Notes on Jane Austen and Her Time Period

My historical novels include two tributes to Austen's novels and a tribute to Samuel Richardson's Pamela.

Austen Tributes
Persuadable, my tribute to Austen's Persuasion, is told from the point of view of the "villains," Mr. Elliot and Mrs. Clay. They view the protagonists and antagonists of Austen's last novel with wry appraisal and insightful commentary. 

A Man of Few Words is my tribute to Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice. It is told from the highly reserved Darcy's point of view and seeks to explain WHY this uncommunicative man does the things he does.

Pamela Tribute
In my omnibus volume, The Gentleman & the Rake, the "rake" refers to Mr. B from Samuel Richardson's Pamela (the "gentleman" is Darcy). Mr. B's novella, Mr. B Speaks! begins the omnibus and details his defense for seducing the novel's heroine. 

Each of these works involved research into the social environment of eighteenth and nineteenth century England. Notes regarding issues such as pregnancy, traveling, and scandal have been grouped into three categories. Links to these notes are listed below and to the right of the page:

Notes for Mr. B Speaks! (Eighteenth Century)

Notes for A Man of Few Words (Nineteenth Century)

Notes for Persuadable (Nineteenth Century)

Don't Entail Smentail, Me! The Difficulty of Entails in Persuasion and Persuadable: Last Chapter

The last chapter of Persuadable is a rebuttal to the ending of the Persuasion (2007) film.

At the end of Persuasion (2007), Captain Wentworth buys Anne's family home. The film correctly indicates that part of Anne's attraction to Mr. Elliot, or at least her attraction to marrying him, is that she will be able to live in her family home. By buying her family home, Captain Wentworth resolves that dilemma (Anne doesn't have to give up anything for love!).

Unfortunately, having Captain Wentworth buy Kellynch Hall makes mincemeat of the plot.

A possible Kellynch Hall from JASA.

If selling Kellynch Hall was this easy, why didn't Sir Walter sell it to begin with? That would be an easy way to clear his debts.

An argument could be made that Sir Walter's vanity won't allow him to give up the manor; this still begs the question: Why would he suddenly be willing to sell at the end of Persuasion (2007)? (There is a possible explanation; the film just never supplies it.)

In Austen's tome, Mr. Elliot wants Kellynch Hall because he is tired of being "Mr." and wants to try out being "Sir." He will be "Sir" without Kellynch Hall, but not to the same degree. And, in the book at least, there's no financial reason for him to give up the hall.

To explain Mr. Elliot's behavior, many movies make him (relatively) poor/in need of funds. This, of course, begs the question of why a poor Mr. Elliot would be chasing after women with small dowries and an estate encumbered with debt. However, even if we assume that Kellynch Hall, unencumbered, could bring in a decent income, there is still an underlying problem:

THE ENTAIL.

Sir Walter's vanity is not the sole block to a sale anymore than Mr. Bennet's passivity is the sole block to his disposing of Longbourn. Both estates are entailed; they can only be passed on to the nearest living male relative: Mr. Elliot or Mr. Collins. And entails in the 19th century were rather difficult to break.

They can be broken, which the passage below discusses in some detail. However, Persuasion (2007) makes no effort to explain how the entail was broken, leaving the viewer to wonder what everyone has been fussing about for 120 minutes. Captain Wentworth just, you know, walked into an estate office one day and, like, said, like, "Oh, hey, I'll buy that."

My primary problem with Persuasion (2007)--which does have some redeeming points--is this assumption of dumbness. I don't feel as if the writers are real Janeites. Instead, they come across as people writing for Austen fans, whom they imagine much the same way people imagine romance writers and readers: silly airheads who only read Austen for the cutesy romance and the girl-talk and don't pick up on anything else.

Sites like The Republic of Pemberley and JASA (above) disprove this cynical painting of such fans. Jane Austen fans (and romance writers/readers) are remarkably well-informed.

(Despite my annoyance, this kind of stereotyping is fairly typical between fan groups: one group perceives another group's interest as monolithic. In fact, nothing is monolithic to the fan.)

I would have preferred Persuasion (2007) to have been written by true fans rather than by people-trying-to-make-the-fans-happy.

Setting aside the film, if you want to know how to really break an entail, keep reading!

Captain Wentworth eyed [Will and Penelope] as they entered [the drawing room of their house]. Anne curtsied; Penelope responded quickly. Will returned Captain Wentworth’s curt bow, then stood behind Penelope’s chair. His stance mirrored Captain Wentworth’s. His use of mimicry, Penelope had learned in the last three years, was a protection against outsiders. She was an insider.

“You received my letter,” Captain Wentworth said to Will.

“You wish to discuss breaking the entail to the Kellynch Hall property.”

“Sir Walter’s health is failing. He has moved permanently to Bath. He is willing to break the entail for his daughter’s sake.”

Penelope scarcely believed it—the man’s self-love was so bound up in his ancestry—but then she realized that his self-love had always been as much for the form as for the substance. All said and done, Kellynch Hall was a means to an end.

Besides, attempting to break the entail would spite Will: Better his daughter in Kellynch Hall than the despised cousin.

“Are you committed to inheriting Kellynch Hall?” Captain Wentworth asked Will.

“It’s a pleasant area,” Will said.

“You don’t strike me as a countryman,” Captain Wentworth said.

No. Will was no countryman. After all, Penelope remembered, Captain Wentworth manages men on his ship; he isn’t lacking in perception.

Captain Wentworth continued: “Are you sure you would be accepted in Kellynch?”

His eyes didn’t flicker towards Penelope, but Will said sharply, “I believe the populace would be well-satisfied with the Hall’s lord and lady.”

Across from Penelope, Anne tilted her head. For the first time in their acquaintance, she looked at Penelope with real interest. Her eyes drifted to Will who slouched, half-sitting, on the arm of Penelope’s chair. So, her gaze seemed to say, you are not just opportunists.

Penelope said smoothly, “Town life certainly has more to offer.”

“We are country-folk,” Captain Wentworth said and settled into one of the armchairs. Apparently, he had decided that Penelope and Will were sensible people who would listen to reason. “Once I leave the navy, my wife and I would prefer a country residence. Kellynch Hall would be very much to our taste. We want to acquire it.”

Penelope silently applauded Captain Wentworth. Any other husband of a baronet’s daughter would have kept up the pretense of a friendly, non-financial visit for hours. The horror of appearing vulgar!

Captain Wentworth continued, “Since the entail has to be renewed in your lifetime, Mr. Elliot, this is a chance to review your options. And since renewal may not be possible—”

Because Will and Penelope currently had no son, and Jennie [Will and Penelope's daughter] could not inherit. The Wentworths weren’t fools; they were going to press their advantage now, even if it meant dancing around their dislike of Will and Penelope. At least, Captain Wentworth disliked them. Anne seemed more curious than disgusted.

“My husband will not give up the title,” Penelope said.

She felt Will’s bright gaze on her, but she didn’t look away from Captain Wentworth’s speculative stare.

“Do you think of yourself as a baronet?” Captain Wentworth said to Will in a tone that suggested he didn’t think Will merited any title, including “captain.”

“Of course Sir Walter’s cousin should inherit the title,” Anne said quickly. “You are my father’s heir, Mr. Elliot.”

To give the Wentworths credit, Penelope doubted they cared about the title. In the City, however, a title could open doors for Will. And Penelope saw no reason why he should give up what was rightfully his.

Will said, “Penelope’s father, Mr. Shepherd, should be kept on as manager.”

“He’s too good to let go,” Captain Wentworth said. His tone added: Despite his daughter’s scandalous behavior.

Penelope resisted rolling her eyes. She knew how to play this game. Everyone brought deficiencies to the table and every deficiency had a cost. My scandalous behavior versus Anne’s non-male gender. Anne’s lack of maleness cost her more than scandalous behavior ever cost Penelope; Penelope didn’t see why she should allow anyone to forget that.

She said, “Since only my husband can break this entail, we expect to be compensated. The property is nearly disencumbered of debt. It will make a tidy profit in a few years’ time.”

Anne leaned forward, her eyes filled with the quiet speculation that marked this middle Elliot daughter. Anne knew that Penelope had no real tie to or love for Kellynch; Anne would remember how quickly Penelope left it behind the first time.

For Will, Penelope might endure it. But Will had no interest in playing squire. However much he liked the idea of a country estate, he’d never bother with the day-to-day. He would hire a qualified agent (who only skimmed slightly off the accounts) and move on to another endeavor.

Penelope could direct his energies better elsewhere. The Wentworths would get all the unpleasant noblesse oblige of being estate landlords while Will and Penelope stayed in London and watched its neighborhoods grow. The Wentworths would thrive, Penelope assumed. Kellynch Hall was their type of place.

