Was Fanny’s Love Realistic? (Ch. 24)

Some of Austen’s critics have difficulty following her counterfactual reasoning, as when she speculates about how Henry Crawford would have got on if Fanny hadn’t formed an early attachment to Edmund.

And without attempting any farther remonstrance, she left Fanny to her fate, a fate which, had not Fanny’s heart been guarded in a way unsuspected by Miss Crawford, might have been a little harder than she deserved; for although there doubtless are such unconquerable young ladies of eighteen (or one should not read about them) as are never to be persuaded into love against their judgment by all that talent, manner, attention, and flattery can do, I have no inclination to believe Fanny one of them, or to think that with so much tenderness of disposition, and so much taste as belonged to her, she could have escaped heart-whole from the courtship (though the courtship only of a fortnight) of such a man as Crawford, in spite of there being some previous ill opinion of him to be overcome, had not her affection been engaged elsewhere. With all the security which love of another and disesteem of him could give to the peace of mind he was attacking, his continued attentions—continued, but not obtrusive, and adapting themselves more and more to the gentleness and delicacy of her character—obliged her very soon to dislike him less than formerly. She had by no means forgotten the past, and she thought as ill of him as ever; but she felt his powers: he was entertaining; and his manners were so improved, so polite, so seriously and blamelessly polite, that it was impossible not to be civil to him in return. (24.11)

We hear some more of this kind of speculation in the final chapter.

Henry Crawford, ruined by early independence and bad domestic example, indulged in the freaks of a cold-blooded vanity a little too long. Once it had, by an opening undesigned and unmerited, led him into the way of happiness. Could he have been satisfied with the conquest of one amiable woman’s affections, could he have found sufficient exultation in overcoming the reluctance, in working himself into the esteem and tenderness of Fanny Price, there would have been every probability of success and felicity for him. His affection had already done something. Her influence over him had already given him some influence over her. Would he have deserved more, there can be no doubt that more would have been obtained, especially when that marriage had taken place, which would have given him the assistance of her conscience in subduing her first inclination, and brought them very often together. Would he have persevered, and uprightly, Fanny must have been his reward, and a reward very voluntarily bestowed, within a reasonable period from Edmund’s marrying Mary. (48.19)

This kind talk is liable to get Austen into trouble with her Romantic critics but it is worth having a closer look at this, we moderns being excellent at reasoning about physical causation—the world out there—but truly rotten when it comes to reasoning about causal processes as they relate to the self, or to people in general, our romantic notions protesting at even considering such thoughts. For example here is Richard Simpson’s dismissal of Austen’s reasoning about how Henry could have made progress with Fanny, and if he had persisted we could have brought about the mythical match between Mary and Edmund and Fanny and Henry that so many have considered the proper resolution of Mansfield Park.

A story is told of a London curate, who, seeing many couples before him, told them to ‘sort themselves,’ and proceeded to marry them. Two pairs found themselves mis-sorted. The curate, not knowing much of canon law, thought the case difficult, and tried to arrange matters as they stood; and the two couples were with little difficulty, and no ill consequences, persuaded to ‘bide as they were.’ In Mansfield Park, Miss Austen tells us that this might easily have been managed. […]

Mansfield Park is another attempt to show that true love is that which is founded on esteem, not on passion, and that passion should rather be the crown of the edifice than its foundation. It exactly contradicts the romantic ideal of Romeo and Juliet. Shakespeare exhibited the grand passion kindled in the eyes and breaking forth into a conflagration which devoured all former passions, and even life itself. This is the heroic, tragic way of treating love.

— Richard Simpson, North British Review (April 1870)

This is frankly very, very silly, and sadly typical of the kinds of things that are written by our greatest and most intelligent critics. It is silly because it is so manifestly false, as even the most cursory reader must realise if they will just ask themselves some simple questions, such as did ‘esteem’ drive Fanny Price to face down and endure the censure of Sir Thomas Bertram, Lady Bertram, Edmund Bertram and William Price, precisely everyone that she respected and loved, to insist that she would never marry Henry Crawford. For sure she found Crawford’s behaviour towards her cousins repulsive, but Austen make it clear that it was her love of Edmund that was the real road block that had to be cleared, and only once it had been cleared through Edmund’s marriage to Mary could he prove to her that he had reformed himself. It is Fanny Price’s passion for Edmund that drives the novel forward and nothing in it would make sense without it. But like the Bertrams we are easily infatuated by the attractive surfaces of the Crawfords, and this attachment corrupts our judgement, as it corrupts the judgement of Sir Thomas and Edmund—we are made to repeat their mistakes in the (mis)reading. (This is the thesis of In Search of Sense and Sensibility; see especially the chapter on Emma).

Simpson, Shakespeare scholar that he is, understands Romeo and Juliet, but look at the conclusions he draws. Let us transpose this example into an scientific/engineering context and we are reading a great science fiction writer that explains how the design of a nuclear power plant could fail causing the death and destruction on a grand scale, and this critically acclaimed book makes an impressive impact. Would we conclude from this that we must therefore try to re-enact this failure in tribute to our great author? In Romeo and Juliet people start killing themselves; these are the actions of very unhappy people; this is an undesirable outcome—ergo we should try and understand what is going on and minimise the chances of a repetition.

For sure the unhappiness of Romeo and Juliet has many causes, including the misguided actions of their feuding relations, but many factors can frustrate two lovers from consummating a relationship, and it is hardly wise to encourage young people to top themselves when their relationships hit obstacles. Undoubtedly part of the problem comes from a propensity to give Romantic love a mystical, almost metaphysical, status which then gets worshipped like a heathen god, and woe betide anyone who tries to demystify this idolatry.

But this is just what Austen does. While nurturing Fanny Price’s passion throughout the action, she explains where it comes from and how it could be dissipated and replaced. For this to happen Edmund had to be taken out by Mary and Henry had to prove to Fanny that he hadn’t ‘indulged in the freaks of a cold-blooded vanity a little too long’, that his attack on Fanny wasn’t the product of ‘idleness and folly’ (24.6). To do this he had to change his habits, but the Crawford advocates have really been following Sir Thomas’s line of reasoning.

Sir Thomas was most cordially anxious for the perfection of Mr. Crawford’s character in that point. He wished him to be a model of constancy; and fancied the best means of effecting it would be by not trying him too long. (35.3)

It is difficult to change a character, even someone as young as Henry Crawford, but as Henry himself acknowledges when he finally gets Fanny to explain her objections to him, that is what he has to do.

“Well,” said Crawford, after a course of rapid questions and reluctant answers; “I am happier than I was, because I now understand more clearly your opinion of me. You think me unsteady: easily swayed by the whim of the moment, easily tempted, easily put aside. With such an opinion, no wonder that. But we shall see. It is not by protestations that I shall endeavour to convince you I am wronged; it is not by telling you that my affections are steady. My conduct shall speak for me; absence, distance, time shall speak for me. They shall prove that, as far as you can be deserved by anybody, I do deserve you. You are infinitely my superior in merit; all that I know. You have qualities which I had not before supposed to exist in such a degree in any human creature. You have some touches of the angel in you beyond what— not merely beyond what one sees, because one never sees anything like it—but beyond what one fancies might be. But still I am not frightened. It is not by equality of merit that you can be won. That is out of the question. It is he who sees and worships your merit the strongest, who loves you most devotedly, that has the best right to a return. There I build my confidence. By that right I do and will deserve you; and when once convinced that my attachment is what I declare it, I know you too well not to entertain the warmest hopes. Yes, dearest, sweetest Fanny. Nay” (seeing her draw back displeased), “forgive me. Perhaps I have as yet no right; but by what other name can I call you? Do you suppose you are ever present to my imagination under any other? No, it is ‘Fanny’ that I think of all day, and dream of all night. You have given the name such reality of sweetness, that nothing else can now be descriptive of you.” (34.41)

Even this speech, despite the progress he has been making, betrays a fair amount of self-absorption and self-indulgence on Henry’s part that wouldn’t be out of place in a William Collins. But at least William Collins made his declaration to Elizabeth while Henry starts with Sir Thomas. But unlike Darcy, Henry fails to make the reforms after he is refused and contrary to protestations to the contrary this is a realistic development, for Henry really had ‘indulged in the freaks of a cold-blooded vanity a little too long’.