Austen began working on Sense and Sensibility in 1795 with an epistolary fragment entitled “Elinor and Marianne” (now lost). The final version was not published until 1811, with a second edition issued in 1813 (Austen-Leigh, Jane Austen: Her Life and Letters, p. 8o; see “For Further Reading”). Once described as “bleak, dark, and nasty” compared with the “brightness” of Pride and Prejudice or the complexity of her more mature works Emma, Mansfield Park, and Persuasion, Sense and Sensibility has recently undergone a critical renaissance. New editions, renewed scholarship, and a critically acclaimed film version have put the novel center stage.

Sense and Sensibility is a coming-of-age novel, and also a work that chronicles Austen’s own “coming of age”—her development as a writer. When she began working on “Elinor and Marianne” she was only twenty, a young woman with the possibility of courtship, marriage, and family open to her. By the time the second edition of the novel was released, Austen had moved from Hampshire to Bath, lost her adoring father, been disappointed in love, rejected a marriage proposal, and relocated again with her mother and sister to Chawton, where she turned her attention to writing. Austen’s sense of herself in the world must have been influenced by her close relationship with her only sister, Cassandra, who similarly was disappointed in love and in the awkward position of elder spinster aunt to a large and noisy upper-middle-class country family.

The only surviving portrait of Austen, a watercolor sketch by her sister, depicts the author as a plain, pensive subject with large eyes and a slight hint of a smile. She appears proper and subdued, unlike the description of her by a family friend, who pronounced her “certainly pretty—bright & a good deal of colour in her face—like a doll” (Tomalin, Jane Austen: A Life, p. 108). Austen’s niece Anna’s view of her aunt matches Cassandra’s portrayal of her: “Her complexion [is] of that rare sort which seems the particular property of light brunettes: a mottled skin, not fair, but perfectly clear and healthy; the fine naturally curling hair, neither light nor dark; the bright hazel eyes to match the rather small, but well shaped nose” (Austen-Leigh, p. 240) .

In keeping with Austen’s status as a respectable daughter of a clergyman, Sense and Sensibility was first published anonymously. The initial advertisement for the novel, which appeared in the Morning Chronicle on October 31, 1811, refers to the author as “A Lady.” A subsequent notice in the same paper on November 7, 1811, bills the work as “an extraordinary novel by A Lady.” A few weeks later the book was announced as “an Interesting Novel by Lady A” (Austen-Leigh, p. 254). Austen apparently made some money on the first edition. Her biographers Richard and William Austen-Leigh note that the £140 profit from the first edition of Sense and Sensibility was a considerable sum compared to the lesser proceeds her female contemporaries earned from their novels—the £30 Fanny Burney gained from sales of Evelina or the £100 Maria Edgeworth received for Castle Rackrent (Austen-Leigh, p. 255).

Austen was influenced by the writers of her youth. She adored Samuel Richardson, read Maria Edgeworth, Sir Walter Scott, Dr. Johnson, Alexander Pope, William Cowper, Henry Fielding, and Daniel Defoe, and recited passages from Fanny Burney aloud (Gay, Jane Austen and the Theatre, p. 11). In Sense and Sensibility Austen echoes earlier novelists while at the same time anticipating the format of the nineteenth-century novel. Austen’s choice of translating “Elinor and Marianne” from an epistolary narrative (a novel in letters) into a story told by a central narrative allowed her to juxtapose the internal and external facets of her heroines. What we see Elinor do is often contrasted with what we know she is thinking. This gap between thought and action is highlighted repeatedly throughout the novel.

Marianne and Elinor have very different ideas about what they can and should reveal about their private thoughts. When Elinor pleads with Marianne to give her the details of her secretive relationship with the deceiving Willoughby, Marianne retorts: “Our situations then are alike. We have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you communicate, and I, because I conceal nothing” (p. 138). What Marianne implies is that Elinor’s mode of communication, while utterly proper and correct, is always veiled and restrained. When pressed about her feelings for Edward, Elinor replies: “I meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. Believe them to be stronger than I have declared” (p. 18). In Austen’s world women cannot communicate effectively without revealing too much. They are left to perfect the art of innuendo, leading questions, and disguised sentiments. The slippery properties of language become a heroine’s greatest weapon. At the same time, a misunderstood phrase or rumor can cause her downfall.

