Sense and Sensibility

Sense and Sensibility. Jane Austen. 1811. 409 pages. [Source: Bought]

First sentence: The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex.

Premise/plot: When Mr. Dashwood dies his second family is left wanting--not from lack of love on his part, but lack of compassion and honesty on the part of his eldest son, Mr. John Dashwood. Though I suppose one could argue that it wasn't lack of compassion and honesty but lack of backbone. Mr. John Dashwood does not 'wear the pants' in his household. His wife, Fanny, is a fierce force. She despises her step-mother-in-law and her sisters-in-law. She treats them with the thinnest layer of civility, but make no mistake she hates them. It not being enough for her to hate alone, she makes sure that her husband does as well.

The heroines of Sense and Sensibility are two of the three Dashwood sisters: Elinor and Marianne. (The youngest daughter is Margaret.)

Can these two beat the odds and overcome the obstacles that stand in the way of their happily ever afters? Elinor loves--prudently and with discretion--Mr. Edward Ferrars. Edward is the brother of Mrs. Fanny Dashwood. Edward is 'defying' his sister in the fact that he actually likes Mrs. Dashwood and her three daughters. He enjoys their company; perhaps he even loves their company. Marianne loves--wholeheartedly and without discretion--a Mr. John Willoughby. On the surface these two make an excellent match. They like and dislike the exact same things with the exact same intensity. (Is this a coincidence?) But Marianne is not his first woman to pursue, to woo. And his past may just come back to torment him....

Meanwhile, there is Colonel Brandon with a wisdom to match his years that quietly, persistently loves from afar. But who is it that he loves?! Mr. John Dashwood imagines that it is Elinor. And he's not alone, Mrs. Jennings inexplicably reaches this conclusion late in the novel. (And she should definitely know better!) Though to be fair, Mrs. Jennings is not overly discerning and John so rarely thinks about anyone besides himself that that isn't a big surprise that he'd be confused.

In some ways--many ways--the novel provides a contrast of wisdom and folly.

My thoughts: In the hands of an author like Jane Austen, Marianne and Elinor are safe. If Thomas Hardy had been writing Sense and Sensibility, I imagine that Marianne would have borne a child out of wedlock, brought shame and scandal to her family, and ultimately died for her foolish, ill-placed love. Because goodness knows if a woman loves foolishly, there are no second chances--she must be made an example of.

Would Hardy have allowed Elinor a happy ending? I'm not as certain that he wouldn't. After all, Lucy Steele would probably still be a gold-digger and switch her love and devotion to the other brother, Robert. Edward would still be free to return to

Elinor. Edward would probably not cast blame on Elinor for her sister's indiscretions. So Elinor and Edward would probably be allowed a relatively happy ending--unless Hardy added a postscript where one or the other died. 

I think Trollope would have been more forgiving than Hardy; more forgiving in the sense of being sympathetic. The Small House at Allington is so very, very similar to Sense and Sensibility, one could easily imagine Marianne's fate to be the same as Lily. Lily never 'got over' or 'moved on' from her first love. She would remain a 'spinster' living with her mother for the rest of her life. No matter how worthy John Eames was, he didn't stand a chance. (I still want a happy ending for these two. Why couldn't John and Lily get together?!?!?!)

Austen, however, has just the right touch. I love Jane Austen. I do.

Quotes:

Elinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment...She had an excellent heart; her disposition was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which one of her sisters had resolved never to be taught. 

Marianne was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation. She was generous, amiable, interesting: she was everything but prudent.

I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own. ~ Marianne

She knew that what Marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next — that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect.

A gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was passing up the hill and within a few yards of Marianne, when her accident happened. The gentleman offered his services; and perceiving that her modesty declined what her situation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther delay, and carried her down the hill.

His person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite story;

Her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ankle was disregarded.

Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich.

Lady Middleton was more agreeable than her mother only in being more silent.

It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy; it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.

“It is not every one,” said Elinor, “who has your passion for dead leaves.” “No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood. But sometimes they are.”

I wish as well as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body else it must be in my own way.

Sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge. I never wish to offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I am only kept back by my natural awkwardness.

How few people know what comfort is!

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.

Marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor therefore the whole task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell.

Lady Middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that she had never made so rude a speech.

