemy’s ground he means that Elinor is playing the same kind of hypocritical games as Lucy in trying to deceive her sister, but a closer look will see that Elinor is being consistent and candid in her dealing with Marianne, telling her the true state of affairs.  ‘Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister’ in the fourth chapter:

Marianne here burst forth with indignation—

“Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse than cold-hearted!  Ashamed of being otherwise.  Use those words again, and I will leave the room this moment.”

Elinor could not help laughing.  “Excuse me,” said she; “and be assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my own feelings.  Believe them to be stronger than I have declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion—the hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly.   But farther than this you must not believe.  I am by no means assured of his regard for me.  There are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is.  In my heart I feel little—scarcely any doubt of his preference.  But there are other points to be considered besides his inclination.  He is very far from being independent.  What his mother really is we cannot know; […]”

Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother and herself had outstripped the truth.

“And you really are not engaged to him!” said she. “Yet it certainly soon will happen. […]”

Vol. I, Ch. IV (4.13)

The essentials of the situation are as Elinor has already told Marianne, that Edward loves Elinor, but isn’t in a position to return that love openly.  Elinor has since learnt that it is his engagement to Lucy rather than his mother’s disapproval that is the source of the mischief, but the details of precisely what is keeping them apart are relatively superficial; if Marianne had really listened to what Elinor was trying to tell her she wouldn’t have any difficulty understanding Elinor’s behaviour.  When Elinor reminds Marianne of the formal relationship between Lucy and Edward and explains that ‘[i]t is but natural that he should like to see her as well as ourselves,’ she is very close to the truth but Marianne isn’t listening and is as guilty of adhering to her own projections of the situation between Elinor and Edward as she was with herself and Willoughby.  Every time Elinor meets Edward up until their engagement she is careful to treat him ‘as she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection’, even when ‘[h]is coldness and reserve [has] mortified her severely’. [12]

Elinor is under an obligation to keep Lucy’s secret but we were told that ‘though it obliged her to unceasing exertion, was no aggravation of Elinor's distress’:

On the contrary it was a relief to her, to be spared the communication of what would give such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from hearing that condemnation of Edward, which would probably flow from the excess of their partial affection for herself, and which was more than she felt equal to support.

From their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could receive no assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress, while her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their example nor from their praise.  She was stronger alone, and her own good sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken, her appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.

Vol. II, Ch. I (23.6)

Elinor is finally relieved to be able to tell Marianne about the engagement when it becomes public (no doubt because of distressing scenes like the above) but an important motivation for Elinor’s self-command is for her own health, to avoid the kind of gratuitous, debilitating erosion of mental-peace that Marianne’s indulgences bring for her, leaving her almost entirely defenceless when confronted with Willoughby’s cruelty.  Elinor is almost relieved that she has no choice about telling Marianne and her mother because no good would come of it, either to herself or to the others, and this really an indictment of their mother especially, but also of Marianne, when Elinor has to be the ‘comforter of others in her own distresses’ because of their excessive self-indulgence.

Almost every character in the novel can be seen to be indulging their feelings, which can be quite subtly or overtly thoughtless, and the reader’s sentiments and judgement are likewise being constantly tested.

True Love

Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments, love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand'ring bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come,
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom:
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

William Shakespeare, Sonnet No. 116

Marianne’s forwardness to express her attachment is based on an assumption of trust in Willoughby which all observers share.  Although Austen threatens to explode the trust that legitimized her openness, in the end it is restored, though its value is diminished.  Reading Marianne’s letters to Willoughby, Elinor regrets “the imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs of tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding” (SS 188), but as it turns out the proofs of tenderness were warranted.  Marianne insists Willoughby “did feel the same … for weeks and weeks he felt it.  I know he did” (SS 188).  She is right.  Marianne’s very breach of decorum thwarts Willoughby’s ruthless designs and almost brings about a conversion experience that would lead him to renounce his worldly “dread of poverty” (SS 323).  Willoughby may not be a particularly worthy object of affection—though Edward, after all, is only slightly more so—but Austen spares Marianne the humiliation of unreturned love, and acquits her of delusion as well as shame.