She thought fiercely: I only want Will to thrive.

She turned back to Anne. Anne, still leaning forward, gave her a seraphic smile, and Penelope realized, Sir Walter’s unappreciated daughter is getting everything she wanted. Well, well, Miss Anne Elliot. Good for you.

Captain Wentworth said, “It is still encumbered, however. That should be a consideration.”

Will laughed. He tapped Penelope’s shoulder as he crossed to the decanter and poured himself a glass. He held out another to Captain Wentworth who took it after only a slight pause.

Détente.   

Do Mrs. Clay and Mr. Elliot Marry? Chapter 18 of Persuadable

The end of Austen's Persuasion states that Mrs. Clay and Mr. Elliot have run off to London together; it is heavily implied that despite the risk, Mrs. Clay will be able to bring Mr. Elliot "up to scratch".

St. John's Wood Church was built
in 1814. Persuasion (and
Persuadable) take place
in 1814 and 1815. Will &
Penelope could have
married here.

Mrs Clay's affections had overpowered her interest, and she had sacrificed, for the young man's sake, the possibility of scheming longer for Sir Walter. She has abilities, however, as well as affections; and it is now a doubtful point whether his cunning, or hers, may finally carry the day; whether, after preventing her from being the wife of Sir Walter, he may not be wheedled and caressed at last into making her the wife of Sir William.

As indicated in Persuadable's Chapter 16, my Will Elliot is not adverse to marriage. I basically shortened the realization--hey, this woman can manage my life better than I can--by several years (in the original version of Persuadable, I had them marry three years after moving to London). However, Will--a cunning man--realizes that Penelope Clay will never believe such an abrupt change of heart ("I want you to be my mistress" to "I want you to be my wife"). He plans to marry her once they reach London but doesn't use that particular tactic to lure her. In other words, he plans to surprise her.

A surprise wedding led me to (more) research on marriage customs. I have discussed these customs elsewhere, especially in my commentary for Mr. B Speaks! where I discuss marriage as well as mistresses.

This time, my research led me to the Temple. The Temple is an area in London where many law offices can be found (think Rumpole of the Bailey). The Inns of Court can also be found there (think American Bar Association). The Doctors' Commons that Will refers to was specifically for lawyers who practiced civil law in ecclesiastical courts. They might, for example, deal with matrimonial issues. Many of the ecclesiastical courts in England have since been disbanded, the duties handed over to purely civilian or common law courts. (The Doctors' Commons would become less and less relevant an institution throughout the nineteenth century.)

In the following passage, Will discusses how a marriage, helped by the Doctors' Commons, would go forward.

"I’m returning to London,” Will told Jeremy.

“What about Mrs. Clay?”

“She doesn’t know what she wants.”

Jeremy sighed. “Do you want me to send Sir Walter an anonymous letter warning him against his daughter’s dear friend? That might force her hand.”

“No,” Will said. He thrust a hand through his hair, making the strands stand upright.

He wanted Penelope to come to him because she’d weighed the sacrifices of marrying Sir Walter against the benefits and decided Will was the better option.

He didn’t tell Jeremy that he intended to marry her. Jeremy was willing to defend Will’s interests, but he wouldn’t understand why Will needed more than a mistress, why he wanted a wife, someone who could accompany him to public events, meet his friends, and deal with his properties.

“You know, even if you seduce Mrs. Clay, Sir Walter could still marry. The only person he wouldn’t remarry for is Elizabeth.”

“I won’t marry Elizabeth,” Will said absently.

He couldn’t tell even Jeremy the rest: that he wasn’t sure the baronetcy mattered. What would it gain him but more people who would expect him to live up to an unrealistic set of expectations? Sally’s friends had been bad enough. Being respectable would be worse.

“Good luck,” Jeremy said.

Will circled Bath to walk up Milsom Street to his hotel on George. He was stopped in front of numerous shops and questioned about the “latest engagement!” The gossips weren’t surprised by the match—no one but Sir Walter and Elizabeth questioned the suitability of a navy captain marrying the second daughter of a baronet—but by its suddenness. Wasn’t Anne supposed to marry her cousin? Was Mr. Elliot terribly devastated?

No one asked directly but avid pity underlay everyone’s questions: How are you feeling Mr. Elliot? How is your cousin?

Will claimed long-standing knowledge of Anne’s true feelings and said he hoped she would be happy—many, many times on the way to his hotel, where he ordered an early supper and told his far-from-overworked valet that he was staying in for the night.

If Penelope came, he would take her to London. He would set her up in a villa in St. John’s Wood—not the townhouse in Mayfair where he and Sally had lived. St. John’s Wood was not as posh a neighborhood but Will liked its potential. He would obtain a license from the Doctors’ Commons; Will knew members from his days at the Temple. Within fifteen days, they could marry. Perhaps, he would suggest that Penelope meet him near St. John’s Wood Church—for a stroll, perhaps. And then he would surprise her with the license.

If she came . . .

Sir Walter Plays Lothario in Chapter 17: Persuadable

In Chapter 16 of Persuadable, I address how Will receives the news that Anne is engaged to Captain Wentworth. In Chapter 17, I record Penelope's reaction. She is also, finally, given the chance to enter into an engagement with Sir Walter.

Sir Walter at Home; Mrs. Clay is to the left.

Penelope's hopes in this regard are viable. Gentlemen--members of the gentry and the aristocracy--did occasionally marry "down." There are even cases of peers marrying courtesans, actresses, and servants. Although Pamela's marriage to Mr. B shocked Richardson's contemporaries, it didn't surprise them. It was improbable, not impossible.

Penelope is certainly not as low down the hierarchy as a servant, but she isn't as high up the hierarchy as, even, Elizabeth is to Darcy. Like the wife that warmed King David's bed in old age, Penelope Clay's aim (for most of Persuasion and Persuadable) has been to catch Sir Walter's interest when he is feeling his age or, more specifically, when Sir Walter is feeling abandoned.

It may seem odd that Sir Walter would experience the empty nest syndrome when his eldest daughters are nearing thirty, but during the Regency era, people stayed home until they married. This interesting trend has begun to reassert itself in recent years ("reassert" since children staying at home until marriage has been more common throughout history than single people living on their own).

With only one single daughter left, Sir Walter would surely begin to wonder, "Who will cosset me in my remaining years?" Anne and Will Elliot both correctly foresee how Sir Walter's vulnerability makes him susceptible to the suggestion of marriage; this is not a man who manages well on his own.

If he doesn't marry, and Elizabeth does, he will probably try to move in with one of his daughters. Like King Lear's daughters, the daughter he understands the least would likely be the most willing. But Captain Wentworth would no doubt put his foot down.

[Penelope and Sir Walter meet in the Camden Crescent residence.] 

“Ah, my dear Mrs. Clay,” he said and gave her his roguish look that made him look about as dangerous as a starling. “You’ve heard our latest news, no doubt. My daughter Anne is engaged to Captain Wentworth.”

She joined him at the head of the stairs and coyly tilted her head. “It is difficult to believe that you, Sir Walter, could have any daughter about to be married.”

She conveniently failed to mention Mary, and Sir Walter blustered in a pleased fashion. He took Penelope’s hand and patted it.

“What will I do when I lose Anne’s comforting support?” he said as if he’d ever shown a preference for Anne’s company.

Anne found her own source of comfort, Penelope thought and felt an unexpected surge of jealousy.

She had never desired the middle Elliot daughter’s life with its self-effacement and mildness in the service of others. But she wished now for Anne’s freedom—to be satisfied and respectable and secure. I have such small desires. Can’t I just have them? 

Sir Walter was still patting her hand. He looked genuinely disheartened; Penelope could guess his thoughts. He might have no interest in Anne, but before her engagement she had been available—a spare daughter to look after her father’s needs. Now there was only Elizabeth, and Sir Walter believed firmly in Elizabeth’s ability to marry well.

He was afraid of being alone.

Now’s the time. Penelope should lean in, cover his hand with hers, say, “Oh, Sir Walter, think how much more frightening life is for an unattached woman.”

He would comfort her. She’d put her head on his shoulder. He’d start thinking about his future, about how she could ease his cares.

I’m not a lady, but he’ll convince himself that the merit of his title precludes my lack of one. Sir Walter would put his desire for security above all else.

Doesn’t everybody?

She loosed her hand. She said, “I’m sure your new son-in-law will never place his needs before a father’s.”

She didn’t believe that for a moment. Captain Wentworth was definitely the type to keep his wife by his side. But Sir Walter cheered up and continued on to his room.

Penelope went to hers, shut the door, and slid to the floor, arms around her knees. From that position, all she could see through the small, square window was blazing blue sky. She might be in any room in any city. She might be in London with Will.