It was every day implied, but never professedly declared. Sometimes I thought it had been — but it never was.

Her kindness is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness. All that she wants is gossip, and she only likes me now because I supply it.

Marianne, who had the knack of finding her way in every house to the library, however it might be avoided by the family in general, soon procured herself a book.

  

© 2019 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

My Year With Jane: Sense and Sensibility

Sense and Sensibility. Jane Austen. 1811. 352 pages. [Source: Book I Bought]

Some Jane Austen novels, in my opinion, have to be read multiple times in order to fully love and appreciate them. I think that is the case with Sense and Sensibility. At least, I have found it to be so. I think I have "loved" it more each time I've read it. And, I believe, this is the third time I've read it. I do know it is the third time I'll be reviewing it for the blog.

Review #1 from 2008
Review #2 from 2011

Sense and Sensibility was Jane Austen's first published novel. The original readers would not have had Pride and Prejudice to compare it with, which may work in the books favor. They wouldn't have known Jane and Elizabeth, so there wouldn't be the temptation to compare these two sisters (Marianne and Elinor) with the angelic Jane and feisty Elizabeth. And I think there is the temptation to compare. I found myself constantly looking for traces and hints of Jane and Elizabeth. Is Elinor more like Jane or Elizabeth? Is Marianne more like Elizabeth or Lydia or a bit of both? And it isn't just the sisters. Lucy Steele versus Caroline Bingley. Wickham versus Willoughby. (Amanda Grange has written Wickham's Diary, but will she ever write Willoughby's diary?! I'd love to read it!!!)

I do love Jane Austen. I love spending time in her character-rich novels. I love getting to know her characters. Not just her main characters. But the minor ones as well. So many memorable characters. Even if they're memorable only because they're despicable. I love the pacing. I love the dialogue. I love how each rereading shows me something different about a character. Little things that just take a little time perhaps to fully realize a character. When you're reading for plot and plot alone, little things pass you by.

Favorite quotes:

She [Elinor] believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater certainty of it to make Marianne’s conviction of their attachment agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next — that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister.

Men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich.

Willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners. He was exactly formed to engage Marianne’s heart, for with all this, he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else. His society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment. They read, they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable; and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which Edward had unfortunately wanted.

When he was present she had no eyes for any one else. Every thing he did, was right. Every thing he said, was clever. If their evenings at the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest of the party to get her a good hand. If dancing formed the amusement of the night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and scarcely spoke a word to any body else. Such conduct made them of course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and seemed hardly to provoke them.

“Brandon is just the kind of man,” said Willoughby one day, when they were talking of him together, “whom every body speaks well of, and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to.”

“Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a second attachment? or is it equally criminal in every body? Are those who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the inconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be equally indifferent during the rest of their lives?” “Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutiæ of her principles. I only know that I never yet heard her admit any instance of a second attachment’s being pardonable.”

“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. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others. I should hold myself guilty of greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from Willoughby. Of John I know very little, though we have lived together for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed.”

Elinor then heard Willoughby say, in a low voice to Marianne, “There are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure. Brandon is one of them. He was afraid of catching cold I dare say, and invented this trick for getting out of it. I would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own writing.” “I have no doubt of it,” replied Marianne.

“I am afraid,” replied Elinor, “that the pleasantness of an employment does not always evince its propriety.”
“On the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, Elinor; for if there had been any real impropriety in what I did, I should have been sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting wrong, and with such a conviction I could have had no pleasure.”

Oh, Elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings! You had rather take evil upon credit than good. You had rather look out for misery for Marianne, and guilt for poor Willoughby, than an apology for the latter. You are resolved to think him blamable, because he took leave of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has shown. And is no allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits depressed by recent disappointment? Are no probabilities to be accepted, merely because they are not certainties? Is nothing due to the man whom we have all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill of? — to the possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though unavoidably secret for a while? And, after all, what is it you suspect him of?”

Secrecy may be advisable; but still I cannot help wondering at its being practiced by him. 

“I have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly. Has not his behaviour to Marianne and to all of us, for at least the last fortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation? Have we not perfectly understood each other? Has not my consent been daily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate respect? My Elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement? How could such a thought occur to you? How is it to be supposed that Willoughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister’s love, should leave her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of his affection, — that they should part without a mutual exchange of confidence?”