Claudia Johnson, Jane Austen: Women, Politics and the Novel, p. 62

Only within the delusional world that Austen creates could we say that no observers harbour any concerns about Willoughby; Elinor tries wherever she can to enquire after Willoughby’s character and urges restraint on Marianne, the action any responsible parent ought to take, regardless of their concern for the ‘rules of decorum’.

The rules of decorum, of course, are Lady Middleton’s province, and no character in the novel is so thoroughly satirised.

They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of their comfort at Barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance was favourable to their wishes.  Lady Middleton was not more than six or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking, and her address graceful.  Her manners had all the elegance which her husband's wanted.  But they would have been improved by some share of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to detract something from their first admiration, by shewing that, though perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark.

Vol. I, Ch. VI (6.8)

Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of all her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her greatest enjoyment in any of their parties.  But Sir John's satisfaction in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting about him more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier they were the better was he pleased. […]

There was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as companions to the Dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of Lady Middleton was so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity of Colonel Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and his mother-in-law was interesting.  Lady Middleton seemed to be roused to enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after dinner, who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to every kind of discourse except what related to themselves.

Vol. I, Ch. VII (7.2)

Lady Middleton was more agreeable than her mother only in being more silent.  Elinor needed little observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do.

Vol. I, Ch. XI (11.6)

Most grateful did Elinor feel to Lady Middleton for observing, at this moment, “that it rained very hard,” though she believed the interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and mother.  The idea however started by her, was immediately pursued by Colonel Brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them.

Vol. I, Ch. XII (12.27)

In a morning's excursion to Exeter, they had met with two young ladies, whom Mrs. Jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be her relations, and this was enough for Sir John to invite them directly to the park, as soon as their present engagements at Exeter were over.  Their engagements at Exeter instantly gave way before such an invitation, and Lady Middleton was thrown into no little alarm on the return of Sir John, by hearing that she was very soon to receive a visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of whose elegance,—whose tolerable gentility even, she could have no proof; for the assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for nothing at all.  Their being her relations too made it so much the worse; and Mrs. Jennings's attempts at consolation were therefore unfortunately founded, when she advised her daughter not to care about their being so fashionable; because they were all cousins and must put up with one another.  As it was impossible, however, now to prevent their coming, Lady Middleton resigned herself to the idea of it, with all the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with merely giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times every day.

Vol. I, Ch. XXI (21.2)

Lady Middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day, or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, “It is very shocking, indeed!” and by the means of this continual though gentle vent, was able not only to see the Miss Dashwoods from the first without the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without recollecting a word of the matter; and having thus supported the dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the interest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though rather against the opinion of Sir John) that as Mrs. Willoughby would at once be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon as she married.

Vol. II, Ch. X (32.14)

Lady Middleton was equally pleased with Mrs. Dashwood. There was a kind of cold hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually attracted them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid propriety of demeanor, and a general want of understanding.

Vol. II, Ch. XII (34.2)

The care Austen takes to satirise Lady Middleton’s preoccupation with surface proprieties indicates a striking desire by the author to emphasise that she has no interest in the ‘rules of decorum’, that Elinor’s concern is quite different from Lady Middleton’s, certainly not the concerns of someone with ‘an insipid propriety of demeanor, and a general want of understanding’.

In Mrs. Dashwood's estimation he was as faultless as in Marianne's; and Elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too much what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons or circumstances.  In hastily forming and giving his opinion of other people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which Elinor could not approve, in spite of all that he and Marianne could say in its support.

Vol. I, Ch. X (10.9)

Lady Middleton’s preoccupation with worldly conventions is as thoughtless and selfishly motivated as Willoughby’s disregard of them, and this is the thrust of Elinor’s objections.

Elinor could not be surprised at their attachment.  She only wished that it were less openly shewn; and once or twice did venture to suggest the propriety of some self-command to Marianne.

Vol. I, Ch. XI (11.2)

While Elinor understands the value of social conventions,[13] she understands that Marianne is giving Willoughby power over her without first finding out if he is worthy or responsible; as she reminds her mother while Marianne is recovering from her illness, the character of Marianne’s future husband “does not rest on one act of kindness […].  To Mrs. Jennings, to the Middletons, he has been long and intimately known; … “ Vol. III, Ch. IX (45.17).  However, the colonel is captivated by the ‘charms of enthusiasm’ and therefore blind to the problems.