She smiled ruefully. I never thought I’d be such a fool to give up the opportunity to secure a baronet. She knew what happened to women who thought with their hearts.

And yet, Penelope was not like other women. She’d survived a tedious marriage and had two intelligent sons (foisted onto her parents) to show for it. She’d survived interfering neighbors, pushy creditors, and leering landlords. She’d survived Sir Walter and his family.

She could survive anything.

Lady Russell's Irritating Presence in Persuadable: Chapter 16

The 1995 Lady Russell is again the best. 2007 Lady R (Alice
Krige) is too Lady MacBeth-ish. 1971 Lady R (Marian
Spencer) is good, quite motherly, but doesn't capture
Lady R's intellectual pursuits: Lady R is a smart
woman who is dumb about people. 1995 Lady R
captures this characterization very well.

In Chapter 16 of Persuadable, I provide information about how and where Will learns of Anne's (official)
engagement to Captain Wentworth. I took the opportunity to explore Lady Russell's character.

My attitude towards Lady Russell has shifted over the years. When I was younger, I had far more sympathy with her than I have now.

My shifting attitude has to do with the fundamental message of Persuasion. The fundamental message of Persuasion is that being persuadable is not necessarily a bad thing. A rigid adherence to anything, whether it be a penchant for flightiness (Louisa) or a grudge (Captain Wentworth) or self-pity (Captain Benwick) can cause unhappiness and, even, a hit to the head.

Anne discourses on this theme at the end of the novel:

I was perfectly right in being guided by the friend [Lady Russell] whom you will love better than you do now. To me, she was in the place of a parent . . . I was right in submitting to her, and that if I had done otherwise, I should have suffered more in continuing the engagement than I did even in giving it up, because I should have suffered in my conscience.

In other words, it isn't automatically a bad thing for a sheltered nineteen-year-old girl to listen to the advice of an elder.

Consequently, when I read the novel the first few times, although I thought it sad that Anne hadn't married Captain Wentworth when she was younger, hey, he could have died, and even if he didn't, he wasn't exactly in a position to support a wife, and since when should nineteen-year-olds be making life-altering decisions anyway?

As I've gotten older, however, the narrowness of Lady Russell's advice gets harder and harder to take. It is not just that her initial advice was bad ("I certainly never should, in any circumstance of tolerable similarity, give such advice," Anne states), but that Lady Russell doesn't learn from the experience. Seven years later, she still has the same perspective. When Captain Wentworth shows up in Bath, Lady Russell acts as if he is a neglible factor. She never reassesses her past advice; she never doubts herself; she goes right on trying to push Anne in a direction she doesn't really want to go.

But then Lady Russell is not a particularly intuitive person.

Both Will Elliot and Penelope Clay, outsiders, easily identify Captain Wentworth's importance to Anne. In the original text, Mr. Elliot begins to take steps to capture Mrs. Clay's attention shortly after Captain Wentworth's appearance in Bath. Both Will and Penelope are also flexible enough to see outside-the-box solutions to Anne's supposed dilemma at nineteen, one of which Captain Wentworth mentions:

"I too have been thinking over the past, and a question has suggested itself, whether there may not have been one person more my enemy even than that lady? My own self. Tell me if, when I returned to England in the year eight, with a few thousand pounds, and was posted into the Laconia, if I had then written to you, would you have answered my letter? Would you, in short, have renewed the engagement then?"

"Would I!" was all her answer; but the accent was decisive enough.

And he probably would have contacted her if Anne had given him any encouragement alongside her initial refusal.

So not everything should be laid at Lady Russell's door: Anne was too absolute in her refusal; Captain Wentworth too resentful at not getting what he wanted. But Lady Russell certainly bears some culpability.

But since she won't ever understand why she might have been wrong, Anne and Captain Wentworth will have to settle for being happy anyway.

Lady Russell wanted Will to know that Captain Wentworth had stayed behind after the party to request Anne’s hand in marriage; Sir Walter had agreed.

“I couldn’t say no to such a gentlemanly countenance,” Sir Walter had told her that morning when he visited Lady Russell’s lodgings on Rivers Street.

Now Lady Russell gave Will a troubled look, her forehead creased; he realized he was supposed to appear astonished and hurt by the news, so he feigned a look of pained surprise.

“I did hope—” Lady Russell sighed. “He is not the man I would have chosen for her.”

Will said, “I had no idea—”

“Nor did I! Perhaps—” Lady Russell looked at him with wary hopefulness. She was too much a lady to say, Perhaps you could break the engagement, and Will presumed she considered him too much a gentleman to accept such a suggestion.

“They must have had a prior acquaintance,” Will said, twisting the knife in Lady Russell’s chagrin.

She flinched. “Perhaps I should have told you: they knew each other many years ago, but I didn’t want to embarrass Anne. I have done everything I could not to mention him around her.”

Because, of course, not acknowledging Captain Wentworth’s very palpable presence in Bath was sure to keep him out of Anne’s mind.

“I hope they may be happy,” Will said stoically.

Lady Russell patted his hand. “What a terrible disappointment for us all.”

As they exited Duffield’s, they encountered Anne and a companion on the pavement. Will saw from Anne’s slight frown that she did not appreciate Lady Russell’s preference for Will’s company over Captain Wentworth’s. He didn’t doubt that Anne would be disclosing Will’s true character to Lady Russell as soon as he strolled off.

He strolled off.

Should Lady Russell become convinced of his bad character, she would pressure Sir Walter and Elizabeth to drop his acquaintance. Their assurance in their own appraisal of Will might stave off the inevitable break, but for not much longer than a few weeks—not unless Will inflicted all parties with the full force of his rueful charm.

What would Penelope do once I was banished? Would she miss me?

He stopped by Camden Place. Everyone was out. He left a card, answered the butler’s bored queries: No, I won’t be returning this evening. I have a prior engagement.

He didn’t have an engagement, but he needed to get away from his extended family.

He should return to London. He was tired of waiting for fate to propel him in one direction or the other. He would get over Penelope. He wouldn’t spend the rest of his life like Willoughby second-guessing his past.

The Letter in Persuadable: Chapter 15

Chapter 15 of Persuadable addresses The Letter!

The Letter appears in the second ending of Persuasion. In the first ending, Austen has Captain Wentworth confront Anne about her rumored marriage to Will Elliot. When Anne hotly denies the rumor, she and the captain are able to reach an understanding.

Austen's fantastically intelligent revision produced the current ending: the letter which Captain Wentworth writes after he hears Anne declare that women stay true to their first loves. He is stuck in a parlor, surrounded by people, and responds with the means he has at hand. 

It is the perfect pay-off for the novel and for these particular characters (the 1995 movie combines the two endings quite effectively).

Letter-writing was an omnipresent activity in Austen's world. In many ways, it was more like "tweeting" than even modern-day emailing. Consider Pamela in Richardson's novel, feverishly writing her parents every detail of her life. Consider Darcy's letter to Elizabeth or Jane Bennet's continual letters to her absent sister. Consider the romantic poets who were constantly exchanging letters, many of which were written on the backs of poems or in the margins of prior letters (paper was a precious commodity). For that matter, consider Jane Austen's letters to her own sister!

For Austen as for Shakespeare, letters are the ultimate truth-tellers. In Much Ado About Nothing, Shakespeare uses his characters to argue that what one sees or hears cannot be trusted, only what one writes. When Benedict and Beatrice exchange poems at the end of the play--after another prideful argument--Benedict declares, "Here's our own hands against our hearts!"

In Persuadable, Penelope Clay naturally never reads Captain Wentworth's letter, but she guesses at its content:

The next day [the Elliots and Penelope Clay] were all busy getting ready for the party. At least Elizabeth kept herself busy making minor adjustments to the arrangements made by the servants. She walked about the drawing room twitching tablecloths here and there, straightening plates and utensils (there would be light refreshments).

Anne escaped; Sir Walter went off to show himself in the Pump Room. Penelope was left to pace behind Elizabeth, complimenting every minor adjustment: “You are such an observant hostess, Miss Elliot. You have such a flair for perfection.”

Leaving the drawing room to fetch a different vase for a floral arrangement, Penelope encountered Anne coming in from the outside. Anne looked flushed and distracted, her eyes straying to a letter in her hand; she started at seeing Penelope.

“Oh,” she said.

Penelope paused, clasping the vase. Anne had given her a loss of composure last night; this was Penelope’s chance to win some back.

“I was with the Musgroves,” Anne said and blushed.

Not just the Musgroves, Penelope surmised.

“Captain Wentworth has confirmed his attendance tonight,” Anne stammered.

Ah.

Anne turned away abruptly and shrugged off her cloak. As she lay the cloak across her arm, Penelope noted that she didn’t loosen her grip on the letter.

