2022 Essay Contest

Winning Entries

Topic: Sense and Sensibility

Family relations loom large in this novel, and Austen has more than one story to tell,
with four sets of siblings and notable mothers. We invited students to submit essays
about the relations between siblings or pairs of siblings, relations between mothers
and their offspring, or the characteristics (apart from sense and sensibility) embodied
by a related or unrelated pair.

1st Place
Goodness Without Beauty: Mrs. Jennings as a
Hidden Mother Figure in Sense and Sensibility
Sisterly relationships form the heart of Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility, but in a
novel about growing up, the relationships between mothers and daughters are
almost equally important. Two mother figures, Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings,
shape the character and future of Marianne, the novel’s sensibility-filled main
character. Although Marianne is Mrs. Dashwood’s daughter, for a significant portion
of the novel, it is Mrs. Jennings who serves as a mother figure to her. Their
relationship is complicated; Marianne does not recognize Mrs. Jennings as a mother
figure, and even considers her to be worthless. Through the two women’s
interactions, Austen causes readers to wonder whether Mrs. Jennings is truly the
“motherly . . . sort of woman” she is described as (113), and, if she is, whether her
parenting of Marianne is more effective than Mrs. Dashwood’s. Mrs. Jennings’s
eventual success is an uneven triumph: her guidance has helped to set Marianne
free from an excess belief in romance, but she is unable to escape the social
structures that keep others from recognizing the value of her assistance.

Mrs. Jennings treats Marianne very differently than Mrs. Dashwood does. Mrs.
Dashwood is sympathetic to a fault; Marianne’s sister Elinor laments her excess of
emotion (6) and refusal to press Marianne about her relationship with John
Willoughby (58). Mrs. Jennings, on the other hand, is not filled with romantic feeling
but with “jokes and laughter” (26). Instead of humoring Marianne, she teases her and
tries to assist her in the most prosaic way possible. She wields food and wine to
alleviate all ills (141), treatments detested by a girl who believes beauty, romance,
and goodness should always be intertwined.

Readers might expect Marianne to criticize Mrs. Jennings for her lack of appropriate
sensibility. After all, she lambasts two unromantic men, Edward Ferrars and Colonel
Brandon, for that reason. Poor Edward has “something wanting” and “no taste”
because he does not share Marianne’s passionate love of music and literature (13);
he is far too pedestrian for her. Her opinion of the Colonel is no less severe: he is
practically ancient at 35 and has the misfortune to be afflicted with “rheumatism”
(29). Marianne believes that his marriage would be a “commercial exchange” (29),
not a romantic connection. Mrs. Jennings, however, receives a different kind of
censure. Marianne homes in on her lack of sincerity, crying, “[her] kindness is not
sympathy; her good nature is not tenderness. All that she wants is gossip...” (147).
Marianne believes she has identified a fatal flaw in the older woman’s character:
because Mrs. Jennings’s personality is less polished than the young woman’s own,
she cannot truly and deeply feel.

Austen, however, subtly brings out the irony in this view. It is not Mrs. Jennings’s
heart but Marianne’s that is “hardened” during their interactions (147). Austen
reveals traits in Marianne that she disdains in the older woman. Just as Mrs.
Jennings cannot see the contradiction and impropriety in her character, Marianne
cannot see the insincerity in her own: she criticizes Mrs. Jennings unless she needs
something from her. When Mrs. Jennings offers to take Marianne and her sister to
London, for example, Marianne says she “could put up with every unpleasantness”
from her (114), indicating her desire to use Mrs. Jennings’s good nature for her own
ends—parallel to the way she claims Mrs. Jennings employs kindness to advance
gossip. Tellingly, Marianne’s criticism abates only when it serves her own interests.

Marianne’s dislike belies the similarities between the two women. Marianne and Mrs.
Jennings share a shortcoming—they are oblivious to their effect on others—but
those around them perceive the two women differently because of it. They both
commit social improprieties throughout the course of the novel. Marianne utters mild
invectives (123, 129), ignores anyone she dislikes (40), and writes letters to a man
she is not engaged to (136), while Mrs. Jennings is similarly loose with her tongue
(106), pries into others’ romantic lives (27) and shouts at friends through windows
(78). One, however, has the advantages of youth, beauty, and position to blur her
faults, while the other is old and ungenteel. Upon their first meeting with Marianne,
readers learn that she is “generous, amiable, interesting” (6). Mrs. Jennings, on the
other hand, is “merry, fat, elderly” (25) and “rather vulgar” (26). By placing these
characters in close proximity, Austen presents a parallel between the two even as
they continually misunderstand each other.
Despite the similarities in the way Marianne and Mrs. Jennings disregard propriety, it
is one of the major differences between the two that allows Mrs. Jennings to provide
effective guidance to the younger woman: the difference in their views on love.
Marianne believes that love is something lofty, and that she must find someone who
“enter[s] into all her feelings” if she is to be happy (14). Mrs. Jennings, on the other
hand, compares love to legs of mutton (144). Two worldviews about marriage could
hardly be more different. When it comes to romance, Marianne is sensitive,
emotional, secretive; Mrs. Jennings is teasing, vulgar, and garrulous. Yet her
eminently practical view of life and marriage makes her useful. It is Mrs. Jennings
who cares for Marianne when she is ill, demonstrating “real kindness” in her
resolution to stay with the sufferer (225). Mrs. Dashwood, on the other hand, only
appears after the danger has passed. This lateness is the culmination of her inability
to help throughout the rest of the novel: she refuses to press Marianne about
Willoughby, and during Marianne’s first bout of despair when he leaves, she only
deepens Marianne’s grief (61).

