Jane Austen proposal scenes, part 6: Persuasion

Ciarán Hinds (Captain Frederick Wentworth) and Amanda Root (Anne Elliot) in Persuasion (1995)

Persuasion

Background to the proposal scene: Eight years ago, 19-year-old Anne Elliot became engaged to 23-year-old Commander Frederick Wentworth while he was on shore leave during the wars with Napoleon's France. But Anne's prudent neighbor, counsellor, friend, and surrogate mother Lady Russell strongly disapproved of the engagement. "Lady Russell had. . .of anything approaching to imprudence a horror. She deprecated the connexion in every light." Wentworth "had nothing but himself to recommend him, and no hopes of attaining affluence, but in the chances of a most uncertain profession, and no connexions to secure even his farther rise in the profession." Under intense pressure from her family and from Lady Russell, Anne broke their engagement, and the lovers separated.

Eight years on, Napoleon has been defeated (temporarily), and Wentworth, promoted to the rank of captain due to his skill and valor, and made rich by war prizes, has returned. [1] Anne and he have been thrown together, but relations between them remain strained: "Once so much to each other! Now nothing! There had been a time, when of all the large party now filling the drawing-room at Uppercross, they would have found it most difficult to cease to speak to one another. . .there could have been no two hearts so open, no tastes so similar, no feelings so in unison, no countenances so beloved. Now they were as strangers; nay, worse than strangers, for they could never become acquainted. It was a perpetual estrangement."

Two other couples are contrasted with Anne and Wentworth in this scene. Charles Hayter and Henrietta Musgrove, one of Anne's sisters-in-law, have faced parental hesitancy because the income from his living is not large, and the living itself is temporary. However, his prospects are good, and he will ultimately inherit a modest estate. Anne's other sister-in-law, Louisa Musgrove, has become engaged to Wentworth's former shipmate Captain Benwick while recovering from a fall from the Cobb at Lyme at the home of Wentworth's friend Captain Harville and his family. Benwick had been engaged to Captain Harville's sister Fanny until her unexpected death about six months ago. Before meeting Louisa, Benwick had been in mourning. Finally, Anne's cousin William Elliot, heir to her family's estate Kellynch, has been paying Anne decided attentions.

The film: screenplay by Nick Dear, directed by Roger Michell (1995)

In "Favorite Austen adaptations and final thoughts" (did I say "final thoughts"?) I wrote, "Almost as great a miracle as the Jennifer Ehle–Colin Firth Pride and Prejudice adaptation of the same year, this version beautifully renders key scenes from Austen's novel (and, amazingly, is able to do so in under two hours). Both Root and Hinds are completely convincing as the estranged lovers who are suddenly reunited after eight years apart. It's clear, too, that great care has been taken in portraying locations, interiors, music, and other details from the novel. Not to be missed." (And all other Persuasion adaptations are to be avoided.)

https://youtu.be/Bm3QywZFBuA?t=1424

The novel:

"And so, ma'am, all these thing considered," said Mrs Musgrove, in her powerful whisper, "though we could have wished it different, yet, altogether, we did not think it fair to stand out any longer, for Charles Hayter was quite wild about it, and Henrietta was pretty near as bad; and so we thought they had better marry at once, and make the best of it, as many others have done before them. At any rate, said I, it will be better than a long engagement."

"That is precisely what I was going to observe," cried Mrs Croft. "I would rather have young people settle on a small income at once, and have to struggle with a few difficulties together, than be involved in a long engagement. . ."

. . .Anne found an unexpected interest here. She felt its application to herself, felt it in a nervous thrill all over her; and at the same moment that her eyes instinctively glanced towards the distant table, Captain Wentworth's pen ceased to move, his head was raised, pausing, listening, and he turned round the next instant to give a look, one quick, conscious look at her.

The two ladies continued to talk, to re-urge the same admitted truths, and enforce them with such examples of the ill effect of a contrary practice as had fallen within their observation, but Anne heard nothing distinctly; it was only a buzz of words in her ear, her mind was in confusion.

Captain Harville, who had in truth been hearing none of it, now left his seat, and moved to a window, and Anne seeming to watch him, though it was from thorough absence of mind, became gradually sensible that he was inviting her to join him where he stood. He looked at her with a smile, and a little motion of the head, which expressed, "Come to me, I have something to say;" and the unaffected, easy kindness of manner which denoted the feelings of an older acquaintance than he really was, strongly enforced the invitation. She roused herself and went to him. The window at which he stood was at the other end of the room from where the two ladies were sitting, and though nearer to Captain Wentworth's table, not very near. As she joined him, Captain Harville's countenance re-assumed the serious, thoughtful expression which seemed its natural character.

"Look here," said he, unfolding a parcel in his hand, and displaying a small miniature painting, "do you know who that is?"

"Certainly: Captain Benwick."

"Yes, and you may guess who it is for. But," (in a deep tone), "it was not done for her. Miss Elliot, do you remember our walking together at Lyme, and grieving for him? I little thought then—but no matter. This was drawn at the Cape. He met with a clever young German artist at the Cape, and in compliance with a promise to my poor sister, sat to him, and was bringing it home for her; and I have now the charge of getting it properly set for another! It was a commission to me! But who else was there to employ? I hope I can allow for him. I am not sorry, indeed, to make it over to another. He undertakes it;" (looking towards Captain Wentworth,) "he is writing about it now." And with a quivering lip he wound up the whole by adding, "Poor Fanny! she would not have forgotten him so soon!"

"No," replied Anne, in a low, feeling voice. "That I can easily believe."

"It was not in her nature. She doted on him."

"It would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved."

Captain Harville smiled, as much as to say, "Do you claim that for your sex?" and she answered the question, smiling also, "Yes. We certainly do not forget you as soon as you forget us. It is, perhaps, our fate rather than our merit. We cannot help ourselves. We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us. You are forced on exertion. You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some sort or other, to take you back into the world immediately, and continual occupation and change soon weaken impressions."

"Granting your assertion that the world does all this so soon for men (which, however, I do not think I shall grant), it does not apply to Benwick. He has not been forced upon any exertion. The peace turned him on shore at the very moment, and he has been living with us, in our little family circle, ever since."

"True," said Anne, "very true; I did not recollect; but what shall we say now, Captain Harville? If the change be not from outward circumstances, it must be from within; it must be nature, man's nature, which has done the business for Captain Benwick."

"No, no, it is not man's nature. I will not allow it to be more man's nature than woman's to be inconstant and forget those they do love, or have loved. I believe the reverse. . .We shall never agree upon this question," Captain Harville was beginning to say, when a slight noise called their attention to Captain Wentworth's hitherto perfectly quiet division of the room. It was nothing more than that his pen had fallen down; but Anne was startled at finding him nearer than she had supposed, and half inclined to suspect that the pen had only fallen because he had been occupied by them, striving to catch sounds, which yet she did not think he could have caught.

"Have you finished your letter?" said Captain Harville.

"Not quite, a few lines more. I shall have done in five minutes."

"There is no hurry on my side. I am only ready whenever you are. I am in very good anchorage here," (smiling at Anne), "well supplied, and want for nothing. No hurry for a signal at all. Well, Miss Elliot," (lowering his voice), "as I was saying, we shall never agree, I suppose, upon this point. No man and woman would, probably. But let me observe that all histories are against you—all stories, prose and verse. If I had such a memory as Benwick, I could bring you fifty quotations in a moment on my side the argument, and I do not think I ever opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon woman's inconstancy. Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman's fickleness. But perhaps you will say, these were all written by men."