Penelope returned to the drawing room. So—Captain Wentworth had finally vocalized or written his intentions. This time, Penelope guessed, Anne wouldn’t push him over.

But then surely Anne had always known how she felt; she’d only lacked conviction. Penelope had plenty of conviction. She just wished she knew what to do with it.

Sense & Sensibility Makes an Appearance in Persuadable: Chapter 14

A character from Austen's Sense & Sensibility strolls through Thornberry Park in Chapter 14 of Persuadable.

My goal in Chapter 14 was to explain why Will, usually so deliberately self-interested, would suddenly run off with Mrs. Clay. I used Willoughby from Sense & Sensibility as the catalyst for Will's behavior.

Greg Wise does an excellent job capturing

the tortured romantic, yet ultimately

unthinking selfishness of Willoughby.
Bad boys aren't always "all that."

Willoughby is an excellent example of what Will could become--if he had less self-respect.

Like Willoughby--and many of Austen's villains*--Will Elliot has a  yen for precipitous action, a consistent trait between the original text and my tribute. He suddenly marries his first wife, entirely breaking off family ties. He re-initiates contact with the Elliots without warning. And he runs off to London with Mrs. Clay at the end of Persuasion.

Nevertheless, Anne's engagement is not enough to explain why Mr. Elliot would throw over his wooing of the Elliot family; he could charm his way back into favor, even if Anne repeated Mrs. Smith's allegations.

After all, although many of Austen's villains* are given to precipitous action, Will Elliot stands alone in his ability to avoid figuratively shooting himself in the foot. He always seems to come out ahead.

Willoughby, on the other hand, marries for money, then bemoans that he couldn't marry for love. In one of the most psychologically insightful speeches in Austen's novels, Eleanor Dashwood delineates Willoughby's character:

At present he regrets what he has done . . . It has not made him happy. His circumstances are now unembarrassed—he suffers from no evil of that kind; [yet] 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, [Marianne], he would have been happy?—The inconveniences would have been different. He would have had a wife of whose temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been 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.

Absolutely! As Eleanor says earlier in this same conversation, Willoughby is entirely selfish. He is also entirely unhappy. He wants what he wants when he wants it, but he hates the consequences of getting what he wants.

To someone like Will Elliot--who has an extraordinary, Spike-like ability to land on his feet (Spike from Buffy and Angel was always less interested in saving or destroying the world and always far more interested in a good pizza)--Willoughby's waffling self-pity would be abhorrent.

Will Elliot has the kind of causal morality that, absent a true sense of ethics, can lead an intelligent person away from purely self-damaging behavior. He's the kind of so-called greedy capitalist who chooses the environmentally friendly plan, not because he plans for the future or because he thinks animals should have a right to vote but because he can sense, almost instinctively, the plan's short-term and long-term benefits. (This type of morality is often far more reliable than strident cause-related ethics.)

Basically, Will Elliot still wants to be rich tomorrow. And he knows it.

A conversation with someone like Willoughby--who wants to be rich right now, does whatever he needs to  achieve that end, then whines about it--would send Will Elliot pell-mell away from waffling considerations towards a concrete plan. Hence, he goes to Thornberry Park with Plan A (woo Mrs. Clay to keep her from marrying Sir Walter) and returns from Thornberry Park with Plan B (run off/marry Mrs. Clay).

As the catalyst, he meets (a slightly older) Willoughby. The two men would circulate amongst the same crowd, as Will indicates:

Leaving the solicitor’s office, Will strolled to the club where he would stay the night. In the entrance hall, a tall, handsome man of forty-odd called his name in a deep voice: “Will Elliot!”

“John Willoughby.”

John Willoughby was fifteen years Will’s senior though he seemed as young. He was one of those men who looked profoundly respectable and dashing with a little gray at the temples. Will had met him now and again around town over the past ten years; they were more than passing acquaintances, less than friends. Willoughby seemed intelligent, having a quick wit and an engaging manner.

“I’m on my way to dine at Gerard’s,” he told Will. “Why don’t you join me?”

Will fell in beside him. He also remembered Willoughby as one of those people who always said the right thing in a droll way. Now, Willoughby condoled with Will over Sally’s death, then made a satirical but not malicious comment about doctors. Learning that Will had just come from Bath, he commented on the number of people leaving London for more relaxing climes.

“My wife complains of London society but hates to leave it,” Willoughby said over the first course and made a face that said his wife’s complaints were nothing new.

Then he sighed and looked pensive. It was the kind of sigh that demanded a quizzical look in return. Feeling vaguely annoyed, Will provided one.

“I could have married quite differently,” Willoughby said. “I met a girl in my youth—beautiful, honest, gentle. She truly cared for me.”

Why, Will wondered, are lost loves always described in such platitudinous, commonplace terms? Willoughby’s girl could be any reasonably well-bred, attractive girl with a kind disposition.

“She wanted only to be with me—in fact, she was so sure of our mutual affection, she followed me to London.”

Will stared at his companion over his soup spoon. A well-bred young woman with a kind disposition would only follow a man to whom she believed herself betrothed. Either this lost love was not an innocent as Willoughby remembered or he’d used her worse than Will had ever contemplated using anyone, even Anne Elliot.

Studying the complacent face of the handsome man opposite him, Will allowed for a third possibility: Willoughby remembered the past selectively, retaining only those memories and explanations that proved the most pleasurable and self-congratulatory.

Will didn’t mind a touch of self-satisfaction, but he did mind an inability to face reality; the reality here was that Willoughby was nothing like the cool-headed comrade Will had supposed.

Willoughby droned on: “Alas, society requires that a gentleman disregard love for the sake of money and position. My aunt threatened to cut me out of her will, so I abandoned the sweetest, kindest companion a man could have. Only now do I understand how wrong I was.”

Will smiled perfunctorily. This man is a fool. There was nothing objectionable about marrying for love—as long as one was willing to live with the probable consequences: possible poverty, the fading of affection, disillusionment. Willoughby was rapidly demonstrating an inability to acknowledge, let alone live with, difficult consequences.

“She was clever, light-hearted, passionate. And now she’s tied to a dour colonel—”

Apparently, he couldn’t accept the less onerous consequences of marriage for money either. Will kept contempt out of his face and voice as he said the sort of thing Willoughby wanted to hear. The man was not the objective observer Will had assumed; he would be puzzled if Will said, Wishing away the past is an exercise in futility.

Fulsome regrets were even more pointless. Will’s marriage for money had cut him off from the baronetcy—he’d accepted that; he’d never thought about it. If Sally was still alive, he would still accept it. But once she died, he recognized that he wanted the title and went after it.

Except—I’ll never marry Elizabeth.

So much for objectivity. And perhaps a peaceful life with a clever woman who could figure out Will, figure out his friends, and figure out his future was worth losing a title.

Whatever Will did, he would stick to his decision. An equivocator like Willoughby wasn’t just depressing; his conversation was downright emasculating.

*Wickham behaves precipitously when he runs off with Lydia--but then he has to marry her. Henry Crawford behaves precipitously when, despite his true affection for Fanny, he "can't keep it in his pants" and elopes with Maria; consequently, he loses Fanny and gains a far less agreeable wife. General Tilney behaves ungentlemanly as well as preciptiously when he learns Catherine is not an heiress and chucks her out of his home; his son marries Catherine anyway.

A Pragmatic Romantic Proposal in Persuadable: Chapter 13

Will Elliot of Persuadable is a jaded romantic hero with a pragmatic streak.

This type is far more common in contemporary romances than in literature of the nineteenth century.

The nineteenth century saw the creation of the jaded romantic, non-pragmatic hero due in no small part to Gothic literature--discussed in Persuadable's Chapter 11 post--and Lord Byron, often considered the creator of the angsty romantic anti-hero. Persuasion, which centers around 1814, references Byron although most of his works were published later. Byron in turn heavily influenced romantic poets from Wordsworth to Coleridge, many of whom seemed to suffer from dark tangled locks and early deaths. I obtained the drawing of Keats (ill, near death) when I was on a study abroad program in London as an undergraduate. At the same time, I viewed (but was less impressed by) the overwrought statue of Shelley by Edward Onslow Ford (1892) .

Gothicism, Byron, and the Romantic poets together created a zeitgeist that resulted, amongst other things, in Mr. Rochester of Jane Eyre and Dr. Frankenstein (of Frankenstein), haunted heroes whose dark tangled locks tumble across troubled brows.

The jaded romantic hero is full of feeling and angst but is rarely objective or pragmatic. Austen, falling directly between the Classicist era and the Romantic Movement, was not particularly enamored of the jaded romantic hero (although she would have recognized the type). Instead, she endowed her heroes and heroines with strong pragmatic natures, reserving impulsive angstiness for her villains and victims.