“You have no ambition, I well know. Your wishes are all moderate.” “As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe. I wish as well as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body else it must be in my own way. Greatness will not make me so.” “Strange that it would!” cried Marianne. “What have wealth or grandeur to do with happiness?” “Grandeur has but little,” said Elinor, “but wealth has much to do with it.” “Elinor, for shame!” said Marianne, “money can only give happiness where there is nothing else to give it. Beyond a competence, it can afford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned.” “Perhaps,” said Elinor, smiling, “we may come to the same point. Your competence and my wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and without them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind of external comfort must be wanting. Your ideas are only more noble than mine. Come, what is your competence?” “About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than that.” Elinor laughed. “Two thousand a year! One is my wealth! I guessed how it would end.”

“I should hardly call her a lively girl — she is very earnest, very eager in all she does — sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation — but she is not often really merry.”

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

“Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other. If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, I should not be shy.”
“But you would still be reserved,” said Marianne, “and that is worse.” Edward started. “Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?” “Yes, very.” “I do not understand you,” replied he, colouring. “Reserved! — how, in what manner? What am I to tell you? What can you suppose?” Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the subject, she said to him, “Do not you know my sister well enough to understand what she means? Do not you know she calls every one reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?”

“Mr. Palmer does not hear me,” said she, laughing; “he never does sometimes. It is so ridiculous!”
This was quite a new idea to Mrs. Dashwood; she had never been used to find wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking with surprise at them both.

But to appear happy when I am so miserable — Oh! who can require it?

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

Marianne’s lips quivered, and she repeated the word “Selfish?” in a tone that implied, “do you really think him selfish?” “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.” “It is very true. My happiness never was his object.” “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. 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 will be calm, I will be mistress of myself.

Mrs. Jennings’s prophecies, though rather jumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled; for she was able to visit Edward and his wife in their Parsonage by Michaelmas, and she found in Elinor and her husband, as she really believed, one of the happiest couples in the world. They had in fact nothing to wish for, but the marriage of Colonel Brandon and Marianne, and rather better pasturage for their cows.

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.

© 2014 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews

Sense and Sensibility

Sense and Sensibility. Jane Austen. 1811. (The Complete Novels) Random House. p. 3-175.

The family of Dashwood had been long settled in Sussex. Their estate was large, and their residence was at Norland Park, in the centre of their property, where for many generations they had lived in so respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintances.

I don't know why I didn't love Sense and Sensibility the first time I read it. I really don't. Because it's just as good as all the other Austen I've read--or reread as the case may be. Could it be that some Austen novels just need to be read twice to be appreciated? Or could it be that this novel was just in the right place at the right time for me to love it? Mood does factor into my experience after all! Could me loving Colonel Brandon's Diary by Amanda Grange have something to do with it? And I couldn't help making comparisons between Sense and Sensibility with Anthony Trollope's The Small House of Allington. Couldn't help concluding that if Austen had been writing it, readers would have had a FULLY, FULLY satisfying ending! (And if Trollope had been writing Sense and Sensibility, well, Marianne might not have given up some of her notions.) Let's just be thankful that Thomas Hardy did not write Sense and Sensibility or The Small House of Allington!

I almost feel silly not including a summary, but it also feels silly to include a summary. I feel so many people will already be familiar with the basics of the story. So here it goes.

Soon after the novel opens, Mr. Dashwood dies. The second Mrs Dashwood has three daughters and not much money. For most everything went to Mr. John Dashwood, the eldest son, the son of the first Mrs. Dashwood. He promised his father--promised--that he would provide for his half-sisters and step-mother. (For the father was very distraught about his family and how they would be able to live.) To borrow from Dr. Seuss, he said and said and said those words, he said them but he lied them*. Is that exactly fair? Yes and no. He just didn't remember that he's not allowed to have thoughts and opinions of his own. He forgot to take into account his wife, Fanny Dashwood. He forgot that she would most definitely have an opinion on his her their newly inherited money. The scene between the two is quite remarkable and clever. If you can view them as villains providing comic relief. If you consider them as human beings, well, their actions can't be justified so don't even try.

So after many uncomfortable months sharing a home with John and Fanny Dashwood (and their son), Mrs. Dashwood decides she's had enough. She agrees to move with her three daughters to a small cottage (on the estate of Barton Park) where they can afford the rent. It isn't a perfect situation because it brings them into the company of Sir John Middleton, Lady Middleton, and Mrs. Jennings, just to name a few. (A little of their company goes a long, long way). But they are happy enough in their own way.

So Elinor is the oldest daughter, Marianne is the middle daughter, and Margaret is the youngest daughter. Marianne is the one most like her mother. And Marianne and Mrs. Dashwood can clash quite a bit with Elinor. Not in a needing Dr. Phil way. Not in an outrageous way. Just that they have different ideas about love and life and the finer things in life like art, music, poetry, novels, etc. To be quite honest, I found myself taking Elinor's side for many of these conversations. Marianne's strong opinions, well, they irritated me in many ways. And quite a few actually disgusted me. I had to keep telling myself, she's seventeen, she's seventeen, she's seventeen. She just hasn't experienced enough of life, of love, to know any better. Not that I believe she needed to outgrow her spirit. For her passionate spirit, her love of life, isn't a bad thing.

So Sense and Sensibility is a romance. Readers meet the men in Marianne and Elinor's lives. We meet Edward Ferrars, the brother of Fanny. Perhaps because she is already connected--for better or worse--with Fanny, Elinor doesn't hold that against him. It helps that he's not really anything like his sister. We meet John Willoughby, Marianne's ideal romantic hero. He wins Marianne and Mrs. Dashwood over with very little effort. They're just convinced that he's the best thing ever. The problem may just be that he knows it. He knows the effect he has on women--the more romantic, the more passionate, the sillier, the easier it is for him to make them swoon. And then there is Colonel Brandon. The man that perhaps only Elinor can fully appreciate--at least at the beginning. Marianne being too silly, going "he's so old, he's so ancient, who could ever love someone so old and decrepit?" Never considering that he is close to her mother's age--give or take a few years. How old is old? Well, he's 35. (Not so old in my opinion! Definitely not so old that he should just give up living life.)

I loved Sense and Sensibility. I did. I wouldn't say it was like I was reading it for the first time. Because goodness knows that when I read it the first time I was obviously not paying attention to the little things or even the not-so-little things. I suppose I was reading with a limited attention span? Or maybe I just wanted to get done quickly? I read with attention and appreciation this time. I read for pleasure. I read at my own pace. I took in each scene without rushing, without pushing. I saw just how much there was to see.

For example, I noticed that sometimes it wasn't always what was being said that mattered. That sometimes it was all about what was NOT being said. There were many, many times when the words that were being said, weren't meant at all. There were conversations veiled in polite words that were actually quite mean-spirited, full of insult, and revealing some jealousy. The text actually has quite a bit of sarcasm and humor or wit to it. That Elinor might say all the right things--at times--but that doesn't mean she's always sincere. "It was impossible for [Marianne] to say what she did not feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon Elinor, therefore, the whole task of telling lies when politeness required it always fell" (57). And so I was able to "see" more of Elinor this time through, perhaps, in her conversations with the Middletons and Palmers and Steeles and Mrs. Jennings. Like this little gem:

"I have a notion," said Lucy, "you think the little Middletons rather too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is so natural in Lady Middleton; and for my part, I love to see children full of life and spirits; I cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet."
"I confess," replied Elinor, "that while I am at Barton Park, I never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence." (58)

Almost from start to finish, I thought about each conversation, each relationship. Was it all pretense and politeness? Was it sincere or genuine? What wasn't being said? Was what being said the truth and nothing but the truth? Who did Elinor feel comfortable with? Who was she real with?

So there was much to think about this time through. And I wasn't solely thinking of Elinor throughout. I was trying my best to appreciate all the characters--even the ones I didn't especially like....like Willoughby. What I noticed was that Austen created plenty of flawed characters. That there are characters that have a few quirks, a few flaws, a few weaknesses, but that also have their good qualities too.

So I definitely LOVED this one and would recommend it. I would suggest that you go at your own pace, that you don't read it in a hurry. That you let yourself enjoy it in the moment, enjoying each scene as part of the whole, instead of trying to rush to the happily ever after ending.

*Adapted from "What Was I Scared Of?"

© 2011 Becky Laney of Becky's Book Reviews