“This will probably be the case,” he replied; “and yet there is something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions.”

“I cannot agree with you there,” said Elinor. “There are inconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for.  Her systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her greatest possible advantage.”

Vol. I, Ch. XI (11.12)

Colonel Brandon anticipates Walter Scott’s point[14] that it is a shame to see young ardent idealism ground out and replaced by worldly cynicism.  And of course Elinor, no doubt irritated to see her sensible confidante blinded to the dangers by Marianne’s charms, damns herself further with the reader by appearing to wish for Marianne to crash and burn in order to teach her a lesson and restore proper order, but Elinor is, of course, saying no such thing.  She senses that Marianne’s lack of ‘acquaintance with the world’ can’t turn out well and looks forward to Marianne wising up in order that she might be spared the ‘inconveniences’ that nearly destroy her.

Did Willoughby return Marianne’s love?  If Willoughby had continued to be motivated by a desire to merely toy with Marianne’s affections (as he later confessed to Elinor [44.29]) then plainly there would be no love in the case, but is it sufficient that Willoughby claimed, after he has married someone else, that he briefly intended to get engaged to Marianne?  It is plausible that Willoughby’s initial cynical attitude was altered under the influence of Marianne’s artless enthusiasm and she understandably wanted reassurance that Willoughby wasn’t merely toying with her affections, but can we conclude that Willoughby loved Marianne?  His excuse for the final cruel letter to Marianne is revealing.

“Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as I was ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own—her own happy thoughts and gentle diction.  But what could I do!—we were engaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed—But I am talking like a fool.  Preparation!—day!—In honest words, her money was necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be done to prevent a rupture.  And after all, what did it signify to my character in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what language my answer was couched?—It must have been only to one end.  My business was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a bluster was of little importance.—‘I am ruined for ever in their opinion—’ said I to myself—‘I am shut out for ever from their society, they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will only make them think me a blackguard one.’  Such were my reasonings, as, in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my wife's words, and parted with the last relics of Marianne. […]”

Vol. III, Ch. VIII (44.64)

Elinor’s analysis is, finally, sound.

“The whole of his behaviour,” replied Elinor, “from the beginning to the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness.  It was selfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of it, and which finally carried him from Barton.  His own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle.”

Vol. III, Ch. XI (47.11)

As far as culpability goes Willoughby really might as well have devised and composed the final letter to Marianne himself for he had no concern at all for its effects on Marianne, his thoughts being entirely for the impact on the Dashwood’s opinion of Willoughby, and as that was entirely lost he may as well declare himself a scoundrel and smooth the way for his mercenary marriage.  As Elinor anticipated, Willoughby speaks ‘without attention to persons or circumstances’ and ‘sacrific[es] general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided attention where his heart [is] engaged’[15].

Why would Johnson claim that ‘Marianne’s very breach of decorum thwarts Willoughby’s ruthless designs and almost brings about a conversion experience’ and that ‘Willoughby may not be a particularly worthy object of affection […] but Austen spares Marianne the humiliation of unreturned love’.  Clearly Marianne has managed to transiently excite a sentiment that has led Willoughby to later claim that he had it in his mind to propose marriage to Marianne; but isn’t this an extraordinarily low bar, and thoroughly demeaning to Marianne.  Elinor’s analysis is sound and the one most likely to be effective in restoring Marianne’s peace of mind.

“At present,” continued Elinor, “he regrets what he has done.  And why does he regret it?—Because he finds it has not answered towards himself.  It has not made him happy.  His circumstances are now unembarrassed—he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks only that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself.  But does it follow that had he married you, he would have been happy?—The inconveniences would have been different.  He would then have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he now reckons as nothing.  He would have had a wife of whose temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always necessitous—always poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far more importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a wife.”

“I have not a doubt of it,” said Marianne; “and I have nothing to regret—nothing but my own folly.”

Vol. III, Ch. XI (47.13)

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