Charlotte Bronte, a devotee of a Romantic era (and a favorite author of mine), poured scorn on Austen's supposed lack of passion, but many modern romances--some set in the Regency era--combine Bronte and Austen. The heroes (and heroines) are troubled, but they are also often down-to-earth and practical. Modern writers have recognized what Bronte failed to value: Austen's pragmatism is a perceptive and forward-looking acknowledgment of the precarious negotiations that can take place in relationships:

[Penelope Clay and Will Elliot meet at Bath's Abbey.]

They sat together and contemplated the warm light on the near-white stone.

“You know I don’t want you to marry Sir Walter,” Will said finally.

“For fear I will give him a son.”

Will didn’t reply immediately. She kept her eyes on the pew back before her.

He said, “I would hate to lose the baronetcy at the eleventh hour.”

“You never wanted it before.”

“People change—well, not really. But our desires do. We become more ourselves. Or less. Or something. More of what we’ve been heading towards.”

“You’ve been heading towards a baronetcy?”

“Towards stability—money, land.” He paused. “A helpmate.”

“Helpmate?”

“I need company. I’m too old for frivolity. Too young for dourness.”

She supposed his late wife had been frivolous. She never thought of Anne as dour but likely Will was referring to Elizabeth.

She questioned the unspoken elimination: “What about Anne?”

“She discovered that I married for money.”

“Everyone knows that you married for money.”

“But I kept it. That’s the real sin, you know. Sir Walter can be pompous and proud and his insolvency embarrasses Anne, but at least he isn’t stingy. That would truly mortify her. Me, I kept my wife’s money, invested it—for her sake as well as my own—and held onto it when she died. I didn’t fritter it away on her friends or invest in useless legal actions. It’s positively . . . bourgeois.”

“It’s intelligent,” Penelope said.

“See, I knew you understood me. I think we could get on well together. I would give you a home.”

She started. She’d anticipated seduction, not anything as long-range as the suggestion that she become Will’s mistress.

“And I’d support your sons.”

She nodded. A mistress was not as secure a position as a wife, but a clever mistress bartered for certain benefits. Though Penelope wasn’t much of a mother, she was enough of one to get her sons situated where they could make connections and obtain good employment.

She sighed, aware that Will watched her.

She said, “How long would our affair last?”

“I don’t know. I never think that far ahead. Long enough for me to enjoy you.”

Penelope flushed and stood. “I should get back.”

He also rose, his hand at her elbow.

“You’re supposed to be on the road to Thornberry,” she said with only slight asperity.

“I’ll walk you out to Stall Street.”

As they left the Abbey, Penelope resisted the impulse to lean into the hand that still hovered at her elbow. Will might not be the best solution to her future, but he was a kind of solution, and she wanted to be done with scheming.

She said abruptly, “And if I took your offer?”

He halted, turned her towards him by the shoulders. “You’d come with me. Right now. All the way to London.”

“We would miss the card party tomorrow.”

“We will both become personae non grata with the Elliots . . . should you accept,” Will said. “Personally, I can bear to give up their company. Can you?”

She was beginning to believe nothing would please her more.

Marriage and Domestic Problems--Persuadable's Take on Mrs. Smith: Chapter 12

1995 Mrs. Smith: she does

 an excellent job capturing Mrs. Smith's

 pleasure in life.

In Chapter 12 of Persuadable, Will Elliot visits Mrs. Smith.

Mrs. Smith is one of Austen's most interesting minor characters. She is a resilient widow whose once well-off late husband lost all his money to extravagance. Although her husband owned property in the West Indies, which could give Mrs. Smith a respectable income, that property is "encumbered" (used to pay off debts), and Mrs. Smith can't touch the "rents."

Based on this slim information, some literary analysts have criticized the Mrs. Smith character for her willingness to live off the slave trade (the West Indies property would likely use slaves); Jane Austen herself was not a supporter of slavery, and I was tempted to give Mr. Elliot noble reasons for not helping Mrs. Smith recover the property.

West Indies Map

That approach, however, would have been something of a cheat. One, Mr. Elliot is not the type of guy to invest himself in abstract causes overseas (anymore than he is the type of guy to lay out cash for what he considers an iffy proposition at best); two, Austen's text makes clear that Mrs. Smith's purpose is to convey information to Anne, not stand as a symbol of colonialism.

Of course, this brings up the issue of Austen's supposed ignorance of political and social issues. Frankly, this is such a stupid criticism of the writer that I have difficulty taking it even momentarily seriously; plus, at the risk of sounding like a ticked-off feminist, it is not an argument one often hears about male writers who focus on domestic plots. In any case, excellent biographies of Jane Austen, including Paula Bryne's The Real Jane Austen, have effectively disputed this characterization. Jane Austen was not only well-aware of current political and social issues, she had immediate familial investments in many of them.

In other words, Austen not writing directly about war (pro-Austen commentators will point out that she constantly indirectly references current events) was a deliberate decision. Fiction is conscious creation; writers will focus how and where they choose.

In addition, there's the issue of value: why should a war automatically be more important than a domestic quarrel as an exploration of human behavior? After all, why do Austen's critical analysts suppose wars and revolutions are carried out? Despite the unnerving and tunnel-vision attitudes of many activists, they are generally NOT carried out for the sake of more wars and revolutions. Rightly or wrongly, they are usually carried out to create a better life somewhere for someone. In other words, they are carried out so people can get married and not have to worry about soldiers cluttering up their living rooms.

In any case, I have always considered literary analysis that insists that all literature have an IMPORTANT MESSAGE to be trite to the nth degree. Well-fashioned prose has done more to keep the world turning than any so-called IMPORTANT bumper sticker.

Mrs. Smith is a great example of what truly matters. Here is Austen's description:

A submissive spirit might be patient, a strong understanding would supply resolution, but here [in Mrs. Smith] was something more; here was that elasticity of mind, that disposition to be comforted, that power of turning readily from evil to good, and of finding employment which carried her out of herself, which was from nature alone. It was the choicest gift of Heaven; and Anne viewed her friend as one of those instances in which, by a merciful appointment, it seems designed to counterbalance almost every other want.

And here is my scene between this tough lady and Will Elliot:

Will went to see Mrs. Smith. Her husband had been a friendly companion years before—if entirely clueless about money matters.

“Anne was just here,” Mrs. Smith said as Will entered her tiny apartment. She spoke with cheerful satisfaction. “You’ve lost your chance to resurrect your character.”

“I never thought it needed reviving.”

“You treated Charlie abominably.” She sounded more eager to make her point than reproachful of the results. “You led him into deep spending.”

“Charlie would have been a gambler even if we’d never met.”

“He admired you. You could have cautioned him, guided him.”

“Gamblers can’t be reformed. I wasn’t his keeper.”

“How very like Cain.”

“Is that why you sabotaged my relationship with Anne Elliot?”

Mrs. Smith said, “I did know her before I knew you. We went to school together. Don’t you remember me mentioning her?”

“Possibly. I paid minimal attention to remarks about my cousins.”

“Well, I simply told her the truth about you.”

Will sighed and collapsed on the frayed sofa. Mrs. Smith wiggled into a more comfortable position in her chair beside the small fire. She looked at him expectantly.

He said, “I never agreed to be Charlie’s executor.”

“He considered you a good friend.”

“Charlie considered John Kemble a good friend because he saw all of Kemble’s plays.”

Mrs. Smith’s mouth twisted in wry agreement, but she didn’t lose the thread of her argument: “But he left you in charge of our affairs.”

“You don’t have any.”

“The West Indies property—”

“Which Charlie did nothing to maintain. It has multiple encumbrances that would have to be paid off before the land could be sold. You’d be better served asking your friend Anne Elliot to give you money directly.”

“I thought she might do so—as your bride.”

“Then why oppose the match?”

“I did not until she indicated her affections lie elsewhere.”

“Captain Wentworth,” Will said.

Mrs. Smith leaned forward, mouth forming an oh. She said, “What is he like?”

“Upright, decent. He would help you. He can afford it.”

“So can you.”

“I don’t throw good money after bad. Would you really have let your friend marry such a greedy, cold-hearted bastard as myself?”

Mrs. Smith didn’t wince; she’d heard worse language as one of Will’s former crowd.

“Life with you would be preferable to life with such a father and sisters! As your wife, Anne might even have flourished—unlike Sally.”

“I never misused Sally,” Will said sharply. “If my wife told you stories—”

“You wouldn’t let her go to parties.”

“So I watched Sally too closely and your husband not closely enough. You were most selective in what you told Anne Elliot.”

“She isn’t your type.”

“No,” Will said agreeably and rose.

Mrs. Smith said with eye-brightening interest, “You prefer another?”

He smiled at her lazily. “What would Bath do without gossip?”