Mrs. Jennings, on the other hand, tries to elicit information about the engagement
between Marianne and Willoughby through her teasing. After Willoughby casts
Marianne off, she attempts to comfort Marianne in the only way she knows how, with
“sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire” (141). This focus on the physical, while
presented as faintly ridiculous, is important. Marianne’s walks in the perpetually rainy
countryside contribute to her later illness; a dose of Mrs. Jennings’s practicality could
have prevented the sickness entirely. More broadly, following Mrs. Jennings’s
example might have prevented much of Marianne’s heartbreak. Although Marianne
does not realize it at the time, Mrs. Jennings gives the advice that proves true in the
end: “[Willoughby] is not the only man in the world worth having” (140), she says,
reminding Marianne that her broken heart will not last forever. She was the first to
predict Marianne and Colonel Brandon’s marriage—and her teasing foreshadows
Marianne’s fate. She is present during all of Marianne’s trials in the novel. Although
her exterior is foolish, there is a thread of wisdom in her actions. She, not Mrs.
Dashwood, performs her parental duty.

Why, then, is Marianne unable to see Mrs. Jennings’s worth? One reason comes
from her blindness to the humor in the world. Because she believes beauty is
essentially serious, she repeatedly fails to appreciate what is funny. Early in the
novel, when she, Edward, and Elinor are looking out at the landscape, Edward
places practicality over beauty in the list of items he appreciates in a view of the
countryside (72). While Elinor recognizes this as teasing, and “only laugh[s]” at his
commentary (72), Marianne is offended by Edward’s lack of love for beauty. She is
filled with “amazement” at this flaw in his character and feels “compassion” for her
sister (72). She does not get the joke. Similarly, Mrs. Jennings has “natural hilarity”
(143). Elinor frequently laughs about her foibles, which allows her to look past Mrs.
Jennings’s outer foolishness and see her good heart. After Edward has been
disowned by his mother, Mrs. Jennings offers to let him stay with her. Elinor then
“thank[s] her for such kindness” but “smile[s] at the form of it” (196). Marianne cannot
do this; just as she takes love as all-or-nothing, first love or no love, she takes
character as all-or-nothing, fully wise or fully foolish. She cannot perform the
balancing act required to extract the wisdom from Mrs. Jennings’s advice.

Yet the results of Mrs. Jennings’s life and counsel show that there is wisdom in her
approach. Although she is not necessarily a classy, socially polished mother, she is,
by the standards of her time, an economically successful one. During the Regency
era, marriage was “almost a necessity” for women (Bailey). Additionally, for women
with no fortune such as the Dashwoods, marriage could be “a solution for financial
difficulties” (Bailey). The mark of a successful Regency mother, then, was one who
provided her daughters with economically favorable marriages. Mrs. Jennings does
so. While Austen’s acknowledgment of this fact is rather tongue-in-cheek—she
explains that Mrs. Jennings’s daughters are “respectably married” and she has
“nothing to do but marry all the rest of the world” (27)—this proclamation proves true
in the limited world of the Dashwood’s social circle: Marianne weds Colonel Brandon,
whom Mrs. Jennings was the first to pronounce “very much in love” with her (27).

Marianne’s feelings for Colonel Brandon, at least at first, do not match his regard for
her. By marrying him, Marianne does not follow the path of breathless romance that
she and her mother expect, but instead the path of tempered happiness and at least
relative contentment that characterizes Mrs. Jennings’s daughters. Although many
readers find Marianne’s marriage disappointing, this is not necessarily because it is a
bad match. Instead, it is the kind of practical connection that characterizes the
marriages of the Lady Middletons and Mrs. Palmers of Jane Austen’s world; it’s not
the marriage readers expect for a heroine, true, but it fulfills the purpose that a match
must for Regency women with few other options. As Mrs. Jennings says, “he was
rich and she was handsome” (27). For her, there is nothing more that a girl could
want.

Mrs. Jennings’s focus on the practicality and surface qualities of a marriage—wealth

and beauty—is shown in her daughters’ marriages as well as Marianne’s. The
marriages of Lady Middleton, Mrs. Palmer, and Marianne all share one
characteristic: they are defined by contrast. Lady Middleton is “a mother” (24), a
giver of life, totally contained within the domestic sphere, while Sir John, her
husband, is “a sportsman” (24), a taker of life, one who exists outside the realm of
the home. And while Mrs. Palmer is “totally unlike” her sister, she is also unlike her
husband—she is “uniformly civil and happy” (79) where he is “grave” and unwilling to
please (78). Marianne’s marriage is similarly defined. She is young and vibrant
whereas Colonel Brandon, at least in her eyes, is old and worn out. Through the
parallels between these pairs, Austen sets up Marianne’s marriage as a
conventionally good match, regardless of the feelings of the parties involved. And
her wedding adds another pair to the list of women Mrs. Jennings has seen
“respectably married” (27). By helping produce a marriage for Marianne that follows
the pattern of her daughters’ own marriages, Mrs. Jennings implicitly serves as a
mother to her.

