Anne Elliot and The Conversation
Jane Austen’s ‘Persuasion’ deploys communications and miscommunications to show who gets heard in Regency England. (And, The Letter!)
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Hello friends, we’re getting through the first week of the new year so I guess we’re doing this thing called 2022.
Here we are. Hope your new year is off to a healthy, wonderful, radically-joyful start, with plenty of Jane Austen reading - and conversation - in the mix.
Which is where we come in. This is the first weekly Thursday newsletter of the Austen Connection this year, and you can see all the conversations, including podcast conversations, here - and you can also sign up to have these conversations drop in your inbox. Feel free to share this project with a book-ish friend.
Today, we’re embarking on a wintery exploration into Austen’s bleakest - but also arguably most soulful and romantic - novel: Persuasion.
This is the Austen Connection focus for the month of January - and if you have not read Persuasion, that’s OK! Keep reading and we hope to convince you it’s worth the journey. And if you are a writer, teacher, scholar or expert on Persuasion or Austen, that’s OK too! We hope you’ll find new and old ideas here to connect and engage you in this big Austen conversation that is the Austen Connection.
And this first Persuasion epistle is inspired by writer and editor Linda Bree’s essay “Belonging to the Conversation in Persuasion,” from The Talk in Jane Austen, edited by Bruce Stovel and Lynn Weinlos Gregg. It came to us via our trusty Norton Critical Edition of Persuasion, edited by Patricia Meyer Spacks.
While my day job as a public-radio producer and host is all about conversation, and my own personal Norton edition is well marked with my impressions of this novel, the idea of looking at this story through the lens of dialogue, exchange, and inclusive conversing, had not occurred to me.
But we loved the ideas in Bree’s essay so much that we wanted to dedicate an entire post to a sort of talkback - as they say in the theater - to highlight and pick up on some of the ideas.
Have you read this essay and perhaps even taught this essay by Linda Bree? If so, let us know your thoughts too!
Here we go:
Persuasion, play of mind, voice, and conversation.
Let’s start with this sentence:
“You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice, when they would be lost on others.”
When many of you read this sentence, you recognize it right away as the famous words from the famous letter - that swoony, romantic, soul-wrenching epistle that Persuasion hero Frederick Wentworth pens for our pining, sorrowful heroine Anne Elliot. And it’s the thing that finally - after a hundred pages of miscommunications, mis-hearings, and near misses - brings their hearts crashing back into each other.
But I believe this particular sentence had not stood out to me until I actually sat in a theater and heard this story on stage, in playwright Sarah Rose Kearns’s wonderful stage adaptation, performed in production in New York City last autumn by Bedlam theater (where the Austen Connection participated in a talkback after the show).
It’s partly because this letter is so gorgeous that there are other beautiful sentences that stand out and grab your heart even more grippingly. For instance: “You pierce my soul.” And another favorite: “I am half agony, half hope.”
But when you look at Persuasion through the lens of the conversation, a lot of things - including this “You sink your voice” line- stand out and new things are illuminated.
Overheard and unheard
First, you can’t talk about conversation and communication in this story without pointing out the glaring, empty lack of it.
Anne is at a loss, unheard, unseen, left out, and ignored. This is most of the novel.
“Anne felt that she did not belong to the conversation” (Norton edition, p. 162) - as Linda Bree points out, she has not belonged to the conversation for most of this novel.
She’s frequently excluded, her advice is ignored in her family’s financial and removal plans, and she and other characters consistently overhear painful conversation or have them repeated back in painful ways.
Even at the Musgrove house where she enjoys some popularity, she is literally background music: Anne’s role at this noisy house is playing the piano, her fingers flying on the keys, as the Musgroves observe condescendingly.
And meanwhile Wentworth is constantly holding forth. Most conversations he’s involved in - whether mansplaining about hazelnuts, or pontificating chivalrously about how he doesn’t want any women on his ship - involve Wentworth talking past Anne. These two people do not connect, as they once did, and this powers the loss and regret of much of the novel.
All this overhearing is Shakespearean in scale, like so much of Austen is, and calls to mind the hilarious scene in Much Ado About Nothing where Benedick and Beatrice each in turn exaggeratedly overhear their friends (pretending to) talk about them and how much they dig each other.
But as playwright Sarah Rose Kearns and I discussed in the Austen Connection podcast a while back, the overhearing in Persuasion is almost never funny - even though parts of this novel are very funny - they instead tend to be quite painful.