“Mrs. Clay?” She was horrified but also delighted. “Why would you pursue a woman of such low origin?”

He looked down at the avid, curiosity-filled face, gazed around the small compartment with its bright pictures and fabrics.

“She’s a survivor,” he said. “Like you.”

Other Authors' Books in Austen--Regarding Mrs. Clay's Purchase in Persuadable: Chapter 11

In the original text of Persuasion, Penelope Clay sends Mr. Elliot on an errand: "Mr Elliot (always obliging) [was] just setting off for Union Street on a commission of Mrs Clay's."

What was that commission? I attempt to answer that question in Persuadable.

I decided to make the commission a book purchase (there were several bookstalls in Bath at the time, including on Union Street). My next decision was, What book?

The late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries were awash in books--not as many as now-a-days, of course, but still an appreciable amount. And ever since Richardson's Pamela, books by, about, and for women had become extremely popular. In selecting what type of book would interest Penelope Clay, I was faced with an autobiography by the wife of an American diplomat, multiple books about women in distress, not to mention Austen's Horrid Novels.

Not the cover from Austen's 

day, of course, but effectively

captures the essence of the book.

In Northanger Abbey, Austen lists a number of Horrid Novels--Gothic suspense novels that were immensely popular during Austen's youth. These novels--which can still be read today--are full of dead bodies, swooning women, white draperies, and, in the case of The Monk (mentioned separately), sulky, lust-filled priests. They may not be explicit in the twenty-first century sense of the word but they are loaded with innuendo. In fact, many books of this era were packed with raunchy scenarios.

Consequently, I always chuckle when I hear claims that once-upon-a-time, life was so good and pure--you know, back in Jane Austen's day when people had tea on the lawn and didn't kiss until they were married.

The eighteenth and nineteenth centuries were as full of porn, erotic novels, sexual scandals, and salacious news about such, as our time. The counterargument is, But nowadays, all that stuff is so much more prevalent, to which I must point out that one constant of human nature is the ability to spread gossip quicker than a person can say, "Oooh, really? Tell me more!"

Consider that one of the most infamous cases of the mid-eighteenth century was Elizabeth Canning. Elizabeth Canning disappeared from home for several days. When she reappeared, she claimed she had been kidnapped and held by a perverse woman who wanted to turn her into a prostitute. Her story was suspect (though not necessarily false), but Canning's supporters--Canningites (no kidding)--treated the case less as a matter for the court and more as a cause. They behaved rather like supporters of so-called recovered memory victims. And the case took on the same high emotional fervor as cases about Satanism in daycares.

Elizabeth Canning on trial

for perjury.

In other words, everybody went nuts.

And people took sides. Fielding, who was so dismissive of Richardson's Pamela, thought Canning's story had merit, but his reputation was somewhat hurt by the case since Canning was eventually charged with perjury.

Josephine Tey used the Canning affair to write her book The Franchise Affair. The book is ardently anti-Canning, indicating that even so many years later, the story has the power to invite partisanship.

Or perhaps, it simply indicates that the human desire for SCANDAL, WACKY HAPPENINGS, SEX! will never change.

Will Elliot and Penelope Clay exchange their own thoughts about scandal and wacky happenings when he brings Penelope her book:

Will Elliot . . . dropped by Camden Place with [Penelope's] book. She received him in the sitting room; no one else was home, and the servants were typically unavailable. As soon as he entered, Will lounged into a chair and tossed over The Memoirs of Miss Sidney Bidulph.

“You have a taste for troubled heroines.”

“She reminds readers that marriage is a troubled state.”

“Isn’t she terribly selfless and forbearing? Are non-fictional women ever that self-effacing?”

“Oh, yes,” Penelope said and told him what [she had learned] about Anne and Captain Wentworth['s history].

“I thought there was a history there,” he said. “Pity for Miss Anne she didn’t accept. The man is worth thousands. But then, of course, she would feel a duty to her family, her name, etcetera.”

“In this case, it was more a duty to her friend. Lady Russell was the deciding factor.”

“She probably stands in loco parentis to Anne. Young girls are supposed to avoid calamity by listening to their mothers.”

Penelope hadn’t considered that aspect of the relationship: she so rarely felt like a mother herself—or like her mother’s child. She nodded dubiously, trying to comprehend a state of affairs where she would sacrifice her own objectives at someone’s suggestion, no matter how well-meant that suggestion.

“Although I’m surprised Lady Russell objected,” Will said. “The man isn’t that far down the social ladder.”

“Lady Russell thinks Anne deserves a duke or a prince. Someone of tremendous worth anyway.”

“Like me?!” Will exclaimed in mock astonishment.

“You have the family name.”

“Of no remarkable history.” Will tipped back in his chair.

They sat in companionable contemplation of the unexceptional Elliot name.

“You are currently slated to inherit Kellynch Hall,” Penelope pointed out.

“And naturally Lady Russell would like to see her protégé ensconced there, emulating Lady Bountiful to the obsequious villagers.”

“Anne would probably do it very well.” Penelope gave him a curious sideways glance. “You don’t have a high opinion of this baronetcy that you claim to want.”

“One should never sneer at the prospect of obsequious villagers or the possibility of more money. Besides, I need a change in lifestyle.”

“Country-life would bore you.”

“Is that why you’re threatening to give Sir Walter an heir—to keep my life interesting?”

Penelope just smiled. Will had a far more optimistic opinion of Sir Walter’s prowess than she. Penelope had no desire to produce more children in any case. She would rather Sir Walter funded her living sons’ educations than try to create fantastical ones.

She could assure Will of her disinterest in a legacy. She could tell him that she only wanted to be the wife of a baronet, not the mother of one. But he would not believe her. He would point out that Sir Walter might insist on his conjugal rights and Penelope had proven she could produce male children.

He said, “I suppose I’ll have to pursue Miss Anne more vigorously.”

“I don’t think you could achieve her now.”

“Oh?” Will’s chair tipped forward, so his laughing eyes met hers. “Are you so sure of Captain Wentworth’s ascendancy?”

“He’s a lover from her youth.”

“A spring-time lover. By autumn, young plants have grown and died. Or turned to mulch. New beds must be made.”

Penelope shook her head. “She would have married already if she didn’t still love him. Anne is the marrying kind. She is competent and sympathetic and spends her time servicing her family’s needs.”

“Not like you.”

“No.”

Penelope’s parents would look after her sons no matter what happened to her. No one would look out for Penelope but Penelope.

Will was leaning forward now, eyeing her over clasped hands.

“I do need to consider my future,” he said. “I should pursue this paragon for myself.”

“You’ll have a chance at the concert tonight,” Penelope said and stood. “Thank you for delivering my book.”

Upstairs in her tiny room, she tried to forget Will’s speculative gaze. She needed to focus on Sir Walter. Will Elliot had proved an amusing distraction, but she had to stop eliciting his attention, provoking him to spurts of laughter, trying to impress him with her insights.

I’m as bad as Sir Walter, enamored by a charming man. Only Anne seemed to have guessed Will’s true nature and held herself aloof. Let him try to win her. Let him marry her. It won’t be love. Penelope didn’t think Will Elliot could genuinely love anyone. She was not such a fool to test the possibility.

Anne's Sister Elizabeth in Persuadable: Chapter 10

1971 Elizabeth--I consider her the closest

to the original. 1995 Elizabeth is too bratty

(Elizabeth IS a lady).

2007 Elizabeth and Sir Walter are too

calculating. Elizabeth is clueless,

not malicious.

Elizabeth of Persuasion and Persuadable is a surprisingly distinct character from both her sisters and her father. Although she and Sir Walter are often grouped together as a single entity, Sir Walter has a somewhat warmer personality.

The Elizabeth/Sir Walter pairing is understandable since Elizabeth is not only Sir Walter's favorite but would have acted as Sir Walter's hostess since her mother's death. This position would likely be far more attractive to her than marrying "down" in any way.

Which brings us to to Elizabeth's state of singleness. 

Statistics prior to 1850 are almost impossible to track down, even with today's Internet: suffice it to say that Elizabeth's singleness is not quite as unusual a state of affairs as costume dramas and Regency romances suggest.  Even in the 1950s--when every woman supposedly married her high school sweetheart--approximately 8% of women and 9% of men had never married at age 35. In a town of 10,000 people, that's 800 women, a substantial enough number.

Elizabeth's singleness still provokes comment--from Austen at least. According to Austen, Elizabeth could marry if she wished, not due to her pretty face (although she has one) but due to her rank and dowry.

Elvi Hale as Anne of Cleves shrewdly

politicking with Keith Michell's Henry VIII

to avoid becoming one of his causalities.