"Perhaps I shall. Yes, yes, if you please, no reference to examples in books. Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. Education has been theirs in so much higher a degree; the pen has been in their hands. I will not allow books to prove anything."

"But how shall we prove anything?"

"We never shall. We never can expect to prove any thing upon such a point. It is a difference of opinion which does not admit of proof. We each begin, probably, with a little bias towards our own sex; and upon that bias build every circumstance in favour of it which has occurred within our own circle; many of which circumstances (perhaps those very cases which strike us the most) may be precisely such as cannot be brought forward without betraying a confidence, or in some respect saying what should not be said."

"Ah!" cried Captain Harville, in a tone of strong feeling, "if I could but make you comprehend what a man suffers when he takes a last look at his wife and children, and watches the boat that he has sent them off in, as long as it is in sight, and then turns away and says, 'God knows whether we ever meet again!' And then, if I could convey to you the glow of his soul when he does see them again; when, coming back after a twelvemonth's absence, perhaps, and obliged to put into another port, he calculates how soon it be possible to get them there, pretending to deceive himself, and saying, 'They cannot be here till such a day,' but all the while hoping for them twelve hours sooner, and seeing them arrive at last, as if Heaven had given them wings, by many hours sooner still! If I could explain to you all this, and all that a man can bear and do, and glories to do, for the sake of these treasures of his existence! I speak, you know, only of such men as have hearts!" pressing his own with emotion.

"Oh!" cried Anne eagerly, "I hope I do justice to all that is felt by you, and by those who resemble you. God forbid that I should undervalue the warm and faithful feelings of any of my fellow-creatures! I should deserve utter contempt if I dared to suppose that true attachment and constancy were known only by woman. No, I believe you capable of everything great and good in your married lives. I believe you equal to every important exertion, and to every domestic forbearance, so long as—if I may be allowed the expression—so long as you have an object. I mean while the woman you love lives, and lives for you. All the privilege I claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable one; you need not covet it), is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone."

She could not immediately have uttered another sentence; her heart was too full, her breath too much oppressed.

"You are a good soul," cried Captain Harville, putting his hand on her arm, quite affectionately. "There is no quarrelling with you. And when I think of Benwick, my tongue is tied."

Their attention was called towards the others. Mrs Croft was taking leave.

"Here, Frederick, you and I part company, I believe," said she. "I am going home, and you have an engagement with your friend. To-night we may have the pleasure of all meeting again at your party," (turning to Anne). "We had your sister's card yesterday, and I understood Frederick had a card too, though I did not see it; and you are disengaged, Frederick, are you not, as well as ourselves?"

Captain Wentworth was folding up a letter in great haste, and either could not or would not answer fully.

"Yes," said he, "very true; here we separate, but Harville and I shall soon be after you; that is, Harville, if you are ready, I am in half a minute. I know you will not be sorry to be off. I shall be at your service in half a minute."

Mrs Croft left them, and Captain Wentworth, having sealed his letter with great rapidity, was indeed ready, and had even a hurried, agitated air, which shewed impatience to be gone. Anne knew not how to understand it. She had the kindest "Good morning, God bless you!" from Captain Harville, but from him not a word, nor a look! He had passed out of the room without a look!

She had only time, however, to move closer to the table where he had been writing, when footsteps were heard returning; the door opened, it was himself. He begged their pardon, but he had forgotten his gloves, and instantly crossing the room to the writing table, he drew out a letter from under the scattered paper, placed it before Anne with eyes of glowing entreaty fixed on her for a time, and hastily collecting his gloves, was again out of the room, almost before Mrs Musgrove was aware of his being in it: the work of an instant!

"Placed it before Anne." Illustration by Charles E. Brock for Persuasion (Dent, 1922). Image source: HathiTrust.org

The revolution which one instant had made in Anne, was almost beyond expression. The letter, with a direction hardly legible, to "Miss A. E.—," was evidently the one which he had been folding so hastily. While supposed to be writing only to Captain Benwick, he had been also addressing her! On the contents of that letter depended all which this world could do for her. Anything was possible, anything might be defied rather than suspense. Mrs Musgrove had little arrangements of her own at her own table; to their protection she must trust, and sinking into the chair which he had occupied, succeeding to the very spot where he had leaned and written, her eyes devoured the following words:

"I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone for ever. I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you. Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone, I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes? I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in

F. W.

"I must go, uncertain of my fate; but I shall return hither, or follow your party, as soon as possible. A word, a look, will be enough to decide whether I enter your father's house this evening or never."

"Wentworth's letter." Illustration by William C. Cooke for Persuasion (Dent, 1895). Image source: HathiTrust.org

Such a letter was not to be soon recovered from. Half an hour's solitude and reflection might have tranquillized her; but the ten minutes only which now passed before she was interrupted, with all the restraints of her situation, could do nothing towards tranquillity. Every moment rather brought fresh agitation. It was overpowering happiness. And before she was beyond the first stage of full sensation, Charles, Mary, and Henrietta all came in.

The absolute necessity of seeming like herself produced then an immediate struggle; but after a while she could do no more. She began not to understand a word they said, and was obliged to plead indisposition and excuse herself. They could then see that she looked very ill, were shocked and concerned, and would not stir without her for the world. This was dreadful. Would they only have gone away, and left her in the quiet possession of that room it would have been her cure; but to have them all standing or waiting around her was distracting, and in desperation, she said she would go home.

"By all means, my dear," cried Mrs Musgrove, "go home directly, and take care of yourself, that you may be fit for the evening. I wish Sarah was here to doctor you, but I am no doctor myself. Charles, ring and order a chair. She must not walk."

But the chair would never do. Worse than all! To lose the possibility of speaking two words to Captain Wentworth in the course of her quiet, solitary progress up the town (and she felt almost certain of meeting him) could not be borne. The chair was earnestly protested against, and Mrs Musgrove, who thought only of one sort of illness, having assured herself with some anxiety, that there had been no fall in the case; that Anne had not at any time lately slipped down, and got a blow on her head; that she was perfectly convinced of having had no fall; could part with her cheerfully, and depend on finding her better at night.

Anxious to omit no possible precaution, Anne struggled, and said—

"I am afraid, ma'am, that it is not perfectly understood. Pray be so good as to mention to the other gentlemen that we hope to see your whole party this evening. I am afraid there had been some mistake; and I wish you particularly to assure Captain Harville and Captain Wentworth, that we hope to see them both."

"Oh! my dear, it is quite understood, I give you my word. Captain Harville has no thought but of going."

"Do you think so? But I am afraid; and I should be so very sorry. Will you promise me to mention it, when you see them again? You will see them both this morning, I dare say. Do promise me."

"To be sure I will, if you wish it. Charles, if you see Captain Harville anywhere, remember to give Miss Anne's message. But indeed, my dear, you need not be uneasy. Captain Harville holds himself quite engaged, I'll answer for it; and Captain Wentworth the same, I dare say."

Anne could do no more; but her heart prophesied some mischance to damp the perfection of her felicity. It could not be very lasting, however. Even if he did not come to Camden Place himself, it would be in her power to send an intelligible sentence by Captain Harville. Another momentary vexation occurred. Charles, in his real concern and good nature, would go home with her; there was no preventing him. This was almost cruel. But she could not be long ungrateful; he was sacrificing an engagement at a gunsmith's, to be of use to her; and she set off with him, with no feeling but gratitude apparent.