But even though Mrs. Jennings provides the practical elements of Marianne’s
marriage, her “motherhood” does not entirely explain Marianne’s happiness with
Colonel Brandon. Marianne’s marriage is most reminiscent of Mrs. Palmer’s, a
woman who miraculously manages to be excessively “good humored and merry”
with an exceedingly grumpy husband (81). Much to Elinor’s astonishment, Mrs.
Palmer seems to be truly happy in her marriage. Marianne is similarly happy with a
man that she previously disdained. Austen, when summing up Marianne’s fate,
explains that “instead of remaining even for ever with her mother,” her “whole heart
became…devoted to her husband” (279). Metaphorically, the first statement
becomes true when Marianne leaves for London with Mrs. Jennings and lives under
her mentorship. The second statement proves true as she follows Mrs. Palmer’s path
as a wife. What Mrs. Palmer accomplished with humor, she accomplishes with deep
feeling; like Mrs. Palmer, she comes to accept an advantageous social
match—orchestrated, at least partially, by Mrs. Jennings—by throwing herself
whole-heartedly into the marriage and determining, one way or another, to be happy.
As shown by Lady Middleton—who has an insipid, quiet, merely tolerable life—the
happiness of the wife in one of Mrs. Jennings’s matches depends on her own
character. Marianne follows the path of Mrs. Palmer, not Lady Middleton, by forming
her own happiness in the economically and socially advantageous marriage that
Mrs. Jennings desires for her. It is Mrs. Jennings’s implicit motherhood that provides
a solid foundation on which to build joy and love.

In addition to her implicit motherly role in Marianne’s marriage, Mrs. Jennings

explicitly takes on the role of a mother when Marianne is ill. She tries to “supply to
[Marianne] the place of the mother she had taken her from” (225). Marianne’s illness
marks a turning point in the novel. Coming near the point of death makes her
understand, among other realizations, that she has behaved unfairly toward Mrs.
Jennings, and when the two part, Marianne takes a “particular and lengthened leave”
of the older woman, full of “respect and kind wishes” (250). This parting is
reminiscent of a parallel parting in the beginning of the book, when Marianne and
Elinor leave with Mrs. Jennings to go to London while their mother remains behind.
Then, Marianne's grief was “excessive” upon leaving her mother (115); now, her
spirit has tempered, and she can express similar sadness without overwhelming
displays of emotion.

Symbolically, Mrs. Jennings’s time as a mother figure ends when Marianne learns
the lessons she tried to impart. Just as Mrs. Jennings predicted, Marianne recovers
from her heartbreak and re-enters society. In fact, she is no longer a younger copy of
Mrs. Dashwood. Because of what she has learned from Mrs. Jennings, Marianne is
ready to cyclically return to her mother. She leaves Mrs. Jennings and returns to her
home with Mrs. Dashwood, completing the circle that opened when she left for
London. This journey allows Marianne to cast off many of her romantic tendencies.
Her future lies in her decision not to be a heroine. In the beginning of the novel, she
idolizes works by romantic authors like Cowper, who wrung every drop of romance
out of his characters’ lives (14). This is the path that Mrs. Dashwood, whom she left
behind on her journey to London, would have had her follow. Through Marianne’s
illness, when she is attended by Mrs. Jennings, her future changes; she first accepts
the role of a spinster devoted to family life—similar to the role the widowed Mrs.
Jennings plays—and then accepts a marriage that is placid, happy, and even
loving—but not bursting with romance.

Marianne’s future fits the mold of the one Mrs. Jennings, not Mrs. Dashwood, lays
out for her. Fittingly, Marianne’s happiness as Colonel Brandon’s wife is secured by
the very traits that made her scorn Mrs. Jennings in the first place: she “could never
love by halves” (279), just as she could never judge character by halves. In the end,
then, Mrs. Jennings’s surrogate motherhood has proven successful: she has seen
Marianne both rich and happy, mirroring and surpassing the lives of her own
daughters. Although it can be difficult at times to see it beneath her rough exterior,
Mrs. Jennings has shown herself to be truly “motherly.”