Poets and writers throughout history have extolled the beautiful face, etc. etc. etc. but for most of history, marriage has almost always been decided on factors such as parental approval, familiarity, occupation, dowry, and--in the case of royalty--political necessity.

Not that attraction didn't play a role. Hence, the odd little story of Anne of Cleves. Anne of Cleves arrived in England to be married to Henry VIII, only to be divorced from him about six months later. The story goes that Henry was put off since she wasn't as attractive as the portrait he'd commissioned. The Six Wives of Henry VIII (1970) does an excellent job intimating that Anne--who was perfectly at ease with herself--was more shocked by Henry than Henry by Anne (this interpretation is supported by the historical record). She was 25; he was almost 50; he was Henry VIII . . . she wasn't.

Henry was so offended by her obvious lack of interest, he divorced her claiming the privilege of so many men in history that "it was the woman's fault." (I highly recommend the Anne of Cleves episode for the careful and intelligent politicking that goes on behind the scenes: Anne manages to keep her head but Cromwell is doomed and knows it--he has finally backed the wrong marriage.)

Elizabeth is in a far more secure position than Anne of Cleves, the Bennet sisters, or, even, Charlotte who chooses security with a silly man rather than a lifetime of dependence on her family. Although Elizabeth is not in a position to marry "up" (to an earl or a duke), she certainly could marry respectably--if she wished.

Illustration by C.E. Brock.

However, Austen's text makes clear that what Elizabeth thinks will happen and what Elizabeth wants to happen and what Elizabeth actually tries to make happen have almost no connection to each other: out of all of Austen's characters, Elizabeth Elliot appears to experience the most cognitive dissonance about her life.

For example, in the classic scene at Molland's, Mr. Elliot returns to Elizabeth's side after asking Lady Dalrymple to transport the Elliot coterie back to Camden Place. He is aware that Penelope Clay is trying to undermine his pursuit of Anne (in retaliation for Will undermining her pursuit of Sir Walter) and plans to use the carriage ride to even the score. What is notable, in both Persuadable and the original text, is Elizabeth's complete indifference to what a walk with Mr. Elliot means (emphasized below):

Austen herself made the difficult choice not to marry, and she knew exactly what she was doing when she made that choice. But Elizabeth appears to have no idea that simply deciding that someone should value you and want to marry you is not altogether enormously effective if you then treat that person with utter indifference.

In comparison, Sir Walter and Anne and Mary, the youngest sister, all demonstrate a similar single-mindedness about relationships; in completely different ways, they are all gratified when someone pays them attention/shows an interest in them. For all his snobbery, Sir Walter leaps into instant friendship with anyone who likes him or flatters his ego. Although Anne is far more discerning and objective, she is touched when people like the Musgroves go out of their way to include her. And Mary spends all her time just trying to get people to notice her.

But Elizabeth takes all and any interest simply as her due. This is not the same as Elizabeth being indifferent to public opinion/making her own way in life. Elizabeth's dissonance is that she feels entitled to attention without ever wondering why people she doesn't pay attention to ought to pay attention to her.

In Chapter 7, Penelope Clay considers Elizabeth's attitude towards Will Elliot:

“William Elliot isn’t as handsome as I’d like,” Elizabeth said complacently. “But he is respectable.”

She and Penelope sat in Elizabeth’s bedroom while Elizabeth tested different brooches against her skin.

“I suppose he will wish to live at Kellynch Hall though I must say I am finding Bath more and more to my taste.”

Mr. Elliot has absolutely no interest in marrying you, Penelope did not say.

Penelope guessed that William Elliot had reinitiated contact with his relations to ensure his inheritance. He’d been clever enough to worm back into their good graces. He might try to use that cleverness to prevent Penelope from marrying Sir Walter.

He’s not as clever as me.

Penelope moved to the window and grinned down into the street. She hadn’t been tested like this since her landlord tried to make love to her. She’d gotten his wife to take her part against him—after she walked away with a new pair of gloves, money to pay the coal bill, and her virtue intact.

Far below on the pavement, Mr. Elliot’s compact form neared the front stoop.

“Mr. Elliot is gracing Camden Place with another appearance,” Penelope said mildly.

Elizabeth put away her brooches, flicked dust off her sandals and tsked over how the servants dusted, all before descending to the drawing room. Following, Penelope shook her head. Elizabeth did not exhibit the characteristics of a woman anxious over a potential mate but rather those of a woman contemplating what piece of furniture to add to her household. 

Poor Mr. Elliot. 

Later, at Molland's:

Lady Dalrymple was a much more rational person than Sir Walter’s fawning might lead one to believe. She had an infinite store of small-talk and limited interests, but she was not callous or indifferent to a minor predicament. Naturally, she could convey two ladies to Camden Place.

Will didn’t press for the inclusion of a third. His commission had become an opportunity.

He returned to Molland’s and sadly informed the ladies that there was only room for two since Miss Carteret accompanied her mother.

“I will walk a lady home with pleasure,” Will said.

Elizabeth looked unimpressed. “I have a message for Lady Dalrymple from my father,” she said.

Her expectation that Will would court her apparently didn’t extend to actually wanting to spend time with him.

Anne said, “I could use a walk.”

From her quick but level response, Will guessed that Anne was motivated less by the possibility of Will’s company and more by a desire to avoid Lady Dalrymple’s conversation. Whatever her motives, her agreement was a gain for him.

Until, “I’m sure you would prefer to join your sister, Miss Anne,” Penelope said kindly. “I can walk with Mr. Elliot. You will avoid getting soaked and endangering your health.”

“The rain is a trifle,” Anne said, looking somewhat surprised; she had likely expected Penelope to leap at a chance to ingratiate herself with Lady Dalrymple.

“But there are puddles,” Penelope said. “My boots are much thicker than yours, you know.”

“You have a little cold,” Elizabeth said to Penelope. “Anne should go with Mr. Elliot. She will be fine.”

Penelope turned to Will, lids drooping. “Perhaps Mr. Elliot should choose.”

He wanted to laugh. He also wanted to suggest that Penelope’s cold was hardly a threat, her boots were impressively thick, and offer to take her home. An entire walk exchanging observations with a clever woman who knew him was a rare pleasure.

But the object here was to win Anne’s company. He chose her.

Penelope’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. She said, her voice like velvet, “Before you and Miss Anne embark, Mr. Elliot, perhaps you would fetch a parcel for me from the bookstall on Union Street?”

He bowed quickly and headed for the door before he broke into convulsing guffaws.

I won that skirmish, but Penelope Clay still holds the field.

Flattering the Uppercrust in Persuadable: Chapter 9

Another Gainsborough: Viscountess Tracy

Sir Walter's relations, the Dalrymples, appear in Chapter 9 of Persuadable sending the good baron into a tizzy.

As a viscountess, Lady Dalrymple is a step up the heirarchy from Sir Walter. Sir Walter's sycophantic desire to curry favor reflects the real--but dying--power of the peerage in England and also leads to several rows in the Elliot household.

Anne, frankly, finds the Dalrymples completely tedious. And although she's more or less right, her reaction to the Dalyrmples is not automatically kind or fair: Austen does not defend Anne's remarks; she simply shows them to us.

Austen as narrator can be quite caustic. In Northanger Abbey, when describing Mrs. Allen, she dismantles the woman without remorse:

Mrs. Allen was one of that numerous class of females, whose society can raise no other emotion than surprise at there being any men in the world who could like them well enough to marry them. She had neither beauty, genius, accomplishment, nor manner. The air of a gentlewoman, a great deal of quiet, inactive good temper, and a trifling turn of mind were all that could account for her being the choice of a sensible, intelligent man like Mr. Allen.

Nearly 14 years later, Austen is far less critical of the Mrs. Allens of the world. After all, one learns as one ages that pointless conversations about supposedly tedious subjects do far more to keep the social exchanges of everyday life oiled and functioning than PROFOUND, INSIGHTFUL, ANGST-CAUSING speeches.

Or, perhaps, as one gets older, one just has less energy for so much soul-searching.

In Persuasion, regarding the Dalrymples, Anne delivers the kind of opinion that Austen would have made when she was younger:

[F]or the Dalrymples (in Anne's opinion, most unfortunately) were cousins of the Elliots; and the agony was how to introduce themselves properly . . . Anne was ashamed. Had Lady Dalrymple and her daughter even been very agreeable, she would still have been ashamed of the agitation they created, but they were nothing. There was no superiority of manner, accomplishment, or understanding. Lady Dalrymple had acquired the name of "a charming woman," because she had a smile and a civil answer for everybody. Miss Carteret, with still less to say, was so plain and so awkward, that she would never have been tolerated in Camden Place but for her birth.