They were on Union Street, when a quicker step behind, a something of familiar sound, gave her two moments' preparation for the sight of Captain Wentworth. He joined them; but, as if irresolute whether to join or to pass on, said nothing, only looked. Anne could command herself enough to receive that look, and not repulsively. The cheeks which had been pale now glowed, and the movements which had hesitated were decided. He walked by her side. Presently, struck by a sudden thought, Charles said—

"Captain Wentworth, which way are you going? Only to Gay Street, or farther up the town?"

"I hardly know," replied Captain Wentworth, surprised.

"Are you going as high as Belmont? Are you going near Camden Place? Because, if you are, I shall have no scruple in asking you to take my place, and give Anne your arm to her father's door. She is rather done for this morning, and must not go so far without help, and I ought to be at that fellow's in the Market Place. He promised me the sight of a capital gun he is just going to send off; said he would keep it unpacked to the last possible moment, that I might see it; and if I do not turn back now, I have no chance. By his description, a good deal like the second size double-barrel of mine, which you shot with one day round Winthrop."

There could not be an objection. There could be only the most proper alacrity, a most obliging compliance for public view; and smiles reined in and spirits dancing in private rapture. In half a minute Charles was at the bottom of Union Street again, and the other two proceeding together: and soon words enough had passed between them to decide their direction towards the comparatively quiet and retired gravel walk, where the power of conversation would make the present hour a blessing indeed, and prepare it for all the immortality which the happiest recollections of their own future lives could bestow. There they exchanged again those feelings and those promises which had once before seemed to secure everything, but which had been followed by so many, many years of division and estrangement. There they returned again into the past, more exquisitely happy, perhaps, in their re-union, than when it had been first projected; more tender, more tried, more fixed in a knowledge of each other's character, truth, and attachment; more equal to act, more justified in acting. And there, as they slowly paced the gradual ascent, heedless of every group around them, seeing neither sauntering politicians, bustling housekeepers, flirting girls, nor nursery-maids and children, they could indulge in those retrospections and acknowledgements, and especially in those explanations of what had directly preceded the present moment, which were so poignant and so ceaseless in interest. All the little variations of the last week were gone through; and of yesterday and to-day there could scarcely be an end.

She had not mistaken him. Jealousy of Mr Elliot had been the retarding weight, the doubt, the torment. That had begun to operate in the very hour of first meeting her in Bath; that had returned, after a short suspension, to ruin the concert; and that had influenced him in everything he had said and done, or omitted to say and do, in the last four-and-twenty hours. It had been gradually yielding to the better hopes which her looks, or words, or actions occasionally encouraged; it had been vanquished at last by those sentiments and those tones which had reached him while she talked with Captain Harville; and under the irresistible governance of which he had seized a sheet of paper, and poured out his feelings.

Of what he had then written, nothing was to be retracted or qualified. He persisted in having loved none but her. She had never been supplanted. He never even believed himself to see her equal. Thus much indeed he was obliged to acknowledge: that he had been constant unconsciously, nay unintentionally; that he had meant to forget her, and believed it to be done. He had imagined himself indifferent, when he had only been angry; and he had been unjust to her merits, because he had been a sufferer from them. Her character was now fixed on his mind as perfection itself, maintaining the loveliest medium of fortitude and gentleness. . ."I have been used to the gratification of believing myself to earn every blessing that I enjoyed. I have valued myself on honourable toils and just rewards. Like other great men under reverses," he added, with smile, "I must endeavour to subdue my mind to my fortune. I must learn to brook being happier than I deserve."

When I read Persuasion for the first time in college, I did not understand the necessity of Wentworth's letter. Why could he not simply take Anne aside and "pour out his feelings"? I did not grasp the social constraints under which they were both operating: Anne always being with relatives and friends, the streets and public rooms of Bath always crowded with people, and there being no private place where an unrelated man and woman could sequester themselves to have an intensely personal conversation.

Screenwriter Nick Dear wisely lets Austen's characters speak the words she gave them (judiciously edited). I particularly admire the way Anne and Wentworth's voices alternate and overlap as the letter is read, signifying the mutuality of their feelings.

Some people with whom I've viewed this adaptation of Persuasion have expressed mixed feelings about the circus parade passing down the street at the moment of the proposal; shouldn't there be swelling romantic music on the soundtrack rather than blaring clarinets and pounding drums? But I think the clamorous parade serves two purposes: first, it contrasts the noise and bustle of public spectacle with the still, almost wordless private communication between the couple. And second, there is no possible way that Anne and Wentworth could kiss on the street to seal their engagement without a major distraction drawing away everyone else's attention and (for those facing them from the other side of the street) blocking the couple from view.

Persuasion is Austen's most deeply felt novel. And in Nick Dear's and Roger Michell's television version, it has found a most worthy adaptation.

For more on the novel, please see "Persuasion and war" and "Persuasion and Austen's sailor brothers"

Previous posts in this series:

• Northanger Abbey
• Emma
• Mansfield Park
• Pride and Prejudice
• Sense and Sensibility

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1. As usual in an Austen novel, we are told (or can determine) exactly how rich: Wentworth has "five-and-twenty thousand pounds," undoubtedly invested in Navy five percent bonds, yielding an annual income of £1250. If war comes again—spoiler alert: it will—he will have the opportunity to earn more prize money by capturing enemy ships. In addition, on active duty he receives a salary of about £400, and while on leave receives half-pay. In Sense and Sensibility, Elinor Dashwood describes an income of £1000 as the wealth necessary for happiness and comfort.
   

Jane Austen proposal scenes, part 5: Northanger Abbey

J.J. Feild (Henry Tilney) and Felicity Jones (Catherine Morland) in Northanger Abbey (2007)

Northanger Abbey

Background to the proposal scene: While on a visit to Bath with her neighbors the Allens, Catherine Morland made the acquaintance of Eleanor Tilney and her brother Henry. Their father, General Tilney, in the mistaken belief that Catherine was a rich heiress, invited her to return with the family to their estate, Northanger Abbey, on an extended visit. The ancient mansion excited Catherine's fantasies, already fired by a steady diet of Gothic romances such as Ann Radcliffe's The Mysteries of Udolpho, and she imagined that the General practiced cruelties against his wife. When Henry learned of her suspicions, he remonstrated with her: "Dearest Miss Morland, what ideas have you been admitting?" Catherine concluded that "Charming as were all Mrs. Radcliffe's works, and charming even as were the works of all her imitators, it was not in them perhaps that human nature, at least in the Midland counties of England, was to be looked for."

General Tilney had left Northanger Abbey for a week. When he returned late one night, he abruptly insisted that Catherine leave, and early the very next morning sent her on the long journey home by herself. Her sudden dismissal was "as incomprehensible as it was mortifying and grievous." She has been back at home for just a few days, passing her time in "silence and sadness," when an unexpected visitor arrives. . .