Yet even after all her efforts, Mrs. Jennings still fails to attain this status in Marianne’s
eyes. As Marianne leaves Mrs. Jennings to return to Mrs. Dashwood at the end of
the novel, her “particular and lengthened leave” is due to “a secret acknowledgment
of past inattention” (250), not a true regard. While the ever-perceptive Elinor, who
looks past social status to see character, has come to “really love” Mrs. Jennings
(225), Marianne still sees the widow as a product of her social status: useful, but too
vulgar to be a mentor—much less a mother. By giving Mrs. Jennings a subtle, secret
motherhood—an almost paradoxical role for one of the least subtle characters in the
book—Austen hides worth beneath a layer of roughness and ridiculousness. Mrs.
Jennings doesn’t suddenly attain a veneer of polish that makes her beloved by all.
Instead, through her hidden motherhood of Marianne, Austen highlights the
sometimes-conflicting forces of true worth and social class and allows vulgarity and
goodness to coexist.
2nd Place
The Three Mothers of Elinor Dashwood: The
Bewitching Ideals of Motherhood in Sense and
Sensibility
“After . . . all that can be said of one’s happiness depending entirely on any particular
person, it is not meant—it is not fit—it is not possible that it should be so” (Austen
201). When Elinor Dashwood tells her sister Marianne this, she speaks of the
“bewitching” romantic ideal “of a single and constant attachment” that is the culprit
behind much of the conflict of Sense and Sensibility (201). Yet Elinor’s words could
also describe an equally idealized and culpable figure in the sisters’ lives: the
mother. Much like romantic partners, mothers are charged with securing a woman’s
marital happiness—and what is more, with providing the domestic, social, and
financial guidance necessary for her growth. The limits of mothers’ social positions
and their own dispositions, however, mean that this ideal cannot—and should
not—be demanded from them. In Sense and Sensibility, Austen questions this ideal
of motherhood by presenting Elinor with not one perfect mother, but three imperfect
mother figures, each of whom represents a sphere of her development: her loving
but imprudent biological mother, Mrs. Dashwood, for the domestic sphere; her
good-natured but ill-bred guardian in London, Mrs. Jennings, for the social sphere;
and her wealthy but proud mother-in-law, Mrs. Ferrars, for the financial sphere. In
having Elinor discern between her mother figures’ guidance and flaws—allowing
each mother to grow and become an agent of Elinor’s happiness as much as Elinor
herself is—Austen proposes that happiness lies not in a single person who fulfills
such ideals, but in one’s sense and choices.

From the start, Austen presents no illusions of a perfect mother: Mrs. Dashwood
begins the novel newly widowed, with three daughters who have only a thousand
pounds each (2). Her precarious position limits her to the only sphere within her
control—the domestic—in providing her children with moral support and a loving
home. Indeed, she presents “the most loving view of motherhood” in Austen’s novels
(Benson). Her reaction when her stepson John and his wife Fanny arrive to inherit
Norland Park illustrates her parenting dynamic: she resolves to leave
immediately—with her romantic disposition, “any offence of the kind . . . was to her a
source of immovable disgust”—but “the entreaty of her eldest girl . . . and her own
tender love for all her three children determined her afterwards to stay” (Austen 3).
Mrs. Dashwood’s key flaw and strength in this role is her heightened sensibility,
which is countered by her love of family—and her eldest girl Elinor’s advice. By
making Elinor her mother’s “counsellor”—Elinor “knew how to govern [her feelings] . .
. a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn”—Austen establishes that Elinor
has as much a hand in securing her and her family’s happiness as her mother does
(3).

Despite her position, Mrs. Dashwood is still subject to the same responsibilities as
any self-respecting mother: securing suitors and stability for her daughters. The
loving sensibility that serves as a warm hearth at home, however, can be an unruly
flame outside it. Socially, Mrs. Dashwood is a welcoming host to Edward and
Willoughby, but in mingling with her neighbors, “the independence of [her] spirit
overcame the wish of society for her children” (70; 58; 31). Most notably, Mrs.
Dashwood nearly leads Marianne and Willoughby to scandal by “enter[ing] into all
their feelings with a warmth which left her no inclination for checking this excessive
display of them” (42). Financially, she “had nothing” and “never saved in her life,” but
still favors domestic happiness in judging suitors: “It was contrary to every doctrine of
her’s that difference of fortune should keep any couple asunder who were attracted
by resemblance of disposition” (1; 23; 11). Though far from being ideal, Mrs.
Dashwood is not a failure: throughout Elinor’s disappointments and Marianne’s
physical and emotional afflictions, her daughters “exert [themselves] . . . for [their]
mother’s sake” (142; 201; 240-241). Yet it is Elinor who fulfills her social and financial
obligations; from conversing with John and Fanny to reducing expenses at Barton
Cottage, she keeps her mother’s strong sense of family but lets her internal
judgment guide her conduct (4; 20). However, sense and independence alone
cannot make Elinor her own mistress; her other mother figures provide the external
guidance she needs.

The mother’s role in the social sphere is represented by Mrs. Jennings, Lady
Middleton’s “good-humored . . . and rather vulgar” mother, when she brings Elinor
and Marianne to London. While a widow as well, unlike Mrs. Dashwood, she has
“ample jointure,” two “respectably married” daughters, and thus, the mother’s
luxury—and misfortune—of having “nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the
world” (26; 28). She fulfills this role not through propriety—her “raillery” and
“impertinent remarks” mark her as “ill-bred” to nearly everyone—but through
sociability (26; 53; 87). Her conversations, connections, and above all, regard for the
sisters open up city life (and thus marriage) to them. Early on, however, Elinor
recognizes Mrs. Jennings’s limits: “[T]hough I think very well of Mrs. Jennings’s
heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or whose protection
will give us consequence” (119). While Mrs. Jennings’s gossip about Marianne’s
supposed engagement and jokes about Elinor’s attachments nearly attract scandal,
her guardianship in London is an invaluable base for major developments in the
sisters’ lives (139; 47-48). Being in London allows Marianne to confront Willoughby,
Colonel Brandon to reach out to reveal Willoughby’s past to Elinor, and Elinor to play
a role in the aftermath of Edward’s engagement reveal (134-137; 157-163; 221-223).
What elevates Mrs. Jennings from a meddler to a mother is her solicitude for the
Dashwood sisters when their relatives—from John and Fanny to Sir Middleton—are
occupied. Mrs. Jennings uses the sisters as neither passports to higher connections
nor trophies for admiration; she seeks their companionship, even if it comes off as
entertainment. Mrs. Jennings’s lack of etiquette might not have given the sisters
“pleasure” or “consequence,” but she gave them social mobility (119). In making Mrs.
Jennings’s idleness a means for her genuine care for Elinor and Marianne, Austen
suggests that one’s flaws and an intersection between the personal and the public
life is not only possible, but also necessary in molding motherhood. Yet both Mrs.
Jennings’s position and personality limit her form providing domestically and
financially. Elinor’s and Marianne’s life with her is one of outings and cards; even the
private life of her homely duties with her newborn granddaughter is publicly relayed
in “so minute a detail” (129; 191). Her fortune is “ample,” but was earned “in a low
way” and will descend to her own daughters, not the Dashwoods (28; 175-176).
Despite differing from Mrs. Dashwood, however, Mrs. Jennings still succeeds in
“supply[ing] to her the place of the mother she had taken her from” for both Elinor
and Marianne (238).