This is Anne's voice, not Austen's. Austen's castigation of Mrs. Allen in Northanger Abbey presents Mrs. Allen's personality as an absolute. But in Persuasion, Austen is far more willing to step back and let her characters judge others fairly or unfairly. As the above passage indicates, Anne hasn't fallen that far from her father's tree when it comes to casting judgment.

My perspective is that Anne is unnecessarily harsh, and Austen knows it. Consider what Austen actually shows us about the Dalrymples: they come to Bath; they receive Sir Walter despite a letter that even Mr. Elliot considers a bit over the top; they request the Elliots' company when Lady Dalrymple gets a cold; they agree to take the Elliot sisters home in their carriage; Lady Dalrymple praises Captain Wentworth's looks; they attend Elizabeth's card party.

With that in mind, Mr. Elliot's advice to Anne is entirely reasonable: Why not just get along? These people can't hurt you. They have the right background, and that sort of thing matters. Besides, how can you object to them and Mrs. Clay?

In other words, these are perfectly amiable people who are made to appear far worse by (1) Sir Walter's fawning; (2) Anne's own caustic remarks. Speaking of the concert, she tells Mrs. Smith, "But happily Lady Dalrymple always chooses to be farther off." Ouch!

To me, Austen's treatment of Anne re: the Dalrymples reinforces her skill as a true craftswoman. She is NOT Anne, writing in journalistic fashion about her own feelings. She stands outside Anne. She likes her; she created her to express ideas and feelings that Austen herself considers important; but she sees Anne objectively. She allows Anne to echo criticisms and opinions that Austen once likely held herself but that age has mellowed.

The Dalrymples of the world no longer fret Austen, but she knows that they would continue to fret her character, Anne.

In this excerpt from Persuadable, the Elliots and Mrs. Clay have just visited the Dalrymples:

Mother and daughter were far less ogreish than Penelope had anticipated. Lady Dalrymple was a plump, placid creature. Miss Carteret was rather odd though not on purpose; she simply lacked basic social instincts. She laughed when others were serious, carried on monologues that others, including her own mother, ignored.

Penelope had no trouble impressing the pair; all she had to do was look deferential and listen to their vague comments on Bath, the weather, and—Miss Carteret’s preference—domesticated felines.

Sir Walter was so encouraged by the visit that he remained in a good humor for nearly three days, making only four or five disparaging remarks about Penelope’s complexion. He even escorted Penelope around the Pump Room himself one morning when Elizabeth was otherwise engaged. Penelope began to wonder if she should start dropping stronger hints about the comforts of the marriage state. In this mood, Sir Walter was easy to manage.

Anne was to blame for destroying Sir Walter’s bonhomie.

“I received a note from charming Lady Dalrymple,” Sir Walter exclaimed one morning. “She is feeling poorly. We must call on Laura Place and raise her spirits.”

But Anne didn’t want to join the Dalrymple Entertainment Committee. “I have already made plans to visit my friend, Mrs. Smith," she explained.

Sir Walter sulked, stamping about the drawing room, and waving his arms. “Who was Mrs. Smith’s husband? One of five thousand Mr. Smiths? What is her attraction? That she is old and sickly? She must be near forty.”

“Thirty-one,” Anne said patiently. “I cannot put off my engagement with her, sir.”

“Lady Russell surely doesn’t support this association,” Elizabeth said.

“She does. She thinks it is most proper that I maintain it.”

Sir Walter waved off Lady Russell’s thoughts on propriety. “People will know that Anne Elliot visits a mere Mrs. Smith, who has only thirty to forty pounds per annum.”

Penelope left the room. She stood in the hall, perfunctorily brushing down her dress. She knew that Sir Walter compartmentalized his attitudes. He would see no connection between Anne’s widowed friend of no name and no income with Mrs. Clay, his daughter’s companion who resided under his roof and within his good opinion. But Mrs. Clay saw it. If Anne Elliot had a crueler streak, she would have reminded him.

Penelope realized that she was trembling. Every day, her anger at this family became harder to fight, took longer to abate.

Once I am married, things will change. Once I am married, life will be so much better.

Gainsborough and Hoare in Persuadable: Chapter 8

Possible Anne!

In Persuadable, Chapter 8, Mr. Elliot meets Anne Elliot (officially). He compares her to a lady in a Gainsborough portrait while he describes Penelope Clay "as pure William Hoare—those knowledgeable gleaming eyes."


Sargent

Both Gainsborough (1727-1788) and Hoare (1707-1792) were British portrait painters during the eighteenth century. Gainsborough had the more illustrious career and is slightly better known today by non-art majors for portraits like The Blue Boy. He painted many, many portraits of upper middle-class individuals and families.

He was rather like John Singer Sargent nearly a hundred years later except Gainsborough's portraits are very English and John Singer Sargent's portraits are very . . . not English.

Gainsborough promoted the ordinary, everyday life aspect of his gentry folk. Sargent did too, to an extent, but everything with Sargent is overlaid with this fantastical gloss. When I look at Gainsborough, I feel like I'm looking at Austen's neighbors. When I look at a Sargent, I am peering into a lush, ostentatious, slick world of massive privilege. Gainsborough's subjects are somewhat easier to relate to (especially since they are often accompanied by dogs). 

Possible Mrs. Clay!

William Hoare actually settled in Bath as did Gainsborough (although Hoare was more closely linked to Bath's government). This portrait is likely the one Mr. Elliot has in mind regarding Penelope Clay.

As a homage to Austen's time period, Eugene skillfully and cleverly designed the cover for Persuadable using a Gainsborough portrait: Mr. and Mrs. William Hazlett. Now there's a couple that knows where they are going in life!

From Persuadable, Chapter 8:

[Will Elliot] entered Camden Place’s drawing room to discover an extra occupant: Cousin Anne had arrived that afternoon.

Will let his surprise show. He’d seen Anne Elliot in Lyme and admired her looks. He’d just never imagined that the woman he’d seen there could be his cousin. Her family spoke of Miss Anne so slightingly, he’d pictured an unimpressive, sparrow-like, featureless creature.

Anne Elliot was a truly beautiful woman with elegant bones, straight brows, and clear eyes. Elizabeth paled beside her.

She was also truly shy—none of Mrs. Clay’s coy pretense—and reserved in a way Elizabeth could never master. Such shyness was bred into the bones; Anne had the classic repose of a Gainsborough portrait.

Will recognized Mrs. Clay as pure William Hoare—those knowledgeable gleaming eyes.

Miss Anne saw Will’s surprise; since he wouldn’t gain anything by dissembling, he exclaimed, “But we saw each other at Lyme! We both stayed at the Three Cups Inn.”

“Yes,” she said and blushed faintly.

“Did you enjoy your time there? You were part of a large party—”

“Yes.” The blush increased, and Will rummaged through his memory for which male member of the party might have caused that blush. “I was with my sister Mary and her husband and her husband’s sisters.”

“The Musgroves. Of course!”

“Yes. And Captain Wentworth—” a quick glance towards her father—“whose sister and brother-in-law are staying at Kellynch Hall.”

“Admiral Croft is my tenant,” Sir Walter said sonorously.

“Plus some of the captain’s friends. We were a merry group.”

“And I spent my evenings alone! If only I had introduced myself! I am too careful when traveling. I learned as a youth not to be too curious or too forward, even with my own relations.” An apologetic glance at Sir Walter. “The follies of youth!”

Miss Anne looked doubtful at Will’s metaphorical breast-beating but said, “I will happily give you my opinion of the area.”

“Were you there long?”

“Our visit was ending when one of the Musgroves—Louisa Musgrove—had a bad fall.”

“Oh, yes,” Elizabeth said quickly, inserting herself into the conversation. “How is dear Louisa?”

“Much recovered.”

“Is she still at Lyme?” Will asked.

“She’ll return soon to the Musgrove’s home in Uppercross. She may be weak for several more months.”

“How dispiriting,” Sir Walter said in a tone that suggested Louisa’s condition (and momentary celebrity) was as inconvenient as it was depressing.

“Perhaps she should try the Bath waters,” Penelope Clay said, and Will shot her a look. Her tone was nearly acerbic, but Sir Walter only nodded sagely.

Turning back to Miss Anne, Will saw she had noticed her father’s acquiescence to Mrs. Clay’s participation. Miss Anne did not look pleased. No wonder the widow was so careful around this particular Elliot daughter.

He caught Penelope Clay in the hall as he prepared to leave. “Now that Elizabeth has her sister’s companionship, I suppose you’ll be leaving the family and returning home.”

“I will naturally suggest it,” she said demurely, and Will had to chuckle. Sir Walter and Elizabeth would beg her to stay. Miss Anne was clearly not deprecating enough to fulfill Elizabeth and Sir Walter’s needs. Everyone preferred a sympathetic and friendly dog on the hearth to an aloof and disinterested cat.

Until they discovered the dog was actually a hungry wolf.