The television adaptation: screenplay by Andrew Davies, directed by Jon Jones (2007)

Although compressed to a 90-minute running time, this ITV adaptation covers the major events of the novel, has an excellent and appropriately youthful cast (as Catherine, Felicity Jones really does look as though she could be in her late teens), and includes many witty touches, such as the visualization of Catherine's vivid Gothic fantasies.

https://youtu.be/Bm3QywZFBuA?t=18 [scene ends at 4:49]

The novel:

. . .[Mrs. Morland] knew not that a visitor had arrived within the last few minutes, till, on entering the room, the first object she beheld was a young man whom she had never seen before. With a look of much respect, he immediately rose, and being introduced to her by her conscious daughter as "Mr. Henry Tilney," with the embarrassment of real sensibility began to apologize for his appearance there, acknowledging that after what had passed he had little right to expect a welcome at Fullerton, and stating his impatience to be assured of Miss Morland's having reached her home in safety, as the cause of his intrusion. He did not address himself to an uncandid judge or a resentful heart. Far from comprehending him or his sister in their father's misconduct, Mrs. Morland had been always kindly disposed towards each, and instantly, pleased by his appearance, received him with the simple professions of unaffected benevolence; thanking him for such an attention to her daughter, assuring him that the friends of her children were always welcome there, and entreating him to say not another word of the past.

"Introduced. . .as 'Mr. Henry Tilney.'" Illustration by C.E. Brock for Northanger Abbey (Dent, 1922). Image source: HathiTrust.org

He was not ill-inclined to obey this request, for, though his heart was greatly relieved by such unlooked-for mildness, it was not just at that moment in his power to say anything to the purpose. Returning in silence to his seat, therefore, he remained for some minutes most civilly answering all Mrs. Morland's common remarks about the weather and roads. Catherine meanwhile—the anxious, agitated, happy, feverish Catherine—said not a word; but her glowing cheek and brightened eye made her mother trust that this good-natured visit would at least set her heart at ease for a time. . .

So there is no arrival on a white horse in the novel, and Mrs. Morland does not interrupt the éclaircissement between the lovers by inviting the visitor into the drawing room (instead she finds him already there). But Davies can be forgiven, I think, for wanting to make Henry's arrival more dramatic. And the script nicely captures the awkwardness of the attempts to make conversation in the parlor, as well as Henry's anxiousness to escape and speak to Catherine in private.

. . .at the end of a quarter of an hour [Mrs. Morland] had nothing to say. After a couple of minutes' unbroken silence, Henry, turning to Catherine for the first time since her mother's entrance, asked her, with sudden alacrity, if Mr. and Mrs. Allen were now at Fullerton? And on developing, from amidst all her perplexity of words in reply, the meaning, which one short syllable would have given, immediately expressed his intention of paying his respects to them, and, with a rising colour, asked her if she would have the goodness to show him the way. "You may see the house from this window, sir," was information on Sarah's side, which produced only a bow of acknowledgment from the gentleman, and a silencing nod from her mother; for Mrs. Morland, thinking it probable, as a secondary consideration in his wish of waiting on their worthy neighbours, that he might have some explanation to give of his father's behaviour, which it must be more pleasant for him to communicate only to Catherine, would not on any account prevent her accompanying him. They began their walk, and Mrs. Morland was not entirely mistaken in his object in wishing it. Some explanation on his father's account he had to give; but his first purpose was to explain himself, and before they reached Mr. Allen's grounds he had done it so well that Catherine did not think it could ever be repeated too often. She was assured of his affection; and that heart in return was solicited, which, perhaps, they pretty equally knew was already entirely his own; for, though Henry was now sincerely attached to her, though he felt and delighted in all the excellencies of her character and truly loved her society, I must confess that his affection originated in nothing better than gratitude, or, in other words, that a persuasion of her partiality for him had been the only cause of giving her a serious thought. It is a new circumstance in romance, I acknowledge, and dreadfully derogatory of an heroine's dignity; but if it be as new in common life, the credit of a wild imagination will at least be all my own.

. . .as he proceeded to give the particulars, and explain the motives of his father’s conduct, her feelings soon hardened into even a triumphant delight. The General had had nothing to accuse her of, nothing to lay to her charge, but her being the involuntary, unconscious object of a deception which his pride could not pardon, and which a better pride would have been ashamed to own. She was guilty only of being less rich than he had supposed her to be. Under a mistaken persuasion of her possessions and claims, he had courted her acquaintance in Bath, solicited her company at Northanger, and designed her for his daughter-in-law. On discovering his error, to turn her from the house seemed the best, though to his feelings an inadequate proof of his resentment towards herself, and his contempt of her family.

. . .Catherine, at any rate, heard enough to feel that in suspecting General Tilney of either murdering or shutting up his wife, she had scarcely sinned against his character, or magnified his cruelty.

In the television adaptation, of course, the explanation and condemnation of his father's conduct comes before Henry's proposal, rather than afterward. And this is where the greatest divergence with Austen's novel occurs. In Davies' script Henry compares his father's behavior towards his wife to "vampirism" (a word that does not appear in Austen's novel), and says that "our mother did suffer grievously. . .we did watch him drain the life out of her." In the novel, however, when Henry finds Catherine in his mother's now-unused room, he tells her, "You have erred in supposing him not attached to her. He loved her, I am persuaded, as well as it was possible for him to—we have not all, you know, the same tenderness of disposition—and I will not pretend to say that while she lived, she might not often have had much to bear, but though his temper injured her, his judgment never did. His value of her was sincere; and, if not permanently, he was truly afflicted by her death" (from a sudden illness, not ill-treatment).

Understandably, given the 90-minute running time, Davies omits the General's ultimate acquiescence to his younger son's choice of fiancée (instead he has Henry say "I've broken with my father"). As a result he must also eliminate the felicitous idea that the several months' delay in their marriage occasioned by the General's initial lack of consent helped the young couple to know and love one another better. But, of course, Davies takes the irresistible final words directly from Austen.

. . .Henry and Catherine were married, the bells rang, and everybody smiled; and, as this took place within a twelvemonth from the first day of their meeting, it will not appear, after all the dreadful delays occasioned by the General's cruelty, that they were essentially hurt by it. To begin perfect happiness at the respective ages of twenty-six and eighteen is to do pretty well; and professing myself moreover convinced that the General's unjust interference, so far from being really injurious to their felicity, was perhaps rather conducive to it, by improving their knowledge of each other, and adding strength to their attachment, I leave it to be settled, by whomsoever it may concern, whether the tendency of this work be altogether to recommend parental tyranny, or reward filial disobedience.

For more on the novel, please see " Northanger Abbey and women writers and readers"

Next time: Persuasion

Previous posts in this series:

• Emma
• Mansfield Park
• Pride and Prejudice
• Sense and Sensibility
  

Jane Austen proposal scenes, part 4: Emma

Gwyneth Paltrow (Emma) and Jeremy Northam (Mr. Knightley) in Emma (1996)

Emma

Background to the proposal scene: In Emma the proposal scene is longer and more dialogic than in many other Austen novels. Partly this is because, as in Pride and Prejudice, there must be two éclaircissements. Emma fears that Mr. Knightley wants to tell her of his planned engagement to Harriet Smith, while Mr. Knightley fears that Emma wants to tell him of her unhappiness over Frank Churchill's marriage to another woman, Jane Fairfax. Unlike in Pride and Prejudice, though, the ground for a truer understanding between the lovers has not been prepared beforehand by others. In Emma they must flounder towards the recognition that they are each suffering under a misapprehension.