Mrs. Ferrars, Edward’s “headstrong” and “proud” mother, becomes Elinor’s

mother-in-law and undeniable—though unintentional—mother figure in the financial
sphere (113). While Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings display warmth to a fault,
Mrs. Ferrars withholds it to a fault and flaunts her wealth instead. Her wish to have
Edward “distinguished”—though “—as—[she] hardly knew what”—reveals that her
status-consciousness both guides and blinds her in securing her sons’ happiness
(11). Despite Mrs. Ferrars’s “spirited determination of disliking [Elinor]”, she
unwittingly becomes an agent of Elinor’s happiness through the very foundation of
her opposition: her wealth (179). Her controlling Edward’s inheritance delays him
from immediately marrying Lucy for fear of being cast off—allowing him to see Lucy’s
insincerity and develop a genuine attachment with Elinor instead (113; 10-11). When
his engagement to Lucy is revealed, Mrs. Ferrars’s decision to disinherit him makes
all her wealth—and thus all of Lucy’s affection—fall on Robert instead, honorably
freeing Edward of his engagement and allowing him to marry Elinor (204-206;
278-283).

As she was little more than a name that cast a formidable (yet also convenient)
shadow for the novel’s first part, Mrs. Ferrars illustrates that the image of a mother
can sometimes have more power than the mother herself. When Elinor notes that
Mrs. Ferrars’s being “so imperfectly known to her” makes Mrs. Ferrars “the general
excuse for every thing strange on the part of her son,” she reveals more than just
Edward’s financial dependence: the more capable and involved a mother becomes
in securing her children’s future, the more culpable she is in their failings—even if
they are already eligible bachelors (79). Furthermore, Mrs. Ferrars’s own wealth robs
her of sincerity within and beyond her home. Domestically, her clear favoritism for
Robert makes Edward lament that she “did not make [his] home in every respect
comfortable”; she later treats her sons as mere transactions, trading Robert and
Edward in Hon. Miss Morton’s hand and her own favor (281; 228-229; 206). Wealth
eclipses others’ view of her, and vice versa: socially, she secures respect, but
attracts a prideful reputation and self-interested companions such as “cold hearted
and rather selfish” John, who only praises her for her generosity because she gives
him money, and Lucy, who admires her “kindness” because she favors Lucy at
Elinor’s expense (113; 2; 173; 184-185). Even with the financial distinction Mrs.
Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings lack, Mrs. Ferrars is unable to be the ideal mother. Yet
by “retain[ing] the anxiety of a parent” in looking after her sons’ welfare (in her own
way), she secures Elinor’s happiness as well (228).

By placing Mrs. Dashwood, Mrs. Jennings, and Mrs. Ferrars in similar

positions—widowed mothers with children of marrying age—Austen highlights the
role that differences in money, status, and above all, disposition, have in shaping
motherhood in domestic, social, and financial spheres. The mothers who rule with
their hearts, tongues, or wealth are equally matched in the novel’s arena of
proposals and propriety. Through their children, Austen shows that all spheres can
be equally harmful when excessively focused on. Mrs. Dashwood’s two younger
daughters reflect her overly romantic sensibility: Marianne bears a “strikingly great”
resemblance to Mrs. Dashwood, and as such, her sensibility fuels her “inattention to
the forms of general civility” and expenses; even “well-disposed” Margaret has
“imbibed a good deal of Marianne’s romance, without having much of her sense” (4;
110; 70-71). Mrs. Jennings’s daughters embody the extremes of social life: Lady
Middleton is attentive to propriety and elegance to the point of “cold insipidity,” while
Charlotte is good-natured to the point of silliness (27; 83-85). Mrs. Ferrars’s children
take on her materialistic pride: Robert is a “great coxcomb,” while Fanny is
“narrow-minded and selfish” (114; 2). That each mother is culpable for their own
children’s defects but is equally invaluable to Elinor’s happiness suggests that the
key to growth lies not only with the mother’s personality, but also with the daughter’s
choices.

