How to Make Sense of Sensibility

by Monica Fairview

Funny how some terms become so slippery you can’t really grab hold of them. For us, sensibility immediately brings to mind the word “sensible,” which in fact doesn’t make any sense in the context of Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility, where the two obviously mean different things.

Have I got everybody sufficiently muddled? Just wait and see.

Here’s an explanation of what the word sensibility actually meant in Austen’s time taken from Wikipedia (what would we do without it?).

Sensibility refers to an acute perception of or responsiveness toward something, such as the emotions of another. This concept emerged in eighteenth-century Britain, and was closely associated with studies of sense perception as the means through which knowledge is gathered. It also became associated with sentimental moral philosophy… George Cheyne and other medical writers wrote of "The English Malady," also called "hysteria" in women or "hypochondria" in men, a condition with symptoms that closely resemble the modern diagnosis of clinical depression. Cheyne considered this malady to be the result of over-taxed nerves. At the same time, theorists asserted that individuals who had ultra-sensitive nerves would have keener senses, and thus be more aware of beauty and moral truth. Thus, while it was considered a physical and/or emotional fragility, sensibility was also widely perceived as a virtue.

Now, what do you make of that? Nothing like our own idea of being “sensible”, though perhaps the word “sensitive” might convey some of the meaning.

Why would I go into such detail about a single word? Because I think Jane Austen spent a lot of time trying to work out which quality is more desirable in her heroines – sense or sensibility? Clearly in the book of that title, she comes down heavily on the side of sense, with Elinor representing that quality and criticizing quite harshly the excessive sensibility of Marianne. Though ultimately, as readers we do tend to sympathize with Marianne. In other words, logically, we side with Sense, but emotionally we side with sensitivity.

In her other novels, the verdict isn’t quite so clear. The concepts are still at war, but JA presents things differently. In Pride and Prejudice Jane’s relationship with Bingley seems to represent sensibility more (particularly in the way she pines away), as does Elizabeth’s tossing aside a practical marriage with Collins because, as she claims, she’ll only marry for love. The one who uses the most sense is Charlotte, but the novel never quite accepts that common-sense approach. Mrs. Bennet, on the other hand, is a perfect example of “ultra-sensitive nerves,” but far from presenting this as a virtue, JA makes it the target of her satire. 

In Northanger Abbey, Catherine Moorland clearly manifests some aspects of sensibility, again parodied by JA, yet her intuitive feeling of something wrong at the Abbey does make sense, given the behavior of General Tilney.  

Persuasion is a tricky one. The extreme side of sensibility is represented by Mary, and it almost seems that the practical Anne is the opposite. But Anne is also the most sensitive of her family, the abler to understand nuances of behavior and the most emotional of them all. Since the novel is largely about choosing love over the “persuasions” of others, JA here clearly gives love the upper hand over rationality and social considerations.

As for Mansfield Park, it swings back in the direction of reason. Fanny is the reasonable one while everyone around her seems to be guided by their instincts. Even Edward succumbs to the irrational when temptation is thrown his way.

Emma, in some way, is a search for order and the rational in a world where everything seems chaotic. Emma sees herself as the sensible one capable of organizing everyone else’s happiness, but, like the trip to Box Hill, everything quickly becomes chaotic. I love the way riddles and puzzles play with this idea all the way through.

I’m the first to admit that I’m quickly developing a headache as I try to work myself through this. By the end, I’m not sure where I started. Is Jane Austen an advocate of sense or of sensibility? 

What do you think?

Monica Fairview is the bestselling author of Austen Sequels: The Other Mr. Darcy, The Darcy Cousins, and Austen Variations: Mr. Darcy’s Pledge, Mr. Darcy’s Challenge and The Darcy Brothers and the Neo-Victorian futuristic Steampunk Darcy as well as a Regency romance An Improper Suitor now in Regency Quintet: Summer Edition. 