The film adaptation: screenplay and direction by Douglas McGrath (1996)

Even though the 1996 adaptation isn't our favorite (that honor belongs to the 2009 BBC adaptation written by Sandy Welch and directed by Jim O'Hanlon, with Romola Garai as Emma and Jonny Lee Miller as Mr. Knightley), I was surprised to see that it is relatively faithful to the novel. And it has an excellent Mr. Knightley in Jeremy Northam:

https://youtu.be/--Pkgs35eTE?t=128

The novel:

They walked together. He was silent. She thought he was often looking at her, and trying for a fuller view of her face than it suited her to give. And this belief produced another dread. Perhaps he wanted to speak to her, of his attachment to Harriet; he might be watching for encouragement to begin.—She did not, could not, feel equal to lead the way to any such subject. He must do it all himself. Yet she could not bear this silence. With him it was most unnatural. She considered—resolved—and, trying to smile, began—

"You have some news to hear, now you are come back, that will rather surprize you."

"Have I?" said he quietly, and looking at her; "of what nature?"

"Oh! the best nature in the world—a wedding."

After waiting a moment, as if to be sure she intended to say no more, he replied,

"If you mean Miss Fairfax and Frank Churchill, I have heard that already."

"How is it possible?" cried Emma, turning her glowing cheeks towards him; for, while she spoke, it occurred to her that he might have called at Mrs. Goddard's in his way.

"I had a few lines on parish business from Mr. Weston this morning, and at the end of them he gave me a brief account of what had happened."

Emma was quite relieved, and could presently say, with a little more composure,

"You probably have been less surprized than any of us, for you have had your suspicions.—I have not forgotten that you once tried to give me a caution.—I wish I had attended to it—but—(with a sinking voice and a heavy sigh) I seem to have been doomed to blindness."

For a moment or two nothing was said, and she was unsuspicious of having excited any particular interest, till she found her arm drawn within his, and pressed against his heart, and heard him thus saying, in a tone of great sensibility, speaking low,

"Time, my dearest Emma, time will heal the wound.—Your own excellent sense—your exertions for your father's sake—I know you will not allow yourself—." Her arm was pressed again, as he added, in a more broken and subdued accent, "The feelings of the warmest friendship—Indignation—Abominable scoundrel!"—And in a louder, steadier tone, he concluded with, "He will soon be gone. They will soon be in Yorkshire. I am sorry for her. She deserves a better fate."

Emma understood him; and as soon as she could recover from the flutter of pleasure, excited by such tender consideration, replied,

"You are very kind—but you are mistaken—and I must set you right.— I am not in want of that sort of compassion. My blindness to what was going on, led me to act by them in a way that I must always be ashamed of, and I was very foolishly tempted to say and do many things which may well lay me open to unpleasant conjectures, but I have no other reason to regret that I was not in the secret earlier."

"Emma!" cried he, looking eagerly at her, "are you, indeed?"—but checking himself—"No, no, I understand you—forgive me—I am pleased that you can say even so much.—He is no object of regret, indeed! and it will not be very long, I hope, before that becomes the acknowledgment of more than your reason.—Fortunate that your affections were not farther entangled!—I could never, I confess, from your manners, assure myself as to the degree of what you felt—I could only be certain that there was a preference—and a preference which I never believed him to deserve.—He is a disgrace to the name of man.—And is he to be rewarded with that sweet young woman?—Jane, Jane, you will be a miserable creature."

"Mr. Knightley," said Emma, trying to be lively, but really confused—"I am in a very extraordinary situation. I cannot let you continue in your error; and yet, perhaps, since my manners gave such an impression, I have as much reason to be ashamed of confessing that I never have been at all attached to the person we are speaking of, as it might be natural for a woman to feel in confessing exactly the reverse.—But I never have."

He listened in perfect silence. She wished him to speak, but he would not. She supposed she must say more before she were entitled to his clemency; but it was a hard case to be obliged still to lower herself in his opinion. She went on, however.

"I have very little to say for my own conduct.—I was tempted by his attentions, and allowed myself to appear pleased.—. . .my vanity was flattered, and I allowed his attentions. Latterly, however—for some time, indeed—I have had no idea of their meaning any thing.—I thought them a habit, a trick, nothing that called for seriousness on my side. He has imposed on me, but he has not injured me. I have never been attached to him. And now I can tolerably comprehend his behaviour. He never wished to attach me. It was merely a blind to conceal his real situation with another.—It was his object to blind all about him; and no one, I am sure, could be more effectually blinded than myself—except that I was not blinded—that it was my good fortune—that, in short, I was somehow or other safe from him."

She had hoped for an answer here—for a few words to say that her conduct was at least intelligible; but he was silent; and, as far as she could judge, deep in thought. At last, and tolerably in his usual tone, he said,

". . .Frank Churchill is, indeed, the favourite of fortune. Every thing turns out for his good.—He meets with a young woman at a watering-place, gains her affection, cannot even weary her by negligent treatment—and had he and all his family sought round the world for a perfect wife for him, they could not have found her superior.—His aunt is in the way.—His aunt dies.—He has only to speak.—His friends are eager to promote his happiness.—He had used every body ill—and they are all delighted to forgive him.—He is a fortunate man indeed!"

"You speak as if you envied him."

"And I do envy him, Emma. In one respect he is the object of my envy."

Emma could say no more. They seemed to be within half a sentence of Harriet, and her immediate feeling was to avert the subject, if possible. She made her plan; she would speak of something totally different—the children in Brunswick Square; and she only waited for breath to begin, when Mr. Knightley startled her, by saying,

"You will not ask me what is the point of envy.—You are determined, I see, to have no curiosity.—You are wise—but I cannot be wise. Emma, I must tell you what you will not ask, though I may wish it unsaid the next moment."

"Oh! then, don't speak it, don't speak it," she eagerly cried. "Take a little time, consider, do not commit yourself."

"Thank you," said he, in an accent of deep mortification, and not another syllable followed.

Emma could not bear to give him pain. He was wishing to confide in her—perhaps to consult her;—cost her what it would, she would listen. She might assist his resolution, or reconcile him to it; she might give just praise to Harriet, or, by representing to him his own independence, relieve him from that state of indecision, which must be more intolerable than any alternative to such a mind as his.—They had reached the house.

"You are going in, I suppose?" said he.

"No,"—replied Emma—quite confirmed by the depressed manner in which he still spoke—"I should like to take another turn. Mr. Perry is not gone." And, after proceeding a few steps, she added—"I stopped you ungraciously, just now, Mr. Knightley, and, I am afraid, gave you pain.—But if you have any wish to speak openly to me as a friend, or to ask my opinion of any thing that you may have in contemplation—as a friend, indeed, you may command me.—I will hear whatever you like. I will tell you exactly what I think."

"As a friend!"—repeated Mr. Knightley.—"Emma, that I fear is a word—No, I have no wish—Stay, yes, why should I hesitate?—I have gone too far already for concealment.—Emma, I accept your offer—Extraordinary as it may seem, I accept it, and refer myself to you as a friend.—Tell me, then, have I no chance of ever succeeding?"

He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression of his eyes overpowered her.

"He stopped to look the question." Illustration by Hugh Thomson for Emma (Macmillan, 1897). Image source: HathiTrust.org

"My dearest Emma," said he, "for dearest you will always be, whatever the event of this hour's conversation, my dearest, most beloved Emma—tell me at once. Say 'No,' if it is to be said."—She could really say nothing.—"You are silent," he cried, with great animation; "absolutely silent! at present I ask no more."

Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment. The dread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the most prominent feeling.