Echoing contemporary enlightenment debates on the relative merits of reason versus emotion, Austen’s sisters epitomize a shift in attitudes from the late eighteenth to the beginning of the nineteenth century. Philosophers such as Mary Wollstonecraft, William Godwin, and Thomas Paine championed the rights of individuals rationally to govern themselves. Wollstonecraft, in her Vindication of the Rights of Woman (1792), critiqued the ways women were educated in the late eighteenth century and brought up to believe that their only asset was their beauty and seductive charms. She writes: “But in the education of women, the cultivation of the understanding is always subordinate to the acquirement of some corporeal accomplishment” (Wollstonecraft, p. 105) . While Austen is not considered a radical novelist, in her depiction of the educated, pragmatic Elinor she moves away from the more feminine preoccupations of popular eighteenth-century heroines such as Fanny Burney’s Evelina and Samuel Richardson’s Pamela. Elinor must concern herself with matters of the real world (money, lodgings, familial relationships and obligations) at the same time that she is secretly negotiating her feelings for Edward. Elinor’s calm and collected demeanor masks her internal dialogue, a contrast that would become the hallmark of Austen’s later heroines Elizabeth Bennet (Pride and Prejudice), Fanny Price (Mansfield Park), and Anne Elliot (Persuasion). In fact, Elinor’s desire to hide and master her true feelings is a necessity. If she weren’t there to organize her emotional mother and dreamy sister, nothing would get done. During the move from Norland, “Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could struggle, she could exert herself. She could consult with her brother, could receive her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with proper attention: and could strive to rouse her mother to similar exertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance” (p. 6).

The terms “sense” and “sensibility” have roots in eighteenth-century literary culture. Sentimental novels of the mid-eighteenth century such as Henry Mackenzie’s Man of Feeling and Samuel Richardson’s Clarissa stressed the importance of a moral code through the trials and tribulations of the protagonists. Later in the century, novels and poetry of “sensibility,” featuring connections between nature and emotion, provided readers with new ways to view literature as both entertaining and instructive. Although Austen links Elinor with sense, which the Oxford English Dictionary defines as “natural understanding and intelligence,” Marianne’s acute sensibility, “the quality of being easily and strongly affected by emotional influences,” is equally compelling and necessary. Marianne’s affinity for art and literature and her willingness to be swayed by her emotions are qualities that link her to eighteenth-century notions of sensibility that emphasized, according to the OED, “delicate sensitiveness of taste; also readiness to feel compassion for suffering, and to be moved by the pathetic in literature and art.” Elinor’s propriety and self-restraint can be seen as a corrective to Marianne’s tempestuous theatrics. Yet it is Marianne who moves the story along and ultimately steals the show.

While Mansfield Park is the Austen novel most often connected to questions of the theater and theatricality, Sense and Sensibility is also a work that relies on theatrical conceits. Austen’s attention to theatrical details reflects her perception of her readers as audience members. She read all of her manuscripts aloud to her family, and it was through their encouragement that she managed to publish her work (Tomalin, p. 121). Austen also experimented with theatrical writings. Some of her earliest works were plays, and she may have performed in private stage productions. She regularly attended the theater and admired the leading actors and actresses of her day. In a letter written to her sister, Cassandra, on April 25, 1811, Austen discusses her anxiety about Sense and Sensibility’s public reception: “I am very much gratified by Mrs. K’s interest in it. I think she will like my Elinor, but cannot build on anything else.” She then goes on to evaluate the musical performances at a party she attended, explaining: “There was one female singer, a short Mrs. Davis all in blue ... & all the Performers gave great satisfaction by doing what they were paid for & giving themselves no airs.” The letter concludes with details of her trip to the Lyceum Theatre to see Isaac Bick erstaffe’s The Hypocrite and her disappointment at missing Sarah Siddons, the most famous actress of the era, playing Constance in Shakespeare’s King John: “I had no chance of seeing Mrs. Siddons. I should particularly have liked to see her in Constance & could swear at her with little effort for disappointing me” (Le Faye, Jane Austen’s Letters, p. 184). Clearly, watching, critiquing, and analyzing various types of performances was a vital part of Austen’s life, particularly around the time of Sense and Sensibility’s publication. Although Austen has often been considered a reclu sive, quiet literary figure, her letters suggest that she was very much a part of the goings-on in her social world—a world that involved attending the theater, visiting art exhibitions, and shopping in fashionable London neighborhoods.