The misconnections and mis-hearings hurt.
The Accident
And then, the pain becomes real - during and after Louisa’s fall on the Cobb, and from this turning-point on, it’s Wentworth who gets to overhear.
And what a satisfaction it is for us as readers to finally be on the other side of the overhearing and pining: When he first observes Anne being escorted by her cousin, the hugely eligible bachelor William Elliot, and then he gets to overhear the ladies in the village describing what a catch - and also how choosy - Anne Elliot is.
Don’t say Anne doesn’t get what she wants. Like every Austen heroine, even the equally patient Fanny Price, Anne is a dish - not because of her superficial looks or manners, but because of her strength, kindness, and character, which in Jane Austen tends to win the day. And, trust us, she will have her say.
So there: The tables have turned. Wentworth is, if not exactly listening, at least being forced to overhear, and he is beginning to slow down, and see Anne.
Linda Bree points out that in the conversational trajectory of this story, as Wentworth’s voice - noisy and constantly holding forth in the first parts of the novel - recedes, and is nearly silent following the accident, Anne’s voice conversely rises, culminating in her soliloquy on women, loss and love.
Don’t say Anne doesn’t get what she wants. Like every Austen heroine, even the equally patient Fanny Price, Anne is a dish - not because of her superficial looks or manners, but because of her strength, kindness, and character, which in Jane Austen tends to win the day. And, trust us, she will have her say.
It’s the stubborn, precipitating jump by Louisa Musgrove and the accident on the Cobb in Lyme Regis - that serves as a reset that jolts these characters out of their paradigms, and opens and reopens the channels for connections and understanding.
It is at this point - during and right after the accident - that Anne is for once included and addressed directly and indirectly by Wentworth in a way that seems to be making much of it. And this was confusing to me until I read this story through the lens of communication and conversation:
First, Wentworth suggests, and not to her directly because they only at this point speak past each other, that Anne should be the one to stay with Louisa, in the wonderful remark that comes as relief to us all, when he says, “... no one so proper, so capable as Anne!” (P. 82)
At this point, about halfway through the novel, Anne starts on her way to becoming central, much like Fanny Price’s gradual ascension in Mansfield Park. And if we’re missing Anne’s centrality, Mary’s terrific tantrum highlights it for us: “Why was not she to be as useful to Anne? … No, it was too unkind!” (P. 83)
And the second time Anne is considered by Wentworth is a brief moment that seems insignificant to anyone outside the logic of this novel; yet when it happens it’s astonishing just because it’s been so notably absent in the course of the novel so far: Anne is consulted! By Wentworth! For her excellent judgment!
We know that Anne has good judgment. When it comes to the family finances, she’s the one who wants to act decisively, brutally, and prudently to cut out the extra expenses. If only anyone asked or heard her - and they don’t. With the exception of Lady Russell.
So, Wentworth’s simple question - “Do you think this a good plan?” - when it comes to his breaking the news of Louisa’s accident to the Musgroves, is a significant plot point in this story. (P. 84)
And as always in Austen, this scene is not just about what’s on the face of it - someone asking for advice, and exhibiting good manners. It’s a turnabout of what’s expected both in the novel and in the world: A Naval captain who has been in battle is asking our quiet heroine for advice about his next move.
He’s not being chivalrous, as he’s loudly attempted earlier in the novel. He’s asking because Anne is now being seen, heard, and recognized for her inner resources.
Ceaselessness and buzzing
All of this leads to a cacophonic coming together in Bath with a climactic - “operatic” as Bree puts it - soliloquy from Anne. And this is where Anne is not only heard but delivers a rousing, theatrical treatise on women, loss, loyalty, and strength.
And Wentworth is listening.
Toward the end of the novel, as the critic Marilyn Butler points out, Anne’s consciousness has begun to merge with noises, the audible - the “ceaseless buzz” of the external conversation enters her consciousness.
In fact, as we’ll discuss in an upcoming post on Time and Transcendence - the narrative here seems to come crashing into the present.
She’s “beginning to breathe very quick, and feel a hundred things in a moment,” but yet sees the necessity of speaking, and pulls herself together to say, “You were a good while at Lyme, I think?”
Whereas up until this point we are dwelling in the past, and its regret, and the consistently sad subjunctive on what could have been; now, from the accident on, we experience time folding in on itself, stretching and merging with audible evocations. There’s a “ceaseless slam” of the door as Anne’s consciousness unfolds, noises converge, time loops and crashes in on us like a wave.