Surnames in Jane Austen’s Novels

I have just been re-reading Maggie Lane’s brilliant Jane Austen and Food. In it, she makes the perceptive point that Mrs Norris in Mansfield Park is ironically named - from the French nourrice, a nurse. She behaves in the most un-nurturing way towards Fanny Price and seems to take every opportunity to put her down. 

I began to think about other Jane Austen surnames which might be significant in some way. Fanny Price’s own surname, for example, could also be viewed as ironic. For much of the novel, she is seen to have little value. Her own mother is happy to give her away to her rich relations, surely a traumatic experience for a timid ten-year-old girl. And Henry Crawford values her only as a plaything when he aims ‘to make a small hole in Fanny Price’s heart’.

Fanny is not taken in. Underneath her shy and retiring exterior, she is spot on in her judgement of the Crawfords and, when Henry proposes, she courageously refuses him, in spite of her uncle’s strong disapproval of such wilfulness. She is, as Sir Thomas, Edmund and even Henry Crawford himself eventually realize, priceless, with a moral worth beyond value.

Even the cloddish Mr Rushworth’s name carries a hint of irony. Maria rushes into her engagement with him, unable to bear the humiliation of Henry leaving without declaring himself. And worth is not a quality we associate with Mr Rushworth – or, indeed, Maria.

We might note, too, Mary Crawford’s letter to Fanny about Tom Bertram’s illness. She makes it clear that, if Tom dies of his fever, then a future ‘Sir Edmund Bertram’ would sound very well.

In Emma, there is surely more than a touch of irony in Frank Churchill’s name. Frank – that is, honest and open – he is not. And Churchill carries associations of Christian good behaviour, which, again, is wide of the mark. By contrast, Mr Knightley’s name suits his character and we see him taking the time and trouble to be kind to Miss Bates and Harriet Smith, both persons of little social consequence.

In Sense and Sensibility, the name Dashwood might be interpreted as an oxymoron.  Marianne certainly has the dash which leaves Elinor with too much of the phlegmatic, though steadfast, wood. Elinor needs more dash and Marianne needs to be more grounded (wood), which is exactly what happens over the course of the book.

Persuasion is, perhaps, the novel with the most interesting surnames. We know that Sir Walter Elliot is very aware of the value of a good name. He is scathing of Anne visiting an old school friend Mrs Smith: ‘A mere Mrs Smith – and everyday Mrs Smith, of all people and all names in the world to be the chosen friend of Miss Anne Elliot…’  Anne makes no reply, though she is well aware that her sister’s friend, Mrs Clay, a woman with no fortune, and ‘no surname of dignity’ is covertly making up to her father.  

Mrs Clay’s surname sounds suitably cloddish and sticky but she has enough guile to elope with William Elliot, Sir Walter’s heir, at the end of the book. 

Sir Walter himself is overly concerned with appearances. At the end of the book, when he learns that Anne is going to marry her former love, Captain Wentworth (a match which had gravely displeased him ten years earlier), he decides that, (Captain Wentworth’s) superiority of appearance might be not unfairly balanced against her superiority of rank; and all this, assisted by his well-sounding name, (a name of ‘worth’) allows him to give them his blessing.     

The surnames in Pride and Prejudice make a different point. Both Darcy and Lady Catherine de Bourgh have surnames of Norman-French origin, thus demonstrating their aristocratic credentials.  However, and this could be an example of Jane Austen’s ironic sense of humour, the maiden name of both Darcy’s mother and Lady Catherine was Fitzwilliam, a surname which indicates illegitimacy as fils (French: son) was used for the illegitimate children of kings or princes. Fitzwilliam might be an aristocratic name, but there’s a definite whiff of irregular behaviour about it.

The one book which doesn’t appear to use surnames to indicate anything about their owners is, surprisingly, Northanger Abbey. Why, I wonder.

All pictures are from The Ladies’ Pocket Magazine

 

Elizabeth Hawksley