Austen may have enjoyed the theatre and been interested in specific actors and actresses, but her critique of display and artifice reflects a transition between eighteenth-century and nineteenth-century literary tastes. In her early writings, and later in Northanger Abbey, Austen parodies typically dramatic eighteenth-century characters, such as the libertine, the sentimental, and the Gothic heroine, along with conventional eighteenth-century plotlines: thwarted romance, abduction, intrigue, and exaggerated, implausible events. Aspects of these types of eighteenth-century narratives are in Sense and Sensibility, but they all occur offstage. Colonel Brandon’s stories about his former lover Eliza—her demise and Willoughby’s seduction of her daughter—are episodes that serve as cautionary tales dramatizing the consequences that befall women who behave improperly. On the main stage of the novel this sort of acting out is contained, but the subtleties of disguise and satire, emphasized by descriptions of behavior, gesture, costume, and staging, are central to the progression of the narrative. The plot structure relies on theatrical conceits—pairs of characters, parallel story lines, staged scenes, groups of characters thrown together in awkward situations, misidentifications, and dramatic monologues.

Some of the best moments in the novel are scenes of dramatic confusion. The awkward exchange during which Mrs. Jennings expresses her belief that Elinor is engaged to Colonel Brandon; Colonel Brandon’s entrances when Marianne expects Willoughby ; and Edward’s ill-timed visit to Elinor when she is already entertaining Lucy, are moments of misrecognition that lead up to the final moment when Edward arrives at Barton Cottage to inform Elinor that he is, in fact, not married. Austen deliberately plays with the pleasures of dramatic irony and suspense, thus highlighting the importance of uncertainty—a state that Elinor finds unbearable. She would rather not entertain the notion of probabilities until they are specifically stated and explained. This preference has as much to do with her notions of proper behavior as with her attempt to protect herself from disappointment.

Austen’s exploration of the pitfalls and possibilities of theatrical expression is illustrated in her portrayal of Marianne. Marianne is a natural actress in the sense that she is demonstrative and expressive—sighing, swooning, laughing, vehemently declaring opinions. She is unable to hide her passionate feelings. She is always the primary performer in her own story. She takes center stage and commands the audience’s attention. She has no patience for characters who cannot act well or do not appear in the right costumes. She is embarrassed by Edward’s attempts to read poetry, and her initial reaction to Colonel Brandon is disgust at his propensity for wearing flannel waistcoats.

Despite her flair for the dramatic, Marianne is actually a terrible actress, because she is incapable of deception and duplicity. She is so easy to read and decipher because her emotions and moods have physiological manifestations. After Marianne sees Willoughby with his new mistress, she is inconsolable: “The restless state of Marianne’s mind not only prevented her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her wander about the house till breakfast-time, avoiding the sight of every body” (p. 147). Marianne’s feelings lead her to improper actions, such as going on a private tour of Willoughby’s home, Allenham, and writing him letters without an agreement between them. Her lack of restraint leads to devastating disappointment and a near-fatal illness.

Marianne’s theatrical tendencies and her subsequent nervous collapse have interesting historical corollaries. Acting techniques of the late eighteenth century, introduced by the actor and theater manager David Garrick and perfected by actresses such as Sarah Siddons, emphasized connections between emotions and specific expressions and gestures. Marianne’s “dreadful whiteness,” “inability to stand,” “frequent bursts of grief,” and “desperate calmness” may have been visually inspired by Austen’s trips to the theater to see actresses in popular tragic roles. A preoccupation with madness, love, and death was prevalent in many eighteenth-century novels. The plight of these heroines reflects the eighteenth-century belief that women were particularly susceptible to maladies caused by unchecked passions and violent attachments. A popular eighteenth-century diagnosis of madness focused on the state of an individual’s nerves, a condition that was diagnosed by observing the subject’s behavior. This condition of anxiety and agitation became known as “the English malady.” Marianne’s reaction to disappointment in love would have been familiar to eighteenth-century readers, but her recovery and decision to transform herself into a dutiful wife seems to be Austen’s revision of an older plot device.