As Cheryl Ann Weissman puts it in the Norton critical edition of the novel, “figure and ground resonate,” in a collapsing and returning of moments in time that anticipates, as Weissman points out, the inventive language of Proust and Joyce.
And now, as all this time, noise, and consciousness crash together - Anne speaks. She hears “a buzz of words in her ear, her mind was in confusion” (163) until the feelings, the sounds, and Anne’s anguished consciousness all come together and she rouses herself into an extraordinary speech about men and books, stories, and grief and loss.
“All the privilege I claim for my own sex … is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone.” (165)
It’s still a mashup of confusion, as Wentworth is described as distracted, focused on something, in his head. But we readers can see what is happening: Anne has won the argument; she has been heard.
The Letter! The Letter!
Then, what happens? The Letter happens.
Here we see that Wentworth has indeed, and finally, stopped to listen, and he talks back.
But still the two have not exactly come together in conversation, even though they are now hearing each other.
To continue the dueling trajectories of Anne from quiet to loud and, conversely, of Wentworth from noisy to silence, this novel of miscommunication climaxes (again) with the letter that brooks no misunderstandings or miscommunications.
It’s just what Austen is always calling for: an elegance that’s true, not pretended, showing through its clarity, simplicity, and sincerity.
Here’s The Letter of all Letters:
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.
Post-game analysis, Wentworth-style
Finally, after Wentworth’s outpouring through that letter, Wentworth and Anne come together and converse, directly and properly.
And, friends, it’s just a normal conversation!
That’s what everything leads up to in Austen’s best romances - after all of the much-ados-about-nothings, two people just get together and talk.
In Persuasion, this post-letter coming-together conversation is described in terms of “explanations” and “communication” - not usually the stuff of romance, folks! But this is Austen!
And story, for Austen, is a marriage of imagination and prudence. The imagination - with our collaboration and engagement - creates the romance; and the prudence perhaps is what provides the realist armor for life.
As it turns out, this seems also to be Austen’s approach to actual life, as she wrote to her niece, Fanny Knight, “The most astonishing part of your Character is, that with so much Imagination, so much flight of Mind, such unbounded Fancies, you should have such excellent Judgement in what you do!”
That’s what everything leads up to in Austen’s best romances - after all of the much-ados-about-nothings, two people just get together and talk.
This mixture of unbounded fancy with excellent judgment must be the recipe for great stories, and, Austen seems to hope, for navigating a happy life too.
And it’s in that wonderful post-game analysis of all the mishaps and misunderstandings - you also see it with Emma and Knightley when Knightley admits to being bossy, and Elizabeth and Darcy when Darcy describes his spoiled upbringing - that you see the prudence, the judgment. Our two characters come together to explain everything that’s been happening in their heads in the preceding 150 pages.
And it happens through conversation. Not conversation that is elegant - like that of William Elliot and all our gallant Austen decoy heroes. But through a conversation that is an actual exchange of experience, of perspective, of ideas.
It’s communication on a deep level, and it’s important to Austen.
For goodness sake, Austen seems to tell us: Soar on your flights of fancy, but tether it with prudence, judgment - and deep conversation - with the ones you love.
—-
So what do you think, friends?
Let’s talk about that letter - what is your favorite line? What is Austen telling us through that letter, and through all of these communications, and miscommunications, of this novel?
Let us know!
Coming up - we’re continuing the dive into Persuasion - the pining, the philosophizing, the regret, the romance. We’ll tackle Time and Transcendence in Persuasion; also our favorite bad-ass character Sophie Croft; and we’ll also explore Anne’s Choice - a resolution Anne quietly comes to in this novel, and one that is not much discussed. (Any ideas? Please let us know your thoughts.)
And meanwhile, please stay safe, well, and happy this new year.
Until next Thursday,
Yours very plainly and truly,
Plain Jane
Cool Links
Linda Bree’s edited edition of Persuasion
Norton Critical Edition of Persuasion, edited by Patricia Meyer Spacks
Marilyn Butler’s “Jane Austen and the War of Ideas”
Claudia Johnson’s Jane Austen: Women, Politics, and the Novel
I am new to the Austen Connection and would like to make my way through more of the past posts and conversations before I try to say too much. I realize that I've read Austen in the most superficial of ways, and perhaps not often enough! Looking forward to sinking in as the year goes forward.