Just as Edward escapes his siblings’ fate by seeking happiness “in [his] own way,”
so does each mother become an agent of Elinor’s happiness only because Elinor is
the foremost guardian of her own welfare through her “strength of understanding,
and coolness of judgment” (70; 3). She cherishes Mrs. Dashwood without indulging
in her sensibility, accepts Mrs. Jennings’s guardianship without falling into her folly,
and respects Mrs. Ferrars without being intimidated by her wealth. She does not rely
on her sense alone but uses it to discern between each mother’s guidance and
flaws. By advising Mrs. Dashwood, accompanying Mrs. Jennings, and encouraging
Edward’s return to Mrs. Ferrars, Elinor guides each mother to their happy ending
without forfeiting hers (3; 122-123; 289). She is a mother figure essential to
Marianne’s happiness as well. Elinor proves that women do not need to turn to an
ideal mother or husband to overcome the reality of societal and gender norms.
Rather than condemning the mother, Austen challenges the daughter: in her novels,
she presents daughters’ journeys of emotional maturity that do not “set motherhood
itself in a negative light,” but allow these daughters to become “better mothers than
their own” (Benson).

While it seems that only a fulfillment of all three spheres could make a child
well-rounded, mothers could hardly provide such when society limited them to one or
the other. In a time when women were defined by marriage and motherhood, and
when society strictly shut women inside homes and kept men outside them, success
in all spheres was never more in demand and never more impossible. The very
warmth that makes Mrs. Dashwood homely makes her imprudent in society and
finances; the sociability that gives Mrs. Jennings her connections makes her lack
substance at home and respect outside it; and the status-consciousness that may
have led Mrs. Ferrars to secure her fortune makes her cold as a mother. Despite
being known only by their husbands’ names, these mothers still make a name for
themselves by growing past their defining traits. Mrs. Dashwood encourages
fortitude in Marianne upon learning of Willoughby’s infidelity, and “could be even
prudent” when Marianne falls ill (Austen 164; 259). Above all, she admits she “must
be answerable” for her own “imprudence” to Marianne, and realizes that she had
been “unjust, . . . almost unkind, to her Elinor” by ignoring Elinor’s silent struggles
(272; 275). Mrs. Jennings admits that if she had known the truth about Willoughby,
she “would not have joked [Marianne] about it for all [her] money,” and in caring for
Marianne when she falls ill, proves that she does not like Marianne only for supplying
gossip (150; 237-238). Mrs. Ferrars even accepts both her sons back despite their
unfavorable marriages, resisting only for fear of “being too amiable” (290). Austen’s
novels thus present motherhood beyond standards that “advocated a form of female
self-effacement”: while a mother who “exercise[s] her will for her own benefit and
pleasure” harms her child, ultimately, “mothers need will, authority, and a sense of
self to fulfill the social expectations of motherhood” (Francus). A mother’s personality
may be a double-edged sword, but motherhood itself is a two-sided endeavor
between mother and child—a dialogue of mutual growth and respect. Austen paints
an authentic—rather than a perfect—portrait of motherhood: the paint does not dry
with matrimony, and the brush for shaping the future lies in the daughter’s hands.

Much like the romantic partner, mothers are idealized in being responsible for a
woman’s happiness. Yet Elinor’s tale gives individuality to the mother and agency to
the daughter: it highlights that women’s happiness depends neither on the men who
will make them married women nor on the married women who raised them, but on
one’s learnings and choices. In presenting Elinor Dashwood with three imperfect
mother figures—one each for the domestic, social, and financial spheres of
development—and having her discern between their guidance and flaws, Austen
allows Elinor herself and all three mothers to become agents of Elinor’s happiness.
By the end, Elinor takes the best learnings from each of her mother figures: she has
the domestic warmth of Mrs. Dashwood, the sociability of Mrs. Jennings, and the
financial stability (if not the wealth) of Mrs. Ferrars. The motherhood of these three
figures is not defined by their blood, status, or wealth, but by their genuine care and
cooperation. The mothers’ external guidance and good intentions along with Elinor’s
internal discernment make both their growth and Elinor’s happiness a reality. As
Elinor herself says, the ideal of “one’s happiness depending entirely on any particular
person” is both impossible and bewitching—bewitching because it is convenient,
impossible because even the best people are flawed (Austen 201). In Sense and
Sensibility, Austen shows that perfection, be it in motherhood or marriage, may
never be possible—but with sense and sincerity, love and happiness will always be.

3rd Place
John Dashwood and Edward Ferrars: Duty,
Affection and Brotherhood
You will gain a brother, a real, affectionate brother” (19). Mrs. Dashwood’s words to
Marianne reveal her desire and belief that Edward Ferrars will become a brotherly figure in
the family. Yes, Edward would be tied to the family through marriage, yet even more so, he
would be bonded through a genuine familial affection. Although Sense and Sensibility
comprehensively explores sisterly affection through Elinor and Marianne’s relationship,
genuine brotherly affection is rare in the novel. John Dashwood, half-brother to the
Dashwood sisters, neglects his fraternal duties charged to him by his father. Although
anxious to appear a decent and respectable brother, John’s self-centered focus crowds out
genuine affection for his half-sisters—his very attempts to appear selfless center around his
own self-image. In contrast, while Edward Ferrars holds no inherent obligation to the
Dashwood sisters, his affectionate nature gains him the status of friend, lover, and brother.
Ultimately, the distinction between John Dashwood’s fickle, cold nature and Edward Ferrars’
kind, committed nature reveals the failure of duty when it lacks a foundation of affection and
virtue.

John Dashwood’s affection is shallow; his sense of brotherly duty is fickle and easily
manipulated. This superficial affection is revealed through John Dashwood’s interaction with
his wife, Fanny: Although he originally decides to give his half-sisters each one thousand
pounds, after Fanny’s manipulative prodding, John commits only to occasional “neighbourly
acts” (15) towards the sisters. This single phrase gives a telling insight into how John views
his half-sisters—although related by blood, he chooses merely to show the distant civility of
a neighbor. Further, by committing solely to “neighbourly acts” (15), John and Fanny
Dashwood in effect commit to nothing. Any future generosity is dependent on their character,
and due to John and Fanny’s self-serving ways, true kindness towards the Dashwood sisters
seems improbable.

To justify himself, John adopts a variety of reasons for why he doesn’t need to be quite so
generous: First, as Fanny argues, they must consider “the fortune of their dear little boy”
(10). Using one familial duty to combat another, Fanny appeals to their son’s wellbeing. Their
son is already far more well-off than the Dashwood daughters, yet this is irrelevant to John
and Fanny—their son’s future satisfaction must be preserved at all costs, even if it is at the
expense of the Dashwood sisters’ livelihood. Henry Dashwood is still young, however, and
for all practical purposes, the money will be at John and Fanny’s disposal. Thus, John
Dashwood uses one duty to push another under the rug. Ironically, by appealing to his duty
as father, Fanny manipulates John into neglecting the charge given by his own late father.

John Dashwood’s second rationale regards the fact that he is not a real brother to the
Dashwood sisters. Again, Fanny wields the powers of persuasion: “What brother on earth
would do half so much for his sisters, even if really his sisters! And as it is—only half blood!”
(11). Fanny asserts that John is not a real, full-blooded brother to his sisters, and thus, the
sense of duty is again weakened. Only blood ties John Dashwood to his half-sisters, and
weakly at that—he has no foundation of affection that bonds him in brotherhood.

The third justification is perhaps the most genuine; the two previous justifications are only
facades for this: John Dashwood has an intense adoration and desire for wealth. This desire
has become so consuming that John equates money with the value of a human life. When
learning that Mrs. Dashwood may live another fifteen years, John cries out with disgust,
“Fifteen years! My dear Fanny, her life cannot be worth half that purchase” (12). Although
Fanny is an expert manipulator, the sudden, emphatic nature of this statement implies that it
is unprompted by her manipulation. Human lives are an investment to John; he considers
marriages, connections, and gaining the favor of others through this business-like lens.
Someone with great fortune is automatically a valuable investment. Someone with little
fortune is worthless unless they are lucky enough to marry another of great fortune. Fanny’s
manipulation in other realms succeeds because her husband’s heart, saturated by a love of
wealth, can offer no resistance.

In many ways, Fanny is the true force behind the couple’s actions; John is simply fickle
enough to go along with her. Fanny states, “Your father thought only of them. And I must say
this: that you owe no particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes, for we very well
know that if he could, he would have left almost every thing in the world to them” (14). Fanny
paints themselves as the victims, discrediting Mr. Dashwood and thereby lessening John’s
sense of duty towards him. With subtle manipulation, she transforms Mr. Dashwood’s parting
words from a fair charge to a blatant case of nepotism. As literary critic Pam Morris writes, “ .
. . [Fanny’s] language emphatically opposes ‘our’ and ‘own’ to ‘theirs’ and ‘them’ as the
discursive structure of competitive, acquisitive individualism” (36). This tribalistic perspective
carves away any sense of duty felt by John Dashwood: The Dashwood sisters are painted
as a threat to his own self-interest.

In contrast to Fanny’s manipulation, John’s fickleness seems like a forgivable fault. Yet
Austen’s own attitudes towards her brothers indicate a different perspective. Jane Austen
herself had six brothers, who all “set a high value on candour” (Honan). As biographer Park
Honan writes, James and Henry Austen’s personal motto was “SPEAK OF US AS WE ARE.”
Austen’s admiration for her brothers was fueled by this direct and candid manner. In the
character of John Dashwood, we see the exact opposite of everything that Austen admired
in her own brothers. He is easily manipulated and lacks fervent affection, traits which
couldn’t be further from the Austen brothers’ protective and steadfast natures. When John
converses with his half-sisters, his tone is often stilted and formal, not warm and authentic.
When meeting Elinor in Mr. Gray’s shop, “their affection and pleasure in meeting, was just
enough to make a very creditable appearance” (209). This emphasis on appearance reveals
that John is aware of social conventions, and thus sprinkles faux affection on his interaction
with Elinor. Yet this affection has no deeper foundation; it is a convention followed out of
civility. Despite John’s lack of true brotherly affection, he diligently tries to make himself look
like a “good” brother to Elinor. When discussing the Jennings family, he repeatedly
emphasizes their “large fortune” (210) and their connection with Elinor and Marianne, as if to
justify his own financial choices. John concludes, “And so you are most comfortably settled
in your little cottage and want for nothing!” (210). His incessant mentions of wealth may hint
at deeper mixed feelings that John harbors—he seems to be attempting to convince himself
just as much as convincing Elinor.