"'Say "No" if it is to be said.' She could really say nothing." Illustration by Chris[tiana] Hammond for Emma (George Allen, 1898). Imge source: Wikimedia Commons

This is where the screenplay diverges from Austen's novel. In the novel Mr. Knightley says "I. . .refer myself to you as a friend." In the film he says, "I do not wish to call you my friend because. . .I hope to call you something infinitely more dear." In the novel he goes on:

"I cannot make speeches, Emma:" he soon resumed; and in a tone of such sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably convincing.—"If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more. But you know what I am.—You hear nothing but truth from me.—I have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other woman in England would have borne it.—Bear with the truths I would tell you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The manner, perhaps, may have as little to recommend them. God knows, I have been a very indifferent lover.—But you understand me.—Yes, you see, you understand my feelings—and will return them if you can. At present, I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice."

Austen, of course, is having a little joke here. Mr. Knightley says "I cannot make speeches"—and then launches into a speech (as he has done throughout the novel). Intriguingly, as soon as he says "I ask only to hear, once to hear your voice," Austen provides no more direct speech:

While he spoke, Emma's mind was most busy, and, with all the wonderful velocity of thought, had been able—and yet without losing a word—to catch and comprehend the exact truth of the whole; to see that Harriet's hopes had been entirely groundless, a mistake, a delusion, as complete a delusion as any of her own—that Harriet was nothing; that she was every thing herself; that what she had been saying relative to Harriet had been all taken as the language of her own feelings; and that her agitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her discouragement, had been all received as discouragement from herself. . .Her way was clear, though not quite smooth.—She spoke then, on being so entreated.—What did she say?—Just what she ought, of course. A lady always does.—She said enough to shew there need not be despair—and to invite him to say more himself.

In the novel Emma says "just what she ought. A lady always does." But she does not immediately accept him; rather, she says only enough "to shew there need not be despair—and to invite him to say more himself." In the film, Mr. Knightley goes on to explain his aversion to Frank Churchill, material drawn from somewhat further on in the scene in the novel:

—On his side, there had been a long-standing jealousy, old as the arrival, or even the expectation, of Frank Churchill.—He had been in love with Emma, and jealous of Frank Churchill, from about the same period, one sentiment having probably enlightened him as to the other. It was his jealousy of Frank Churchill that had taken him from the country.—The Box Hill party had decided him on going away. He would save himself from witnessing again such permitted, encouraged attentions.—He had gone to learn to be indifferent.—But he had gone to a wrong place. There was too much domestic happiness in his brother's house; woman wore too amiable a form in it; Isabella was too much like Emma—differing only in those striking inferiorities, which always brought the other in brilliancy before him, for much to have been done, even had his time been longer.—He had stayed on, however, vigorously, day after day—till this very morning's post had conveyed the history of Jane Fairfax.—Then, with the gladness which must be felt, nay, which he did not scruple to feel, having never believed Frank Churchill to be at all deserving Emma, was there so much fond solicitude, so much keen anxiety for her, that he could stay no longer. He had ridden home through the rain; and had walked up directly after dinner, to see how this sweetest and best of all creatures, faultless in spite of all her faults, bore the discovery.

In the film, of course, after his somewhat sheepish confession of jealousy comes the proposal and acceptance. In the novel, after she has invited Mr. Knightley to say more, it is soon clear that Emma returns his feelings and accepts his offer. We never see or hear her acceptance, however, only its effects:

. . .he had only, in the momentary conquest of eagerness over judgment, aspired to be told that she did not forbid his attempt to attach her.—The superior hopes which gradually opened were so much the more enchanting.—The affection, which he had been asking to be allowed to create, if he could, was already his!—Within half an hour, he had passed from a thoroughly distressed state of mind, to something so like perfect happiness, that it could bear no other name.

Her change was equal.—This one half-hour had given to each the same precious certainty of being beloved, had cleared from each the same degree of ignorance, jealousy, or distrust. . .She was his own Emma, by hand and word, when they returned into the house; and if he could have thought of Frank Churchill then, he might have deemed him a very good sort of fellow.

Once again, Austen has shifted into the third person at the moment of the proposal, and denies us even a description of Emma's acceptance. But this is yet more evidence that for her, the crucial moment is actually the éclaircissement, rather than the proposal itself.

Emma is notable in the Austen canon in the placement of its proposal scene. Just as a proposal and acceptance follow an éclaircissement as a matter of course, the end of a novel generally follows a proposal. In Mansfield Park the proposal occurs in the final chapter, and the novel ends two pages later. In Sense and Sensibility, Northanger Abbey, and Persuasion, the proposal occurs in the next-to-last chapter, and the novel ends 19, 9, and 12 pages later, respectively. In Pride and Prejudice, it's true that the proposal occurs in the fourth chapter from the end, but those four chapters are short: Darcy tells Elizabeth that "My affections and wishes are unchanged" on page 366, and the novel ends 22 pages later. However, after Emma and Mr. Knightley return to the house betrothed, Emma doesn't end for another six chapters and 51 pages (all page counts taken from R.W. Chapman's editions). This reflects the novel's complexity: there are three couples with past mistakes to explain and futures to be sorted out, rather than one or two, before Emma and Mr. Knightley can enjoy their "perfect happiness."

"The wedding was very much like other weddings." Illustration by Chris Hammond for Emma (George Allen, 1898). Image source: Wikimedia Commons

For more on the novel, please see "Emma and the fate of unmarried women"

Next time: Northanger Abbey

Previous posts in this series:

• Mansfield Park
• Pride and Prejudice
• Sense and Sensibility

Jane Austen proposal scenes, part 3: Mansfield Park

Frances O'Connor (Fanny Price) in Mansfield Park (1999)

Mansfield Park

Background to the proposal scene: Fanny Price came to live with her rich relatives the Bertrams when she was 10 years old. Her cousin Edmund, six years her senior, showed her attention and kindness. Eight years later, Mary Crawford moves into the neighborhood, and Edmund becomes infatuated with her; of Fanny's steadfast love he is completely oblivious.

The film adaptation: screenplay and direction by Patricia Rozema (1999)

Mansfield Park has suffered the most distortions in its adaptations, perhaps because none of the adaptors to date (except perhaps Kenneth Taylor in the 6-episode BBC TV series (1983), which I haven't yet seen) have fully trusted in their source material. In particular, adaptors seem unable to prevent themselves from altering the character of its heroine, Fanny Price.

In the 2007 ITV series written by Maggie Wadey and directed by Iain MacDonald, the shy, apprehensive Fanny was portrayed by Billie Piper as witty, assertive, active, and far too superficially attractive: Fanny Price as Mary Crawford. Of course, this makes it impossible for us to believe that Edmund Bertram would remain so oblivious to her all-too-obvious charms.

In the 1999 film, Fanny (Frances O'Connor) is a budding writer who addresses the camera and the viewer directly, and leaves balled-up drafts (written on very expensive paper) scattered all over her desk and floor. Writer/director Patricia Rozema's conception is more Becoming Jane than Mansfield Park. You'll notice that Fanny's direct appeals to the viewer continue in this proposal scene, during the final moments of which she is looking at the camera, rather than her lover Edmund Bertram (Jonny Lee Miller).

https://youtu.be/Bm3QywZFBuA?t=963 [scene ends at 18:07]

The novel:

Scarcely had [Edmund] done regretting Mary Crawford, and observing to Fanny how impossible it was that he should ever meet with such another woman, before it began to strike him whether a very different kind of woman might not do just as well, or a great deal better: whether Fanny herself were not growing as dear, as important to him in all her smiles and all her ways, as Mary Crawford had ever been; and whether it might not be a possible, a hopeful undertaking to persuade her that her warm and sisterly regard for him would be foundation enough for wedded love.

I purposely abstain from dates on this occasion, that every one may be at liberty to fix their own, aware that the cure of unconquerable passions, and the transfer of unchanging attachments, must vary much as to time in different people. I only entreat everybody to believe that exactly at the time when it was quite natural that it should be so, and not a week earlier, Edmund did cease to care about Miss Crawford, and became as anxious to marry Fanny as Fanny herself could desire.

Rozema uses the last paragraph—how could she not?—in which Austen's narrator cleverly reassures each of her disparate readers that Edmund is not being over-hasty. In the film it is Fanny who says "at the time when it was quite natural to be so," continuing the film's conceit of Fanny as the young Jane, writing the very story we've been witnessing. But, of course, this gives Fanny a wry, ironic view of her own happiness, an attitude that does not seem true to Fanny's character in the novel.

"Sitting under trees with Fanny." Illustration by Hugh Thomson for Mansfield Park (Macmillan, 1897). Image source: Wikimedia Commons

. . .Even in the midst of his late infatuation, he had acknowledged Fanny’s mental superiority. What must be his sense of it now, therefore? She was of course only too good for him; but as nobody minds having what is too good for them, he was very steadily earnest in the pursuit of the blessing, and it was not possible that encouragement from her should be long wanting. Timid, anxious, doubting as she was, it was still impossible that such tenderness as hers should not, at times, hold out the strongest hope of success, though it remained for a later period to tell him the whole delightful and astonishing truth.

In Austen's novel the "delightful and astonishing truth" of her long-held feelings will be told by Fanny to Edmund, and not the other way around, as in Rozema's film.

His happiness in knowing himself to have been so long the beloved of such a heart, must have been great enough to warrant any strength of language in which he could clothe it to her or to himself; it must have been a delightful happiness. But there was happiness elsewhere which no description can reach. Let no one presume to give the feelings of a young woman on receiving the assurance of that affection of which she has scarcely allowed herself to entertain a hope.

. . .With so much true merit and true love, and no want of fortune and friends, the happiness of the married cousins must appear as secure as earthly happiness can be. (Ch. XLVIII)

There is so much wrong with the film's proposal scene, especially in comparison to Austen's novel, that I'm not sure where to begin. Edmund's speech to Fanny is filled with banalities; it's she who has loved him her whole life (since, at least, she was 10) and not the other way around—Edmund has only just allowed himself to discover how lovable she is; Fanny's dress seems too revealing for Regency day wear, and siren-red is probably the wrong color; when they kiss we don't need to see him try to slip her some tongue. . .sigh. I've enjoyed some of Rozema's other films, and this one is not without its moments. And I want to be clear that I think both Frances O'Connor and Jonny Lee Miller are good actors; the deficits of this film are not their fault. But in my view we're still awaiting a worthy adaptation of Mansfield Park.

For more on the novel: please see "Mansfield Park and slavery" parts 1 ("Fanny Price and Dido Elizabeth Belle"), 2 ("Lord Mansfield, the Somerset case and the Zong massacre"), and 3 ("An estate built on the ruin and labour of others").

Next time: Emma

Previous posts: 

• Pride and Prejudice
• Sense and Sensibility

Jane Austen proposal scenes, part 2: Pride and Prejudice

Jennifer Ehle (Elizabeth Bennet) and Colin Firth (Fitzwilliam Darcy) in Pride and Prejudice (1995).

Pride and Prejudice

Background: Six months previously, Darcy had proposed to Elizabeth, despite his sense of "her inferiority — of its being a degradation — of the family obstacles which judgment had always opposed to inclination." Not surprisingly, Elizabeth was insulted rather than flattered, and, having learned of Darcy's intervention to block the growing attachment between his friend Mr. Bingley and Elizabeth's sister Jane, as well as his supposed ill-treatment of Mr. Wickham, rejected him in the bluntest possible terms: "I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry." But later, news of Elizabeth's sister Lydia's elopement arrives. . .

Pride and Prejudice is unusual in that the heroine and the hero each has a separate moment of éclaircissement before the proposal scene. For Elizabeth it is brought about by Lydia's careless mention of Darcy's presence at her wedding ("'Mr. Darcy!' repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement"); this is the moment when Elizabeth's understanding of Darcy's role in bringing about Lydia's marriage to her seducer, and, perhaps, the reasons for his involvement, begin to dawn. And for Darcy it is when he learns from his aunt Lady Catherine de Bourgh of Elizabeth's refusal to promise that she will never become engaged to him.

On a fine day in early autumn, Darcy and Bingley pay a call on the Bennets. . .

The television adaptation: screenplay by Andrew Davies, directed by Simon Langton (1995)

https://youtu.be/Bm3QywZFBuA?t=706 [scene ends at 15:52]

The novel:

. . .Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the habit of walking, Mary could never spare time, but the remaining five set off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty was too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a desperate resolution; and, perhaps, he might be doing the same.

They walked towards the Lucases', because Kitty wished to call upon Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern, when Kitty left them she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the moment for her resolution to be executed; and while her courage was high, she immediately said,—

"Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature, and for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings care not how much I may be wounding yours. I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known it I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family I should not have merely my own gratitude to express."

"I am sorry, exceedingly sorry," replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise and emotion, "that you have ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner was so little to be trusted."

"You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering them."

"If you will thank me," he replied, "let it be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of you."

Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause, her companion added, "You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged; but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever."

Up to the point of Darcy's declaration and proposal ("My affections and wishes are unchanged"), Davies' script follows the novel closely (although in the adaptation Elizabeth, Kitty and Darcy trail Bingley and Jane, rather than walking ahead of them—a change that works better for the screen). But once again, at a crucial moment Austen shifts to third-person narration and indirect speech:

Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone so material a change since the period to which he alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The happiness which this reply produced was such as he had probably never felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth been able to encounter his eyes, she might have seen how well the expression of heartfelt delight diffused over his face became him: but though she could not look she could listen; and he told her of feelings which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable.

As reflected in the television adaptation, once Elizabeth's acceptance is expressed there is further éclaircissement:

They walked on without knowing in what direction. There was too much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him in her return through London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on every expression of the latter, which, in her Ladyship's apprehension, peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance, in the belief that such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from her nephew which she had refused to give. But, unluckily for her Ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.

"The efforts of his aunt." Illustration by Hugh Thomson for Pride and Prejudice (George Allen, 1894). Picture source: Project Gutenberg

"It taught me to hope," said he, "as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain, that had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine frankly and openly."

Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, "Yes, you know enough of my frankness to believe me capable of that. After abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all your relations."

"What did you say of me that I did not deserve? For though your accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence."

"We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that evening," said Elizabeth. "The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then we have both, I hope, improved in civility."

"I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: 'Had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.' Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me; though it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice."

"I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way."

"I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way that would induce you to accept me."

"Oh, do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it."

". . .I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. . .Such I was, from eight to eight-and-twenty; and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased."

. . .She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to each to be dwelt on farther.

One reason that this is the most beloved of all Jane Austen adaptations is its screenwriter's trust in Austen's novel. While Davies does insert some scenes of his own invention—most notoriously, the wet-shirt encounter between Darcy and Elizabeth—ultimately it's the faithfulness to the book (which requires the 5-hour running time), along with the perfect casting and the attention to period detail, which sets this adaptation above all others.

For more on the novel: please see "Pride and Prejudice and the marriage market"

Next time: Mansfield Park

Last time: Sense and Sensibility

Jane Austen proposal scenes, part 1: Sense and Sensibility

Emma Thompson (Elinor Dashwood), Kate Winslet (Marianne Dashwood), and Gemma Jones (Mrs. Dashwood) in Sense and Sensibility (1995)

On Valentine's Eve, my local chapter of the Jane Austen Society of North America (JASNA) gathered to watch proposal scenes from television and film adaptations of Jane Austen's novels. The next night I decided to read the proposal scenes from Austen's canonical novels to my partner. It was, so to speak, an eye-opening experience.

What became clear from my readings was how reticent Austen often is about her heroes' actual proposals and her heroines' acceptances. She follows their love stories in detail, relating conversations and letters verbatim for 300 or 400 pages. Then she often passes over the moment of the actual proposal quickly, or narrates it in the third person using indirect speech.

Over six posts I will offer clips of proposal scenes from Austen film and television adaptations, juxtaposed with their source texts in Austen's novels. Each proposal scene has three stages: éclaircissement, when the misunderstandings keeping the couple apart are at last resolved; the declaration, when the hero speaks of his love for the heroine, and proposes; and the acceptance, when the heroine finally acknowledges her love for the hero to herself, and to him.

In the film and television adaptations the declaration and acceptance are necessarily often elaborated. In Austen, éclaircissement is all, and everything that follows a matter of course. As is definitely the case in this first scene.

A word of warning: these posts discussing the proposal scenes will necessarily involve spoilers. 

Sense and Sensibility

Background to the proposal scene: Elinor Dashwood had previously formed an attachment to Edward Ferrars, but then received the unwelcome knowledge that he has been engaged to another woman, Lucy Steele, for more than four years. Elinor, though secretly still harboring feelings for Edward, has put aside all thoughts of him as a marriage partner. One day in spring the news arrives that Mr. Ferrars has married, and a few days later Edward rides up the lane to Barton Cottage on an unexpected visit. . .

The film adaptation: screenplay by Emma Thompson, directed by Ang Lee (1995)

https://youtu.be/Bm3QywZFBuA?t=395 [scene ends at 11:29]

The novel:

They all waited in silence for the appearance of their visitor. His footsteps were heard along the gravel path; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before them.

"It was Edward." Illustration by Hugh Thomson for Sense and Sensibility (MacMillan, 1896). Image source: Project Gutenberg

His countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for Elinor. His complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one. Mrs. Dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of that daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be guided in every thing, met him with a look of forced complacency, gave him her hand, and wished him joy.

He coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply. Elinor’s lips had moved with her mother’s, and, when the moment of action was over, she wished that she had shaken hands with him too. But it was then too late, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and talked of the weather.

Marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal her distress; and Margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole of the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore took a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a strict silence.

When Elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very awful pause took place. It was put an end to by Mrs. Dashwood, who felt obliged to hope that he had left Mrs. Ferrars very well. In a hurried manner, he replied in the affirmative.

Another pause.

Elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own voice, now said,

"Is Mrs. Ferrars at Longstaple?" [the home of Lucy Steele's family]

"At Longstaple!" he replied, with an air of surprise. "No, my mother is in town."

"I meant," said Elinor, taking up some work from the table, "to enquire for Mrs. Edward Ferrars."

She dared not look up;—but her mother and Marianne both turned their eyes on him. He coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and, after some hesitation, said,—

"Perhaps you mean—my brother—you mean Mrs.—Mrs. Robert Ferrars."

"Mrs. Robert Ferrars!" was repeated by Marianne and her mother in an accent of the utmost amazement; and though Elinor could not speak, even her eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder. He rose from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not knowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice,—

"Perhaps you do not know: you may not have heard that my brother is lately married to—to the youngest—to Miss Lucy Steele."

His words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but Elinor, who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such agitation as made her hardly know where she was.

"Yes," said he, "they were married last week, and are now at Dawlish." [A seaside resort in Devonshire where they have gone for their honeymoon.]

So far, the differences are minor. Thompson reassigns and alters some of the dialogue and changes some of the action (Edward walks to the fireplace and handles a sheep figurine (!) on the mantelpiece rather than ruining a pair of scissors and its sheath; I would also say that in revealing his brother's marriage he speaks haltingly rather than hurriedly), but up to this point in the scene the screenplay is faithful to the novel.

But then Thompson must necessarily depart from Austen's depiction of the proposal scene, which emphasizes Edward's awkwardness and discomfort, rather than his passion, and which is narrated rather than incorporating dialogue:

Elinor could sit it no longer. She almost ran out of the room, and as soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first she thought would never cease. Edward, who had till then looked any where, rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw—or even heard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie, which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of Mrs. Dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word, quitted the room, and walked out towards the village—leaving the others in the greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his situation, so wonderful and so sudden;—a perplexity which they had no means of lessening but by their own conjectures.

Unaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might appear to the whole family, it was certain that Edward was free; and to what purpose that freedom would be employed was easily pre-determined by all;—for after experiencing the blessings of one imprudent engagement, contracted without his mother’s consent, as he had already done for more than four years, nothing less could be expected of him in the failure of that, than the immediate contraction of another.

His errand at Barton, in fact, was a simple one. It was only to ask Elinor to marry him;—and considering that he was not altogether inexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should feel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in need of encouragement and fresh air.

How soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly told. This only need be said;—that when they all sat down to table at four o’clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his lady, engaged her mother’s consent, and was not only in the rapturous profession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one of the happiest of men. (Chs. XLVIII–XLIX)

Thompson approximates this third-person narration very cleverly by having the actual proposal reported by Margaret from the treehouse (an invention of Thompson's, of course) to Mrs. Dashwood and Marianne below. Nothing, of course, can be heard of Edward's proposal, but (as in Austen) "in what manner he expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly told," or shown. In the film, after revealing that it is his brother Robert who has married Lucy Steele, Edward's declaration (from 10:10 to 11:00 in the video clip above) is a combination of Emma Thompson's imagination and snatches of the conversations—further éclaircissement—between Elinor and Edward that occur in the days after his proposal and her acceptance.

There is another key difference between this film and the novel: Edward Ferrars is 24, but Hugh Grant was 34 at the time of filming; Elinor Dashwood is 19 (perhaps 20 at the end of the novel), while Emma Thompson was 36. As I wrote in "Six months with Jane Austen: Favorite adaptations and final thoughts," "Having the characters appear older than they are intended to be changes our perceptions of them. In particular, it gives Edward's flirtation with Lucy Steele (Imogen Stubbs) a different character, and it makes Elinor's 'strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment' less remarkable." This version is beautifully shot by Ang Lee, has a witty script by Thompson, and is well-performed by a cast of wonderful actors. But there is no way not to notice that in terms of their ages Thompson is closer to Anne Elliot (from Persuasion) than Elinor, and Grant to Mr. Knightley (from Mansfield Park) or Col. Brandon than Edward.

For more on the novel: please see "Sense and Sensibility, inheritance, and money"

Next time: Pride and Prejudice