Elinor is not a theatrical character. She is controlled and cool, but not naturally so; therefore she must be an excellent actress in order to contain and disguise her emotions and the exuberance of her imagination. She must tell herself to calm down, berating herself for having any expectations until she is absolutely sure that Edward loves her. In contrast to Marianne, who cannot subdue her feelings—“But to appear happy when I am so miserable—oh, who can require it?” (p. 155), Elinor must wait to be left alone so she can be “at liberty to think and be wretched” (p. 111). In this way Elinor’s world is more self-reflective and divided than Marianne’s; she must have an outward self and a private self to survive. As the audience, we can watch her on both stages and see what is at stake in each.

In its attention to dialogue, modes of expression, and the dilemma of how to communicate effectively, Sense and Sensibility examines the value of everyday language. In the world of the novel the characters who speak the most are portrayed as gossipy, boring, and sometimes devious. In fact, the novel is full of women talking, sometimes cruelly, sometimes affectionately, but mostly to fill the silent gaps in conversation left by the much less verbal men. With characteristic wit Austen writes:

Often tidbits of female news have a direct impact on Elinor or Marianne. After the debacle with Willoughby, Mrs. Palmer notes all the material particulars of his new match: “She could soon tell at what coachmaker’s the new carriage was building, by what painter Mr. Willoughby’s portrait was drawn, and at what warehouse Miss Grey’s clothes might be seen” (p. 176). Through Mrs. Palmer’s preoccupation with the material goods that signify engagements—carriages, portraits, clothes—Austen suggests Willoughby’s union with Miss Grey is not based on any real emotion or connection, but on social conventions and pressures. In addition, the gossipy voice of Mrs. Palmer provides Austen with a way of satirizing society’s desire for novelties and anecdotes at the expense of more significant or intangible concerns.

In Sense and Sensibility it is the characters with the least sense who get the most airtime and those with the most important news who are ignored. Colonel Brandon, perhaps the most substantial male character in the novel, is described by his rival Willoughby as someone “whom every body speaks well of, and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to” (p. 42). Marianne comments on the fact that women are not supposed to talk about anything of interest: “I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful:—had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared” (p. 40) .

Characters that have a grasp of the devastating possibilities of language are particularly dangerous. The second chapter of the novel is an extended dialogue between John Dashwood and his wife on the relative merits of bequeathing an allowance to his sisters. By manipulating his sentiments and cleverly managing her own agenda, Mrs. Dashwood succeeds in ensuring that the Dashwood sisters are left with next to nothing. At one point she declares, “Altogether, they will have five hundred a year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want for more than that? They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will be nothing at all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants ; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of any kind! Only conceive how comfortable they will be!” (p. 10). Mrs. Dashwood is just one of the many female characters in the novel who use the subtle art of dialogue to further their own causes.

Lucy Steele, Elinor’s rival for Edward’s affections, is perhaps the most conniving female character. Ironically, Elinor and Lucy are both highly skilled actresses. But while Lucy’s deceptions are based on her own narcissism and sense of competition, Elinor’s are based on a sense of pride and self-restraint. In Lucy’s confession to Elinor of her secret engagement to Edward, every word seems calculated to unmask Elinor, who is able only with great effort to subdue her powerful emotions. Lucy remarks, “Though you do not know him so well as me, Miss Dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him” (pp. 107-8) . Lucy’s idea that Elinor must have seen enough of Edward to ascertain his value reveals her own inability to read people and situations.

Visual cues in the novel are usually deceptive. Lucy’s proofs of her connection to Edward are objects: a miniature of Edward, a letter, and the ring that Elinor has seen on Edward’s finger. All these clues lead Elinor to surmise that Lucy is telling the truth. These props, however, are not evidence of Edward’s affections, but rather, signs of old-fashioned forms of romance rituals. Just as with Mrs. Palmer’s observations about the accessories of Willoughby’s marriage, Lucy’s visual evidence of her attachment to Edward suggests that for Austen there is something more important than the theatrical staging of romantic relationships; what appears on the surface has to be read, analyzed, and cleverly interpreted.