Moving past these updates and formalities, John makes his true curiosities known: “Who is
Colonel Brandon? Is he a man of fortune?” (211). Again, the immediate question about
fortune reveals where John’s own desires lie. He prematurely congratulates Elinor on
gaining fortune through Brandon, and wishes the fortune were “twice as much” for Elinor’s
sake (211). This statement appears to be one of financial generosity and indulgence, yet it
contradicts John’s actual willingness to offer financial help. His words don’t match his
actions—rather, these words are a way for John to shallowly assert his generosity. Further,
John’s congratulations center around wealth, not character. On the other hand, he quickly
judges Marianne’s fate: “I question whether Marianne now, will marry a man worth more than
five or six hundred a year” (215). His sorrow lies not in the sickness and suffering of
Marianne, but rather in the destruction of her appearance and attractive qualities. If
Marianne lacks beauty, she lacks marriageability. If she lacks marriageability, she lacks the
potential to make a fortune. John Dashwood’s world revolves around wealth, and he sees
the worlds of everyone else through this light.

Edward Ferrars, on the other hand, is an enigma when it comes to appearances. Does he
act as a brother? A lover? A villain, hidden beneath layers of awkwardness? At times, his
shy nature makes him near impossible for the Dashwood sisters to read. As Marianne
observes to her mother after Edward’s departure from Norland, “In Edward’s farewell there
was no distinction between Elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an affectionate brother
to both” (41). It could be argued that Marianne’s observational skills are tinted by her ideal of
a romantic and passionate knight in shining armor, yet even Elinor struggles to fully read
Edward’s personality. She reflects that “the longer they were together the more doubtful
seemed the nature of his regard and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to
be no more than friendship” (24). If John Dashwood’s affections are shallow, Edward’s are
hidden behind layers of personal turmoil and shyness. Yet Edward constantly shows a
common decency that John Dashwood lacks: Even when the Dashwood sisters doubt his
romantic feelings, they assume the alternative is a friendly or brotherly love felt by Edward.
Although Edward takes time to warm up, “his behaviour gave every indication of an open
affectionate heart” (17). Compared to John Dashwood’s cold, shallow affection, Edward
Ferrars’ attitude is warm and pleasant. Edward does strive to stay somewhat detached from
Elinor, conflicted over his pre-established engagement. In this way, he is notably different
from Willoughby, who is charming but deceptive—Edward’s commitment to honorable
behavior aligns with what Austen valued in her own brothers. Much of Edward’s personal
conflict arises from his desire for openness; he is pained over his oath to secrecy. Unlike
John, who creates false pretenses to justify himself, Edward longs for honesty.

Edward is secretive out of duty, not purposeful deception: He is under a vow of secrecy to
Lucy Steele, and thus views it as his duty to keep the engagement concealed. When the
engagement comes to light, Edward is willing to go through with it and be married, even if it
means the death of his future happiness. Both Edward Ferrars and John Dashwood hold a
duty towards relations other than the Dashwood sisters. Edward honors his commitment to
Lucy; John honors a commitment (although an exaggerated one) to his wife and son. The
difference, however, is that John Dashwood uses one commitment as a justification to ignore
a more unpleasant commitment. Edward, when faced with an unpleasant commitment,
chooses to uphold it. John Dashwood’s love of money and lack of affection create a sinking
sand foundation; his sense of duty cannot hold firm. Even though Edward feels no affection
towards Lucy Steele, his modesty and virtue enable him to carry through with this
commitment. Edward is willing to sacrifice his own self-interest for an established duty,
although he is released from this fate in the end.

For all of John Dashwood’s faults, he is fairly readable—amongst a cast of secretive

characters, he is one of the few who truly has little to hide. His faults are clear: We are
shown John Dashwood’s adoration of wealth, desire to please the wealthy, easily
manipulated nature, and weak affection for his half-sisters. He is not as cunning or crafty as
Willoughby; he isn’t a deceptive manipulator like Fanny. Yet arguably, John’s weak-spirited
character holds a deeper flaw. John Dashwood is open because he sees no reason to hide
his faults: They are not faults in his mind. His regard for wealth seems to be the most natural
feeling in the world to himself, not to mention to the people that surround John Dashwood,
such as Fanny and Mrs. Ferrars. He feels no stricken conscience, no remorse. In this way,
John Dashwood’s nature reveals almost a worse state than concealment: At least
Willoughby feels the remorse to apologize, though his apology is tainted by self-interest.
John Dashwood sees no need for an apology. His lack of affection has made him cold to the
trials of his own half-sisters. Perhaps he feels a hint of repressed guilt, but if so, he pushes
these feelings away by playing the victim.

Circumstantially, Edward Ferrars and John Dashwood are not all that different—both are
engaged to manipulative, conniving women at a young age. Edward, however, chooses
moral constancy over the whims of social standing. He refuses to ignore his past
commitments, even if it means a life of poverty and unhappiness. On the other hand, John
succumbs to the wishes of his wife, suppressing his conscience and fraternal duties. Both
Edward and John have mixed feelings about their conflicting duties and desires, yet Edward
chooses steadfast virtue while John chooses moral fickleness. Yes, Edward Ferrars may be
a lover to Elinor; but even more so, he provides the Dashwood family with what it previously
lacked: “a real, affectionate brother” (19).