Using a theatrical setup, Austen stages a scene of subtle insults in which Marianne is the only character who reveals her true feelings. Screens—objects used to shield oneself from the heat and sparks of a fire—can be seen as theatrical props used for protection and disguise. The screens function as a metaphor for the layers of concealment operating in the scene. Elinor cannot reveal to Mrs. Ferrars that she is in love with Edward. She is also watching Lucy interact with Mrs. Ferrars, who is under the mistaken impression that Edward will soon be engaged to Miss Morton. John Dashwood feels guilty about not providing for his sisters and must make up for it by attempting to praise them in front of visitors. Colonel Brandon, in the midst of all this, is observing Marianne, the woman he secretly loves, who is miserable about having been jilted by Willoughby. Elinor’s opaque screens suggest that her art is in her acts of concealment. She is the best at remaining calm in this scene. In the larger scheme of the novel she remains closed to us, except for what Austen allows us to see with entry into her private thoughts. In addition, the screens highlight the fact that visual cues in Sense and Sensibility are usually misread; very few characters see anything correctly and even fewer have the intelligence or thoughtfulness required to read or interpret information.

The episodes of Sense and Sensibility are divided between the more theatrical world of London and the private, quieter space of the country. London mirrors the pressures of the external world. The potentially damaging consequences of exposure, publicity, and revelation are illustrated in the episodes that occur away from the Dashwood’s country home. Marianne’s obsession with getting in touch with Willoughby provides the narrative tension for the middle section of the novel. Her encounter with Willoughby at the ball is a terrifying scene in which what she imagines to be true—her engagement to Willoughby—is irrevocably denied by the reality of his performance: He ignores her and appears attached to another woman. Although Austen provides readers with some clues about Willoughby’s character—his reading of Hamlet, for example—we are still struck by his cruelty and Marianne’s inability to accept that she has misunderstood Willoughby’s intentions. Elinor sees that “to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect, was impossible, for Marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness” (p. 145). The anxiety inherent in misreadings becomes, for Austen, a way of emphasizing a need for new methods of interpretation that take into account both external and internal information.

On the other hand, London presents Elinor with a series of distractions. She is able to put her own feeling aside for the moment while Edward and Lucy are temporarily offstage and Marianne is fretting about Willoughby. It also seems clear that the country as it once was, epitomized by Marianne’s affection for poems about cottages and trees, as well as her soliloquy when leaving her ancestral home—“Dear, dear Norland! ... when shall I cease to regret you!” (p. 23)—is rapidly disappearing. Marianne’s constant references to eighteenth-century aesthetic tastes, picturesque landscapes, ruined cottages, and collapsed trees suggest that she views the country through a clouded nostalgic visual lens. The pressures of renovation and renewal threaten to transform the landscape. When Mrs. Dashwood speaks of changing Barton Cottage, the sentimental Willoughby remarks, “And yet this house you would spoil, Mrs. Dashwood? You would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement!” (p. 61).

Willoughby’s desire to keep things as they were is an interesting corollary to his position as an eighteenth-century figure (the libertine) in a nineteenth-century novel. Austen renovates his character by including a scene at the end of the novel in which he attempts to apologize for his behavior toward Marianne. Unlike the classic libertine, who exhibits no remorse for his horrible actions, Willoughby, when faced with the possibility of Marianne’s death, admits that he loved her all along and will suffer forever for his unfortunate choices. Even Elinor is moved by his confession, in part because it allows her to hope that Edward might always regret his choices as well. Although Willoughby cannot recover from his mistakes, Edward and Colonel Brandon, who both also have shady pasts, are able to reinvent themselves and emerge as new, improved suitors for Elinor and Marianne. While Austen critiques her characters’ passion for novelty, she also seems wary of relying too much on the customs and traditions of an antiquated world. Her attention to modes of renewal in the novel, of spaces, characters, and relationships, reflects her interest in renovating the novel form. Marianne’s final acceptance of “second attachments” points to a revised vision of what might work for nineteenth-century heroines.

Throughout Sense and Sensibility Marianne’s public and private selves are indistinguishable. Her inability to disguise her feelings is linked to her idea that everyone must see the world in the same way she does. “Like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be that are clever and good, Marianne, with excellent abilities and an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid. She expected from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on herself” (p. 164). Austen suggests that the most dangerous thing for women is to reveal themselves and to assume that they will be understood and valued. All they have of their own is an ability to safeguard a realm of privacy, a place of no access—metaphorically demonstrated by Elinor’s screens. But this lesson, like everything else in Austen’s world, threatens to break down; Elinor can’t keep up her façade of tranquillity in parts of the novel, and her constant self-policing leads to resentment, anger, and depression.

By the end of the novel Marianne learns to subdue her sensibility for her own good, and she settles in to the more boring, conventional role of dutiful wife. Austen writes: