Sense & Sensibility, chapter 44: Will O' The Wasp

So here we go. This chapter is—for better and worse—all about Willoughby. His side. His story. His struggle. (My gag reflex.)

But since he lays so much on Elinor, it can be hard to keep track of what’s true and what he believes to be true. So, I’m going to pull out my trusty spork and pull apart his arguments. We begin with Willoughby’s demand to know whether MA is going to be okay and once Elinor gives him some vague reassurance, he blushes and asks her,  “[D]o you think me most a knave or a fool?”

I got some other words to suggest if you want other options, Will.

Willoughby’s appearance isn’t the result of a Combe Magna bender; he ran into Sir John and heard about MA’s severe illness, for which he expressed so much grief that Sir John forgave him on the spot. But he hopes to earn MA’s forgiveness (even after hearing that he already has it) by offering “more reasonable grounds” on which she can base her forgiveness. “I mean [...] if I can, to make you hate me one degree less than you do now,” he adds to Elinor. And thus we begin.

Your sister’s lovely person and interesting manners could not but please me; and her behavior to me [...] when I reflect on what it was, and what she was, that my heart should have been so insensible! But at first, I must confess, my vanity only was elevated by it. Careless of her happiness, thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which I had always been too much in the habit of indulging, I endeavored, by every means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design of returning her affection.

So far, not great. Willoughby admits that he egged on MA’s affection because it made him feel good. Already living that playboy life. 

My fortune was never large, and I had always been expensive, always in the habit of associating with people of better income than myself. [...] To attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not a thing to be thought of[. …] I allowed myself most improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my circumstances were so greatly embarrassed. 

Hm … interesting how he goes on about his financial distress, both real and imagined, but he doesn’t mention how MA also would be poor if they got married. He asserts that their “comparative poverty” would have been easy to survive on the strength of their love, a hypothesis that he never gets a chance to test out.

I did not know the extent of the injury I meditated, because I did not then know what it was to love. But have I ever known it? 

He doesn’t answer this question, but he does reassure Elinor that his “intentions were strictly honorable,” knocking down a significant anxiety MA has been carrying for awhile. And it proves her instincts correct.

The event has proved, that I was a cunning fool,

No argument here.

[…] At last, however, my resolution was taken, and I had determined, as soon as I could engage her alone, to justify the attentions I had so invariably paid her, and openly assure her of an affection which I had already taken such pains to display. 

Clearly acting honorably here. He’s well-aware of how his “attentions” make him appear to be courting her and he’s fully intending to do the right thing.

But in the interim—in the interim of the very few hours that were to pass, before I could have an opportunity of speaking with her in private—a circumstance occurred—an unlucky circumstance, 

You mean, sleeping with Eliza the Younger? 

to ruin all my resolution, and with it all my comfort. A discovery took place [...] 

Oh, wait. You mean, someone finding out that you slept with Eliza the Younger. 

Mrs. Smith had somehow or other been informed, I imagine by some distant relation, whose interest it was to deprive me of her favor, of an affair, a connection—but I need not explain myself farther [...] your particular intimacy—you have probably heard the whole story long ago.

Ohhhh … you mean, someone with an “interest” in Mrs. Smith’s fortune ratted you out to her. 

Elinor doubts that Willoughby “will [be able to] explain away any part of [his] guilt in that dreadful business,” so of course he tries anyway. 

Remember [...] from whom you received the account. Could it be an impartial one? 

Yeah, it’s Col. Brandon’s fault for telling her … um … exactly what happened (and admitting his culpability in the situation). How impartial is Willoughby right now?

I acknowledge that her situation and her character ought to have been respected by me. I do not mean to justify myself, 

He sort of does, though? He spends an awful lot of time imagining this supposed conspiracy against his happiness.

but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that I have nothing to urge—that because she was injured she was irreproachable; and because I was a libertine, she must be a saint. If the violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding—I do not mean, however, to defend myself. 

No, we get it. Eliza was so dumb, horny, and flirtatious that it would almost have been impossible not to sleep with her. I know a lackadaisical soldier who’d agree.

Her affection for me deserved better treatment, and I often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return. 

Wait …you caught feelings for her at one point? And yet you talk about her like she’s dirt?

I wish—I heartily wish it had never been. But I have injured more than herself; and I have injured one, whose affection for me (may I say it?) was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind—Oh! how infinitely superior!

I’m sure MA would be flattered by that comparison, Wills.

Elinor calls him out on his “cruel neglect” and the general whataboutism of his argument against Eliza. “You must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in Devonshire … she was reduced to the extremest indigence,” she accuses.

“But, upon my soul, I did not know it[. …] I did not recollect that I had omitted to give her my direction; and common-sense might have told her how to find it out.

What the actual fork does he think he’s saying? Because it sounds like he doesn’t want to admit that he ghosted her. And even if he had given Eliza a proper forwarding address, he’s done little to suggest that he’d actually help her out, let alone acknowledge her.

[Mrs. Smith] taxed me with the offense, at once, and my confusion may be guessed. The purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her ignorance of the world—everything was against me. The matter itself I could not deny, and vain was every endeavor to soften it. 

Now we’re blaming someone else: Mrs. Smith, who’s naïve enough to think that Willoughby’s sexual habits have gotten a touch out of control.

She was previously disposed, I believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in general, 

So if she is “[ignorant] of the world,” how is she keeping tabs on your “conduct”? Various scheming family members in line for the inheritance?

and was moreover discontented with the very little attention, the very little portion of my time that I had bestowed on her, in my present visit. In short, it ended in a total breach. By one measure I might have saved myself. In the height of her morality, good woman! she offered to forgive the past if I would marry Eliza. That could not be—and I was formally dismissed from her favor and her house. 

I can see how Mrs. Smith might remind us of another wealthy, female authority figure, but the difference here is that she encourages Willoughby to do right by Eliza. 

The night following this affair—I was to go the next morning—was spent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be. The struggle was great—but it ended too soon. My affection for Marianne, my thorough conviction of her attachment to me—it was all insufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of those false ideas of the necessity of riches, which I was naturally inclined to feel, and expensive society had increased. I had reason to believe myself secure of my present wife, if I chose to address her, and I persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence remained for me to do. 

Here, he presents two reasons why he broke up with MA. There’s the “dread of poverty” (now a guarantee as he’s been disinherited) which would lead to a lack of “riches” and “expensive society.” And then there’s the intriguing detail that he actually knew Miss Grey before he met the Dashwoods and had courted her long enough to assume that he could just pick up from where he’d left off. And he was actually correct.

Now we start to piece together the circumstances that led to my well-documented breakdown. Willoughby “debate[d]” whether to meet MA in person or write her a break-up letter, but assumed that he’d have the fortitude (“magnanimity”) to leave her without showing regret. As we know, this backfired on him. Elinor asks why he bothered showing up in person.

It was necessary to my own pride. 

At least he owns it?

… The sight of your dear sister, however, was really dreadful; and to heighten the matter, I found her alone. You were all gone, I do not know where. I had left her only the evening before, so fully, so firmly resolved within myself on doing right! A few hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and I remember how happy, how gay were my spirits, as I walked from the cottage to Allenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with everybody! 

He’s really fixated on the idea that if only Mrs. Smith hadn’t heard about his indiscretion until half a day later, he would now be engaged/married to MA and still have his inheritance. 

… Her sorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when I told her, that I was obliged to leave Devonshire so immediately—I never shall forget it; united, too, with such reliance, such confidence in me! Oh, God! what an hard-hearted rascal I was!

MA’s reaction really messed with him, which is honestly quite human. So what type of promise did he give that MA based her entire future around?

I do not know what I told her[. ...] less than was due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more than was justified by the future. I cannot think of it—it won’t do. 

… You asshole.

Then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her kindness and confidence. Thank Heaven! it did torture me. I was miserable. Miss Dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it gives me to look back on my own misery. 

So … his past “misery” somehow gives him “comfort”? I don’t mean to say that this is a moral failing, but it’s a pretty pretentious way to admit one’s guilt.

I owe such a grudge to myself for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past sufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now. 

Call yourself names all you want, Wills. It doesn’t change what you are.

When the first [letter] of hers reached me, (as it immediately did, for I was in town the whole time), what I felt is—in the common phrase, not to be expressed; in a more simple one—perhaps too simple to raise any emotion—my feelings were very, very painful.

Willoughby isn’t trying to condescend to Elinor here, but attempting to keep his emotions under control. Thus, he doesn’t want to “raise any emotion” in either of them, lest they get overwhelmed and the butler throws him out. He mocks himself for using “hackneyed” language to describe his feelings, and recalls MA’s “reproof” for such clichés. Elinor kinda warms up to him, but checks herself and him.

Marianne’s note, by assuring me that I was still as dear to her as in former days—that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been separated, she was as constant in her own feelings and as full of faith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse. I say awakened, because time and London, business and dissipation had in some measure quieted it, and I had been growing a fine hardened villain, 

Okay, buddy, we get it. You’re the best bad guy around.

fancying myself indifferent to her, and choosing to fancy that she too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of our past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my shoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach, overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, “I shall be heartily glad to hear she is well married.” But this note made me know myself better. 

Well well well. A note from his fervent admirer awakens his inner soul and leads him down a potential path to self-discovery? Where have I read that before?

I felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than any other woman in the world, and that I was using her infamously. But everything was then just settled between Miss Grey and me. To retreat was impossible. All that I had to do, was to avoid you both. […] ]B]ut at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a cool, common acquaintance than anything else, I watched you all safely out of the house one morning, and left my name.

Not paranoid!

[…] You would be surprised to hear how often I watched you, how often I was on the point of falling in with you. I have entered many a shop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by. 

Just imagine Willoughby diving into a haberdasher’s shop, holding his hat on his head to keep it from flying off. Every time MA was scoping the street for any sign of him.

He manages to avoid their mutual acquaintance, but is unable to bear the “affectionate, open, artless” language in MA’s stream of letters. 

[...] If you can pity me, Miss Dashwood, pity my situation as it was then. With my head and heart full of your sister, I was forced to play the happy lover to another woman!

… Nah. I’m good.

Then comes the meeting at the ball, where “Marianne, beautiful as an angel, on one side, [was] calling me Willoughby in such a tone!” He just barely holds in his contempt for his wife (all women really suffer in comparison to MA, in his mind).

… I had seen Marianne’s sweet face as white as death. That was the last, last look I ever had of her—the last manner in which she appeared to me. It was a horrid sight! Yet when I thought of her today as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to imagine that I knew exactly how she would appear to those who saw her last in this world. She was before me, constantly before me, as I travelled, in the same look and hue.

Yikes. Again, odd bit about finding “comfort” in some kind of tragedy. Is it just me, or does Willoughby’s imagination goes to some dark places?

Elinor, unencumbered, urges him to explain the letter MA received from him after the ball.

… I was breakfasting at the Ellisons’; and her letter, with some others, was brought to me there from my lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia’s eye before it caught mine; and its size, the elegance of the paper, the hand-writing, altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion. Some vague report had reached her before of my attachment to some young lady in Devonshire, and what had passed within her observation the preceding evening had marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous than ever. 

Interesting that Sophia Grey heard a rumor about Willoughby’s relationship with MA. Both this and how Mrs. Smith heard about Eliza the Younger* goes unexplained. Perhaps it’s just another indication of how small the world of the English gentry at the time truly was?

Affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in a woman one loves, 

Uh, no. You don’t get to use sarcasm in your anguished confession of tragic love, Wills.

she opened the letter directly, and read its contents. She was well paid for her impudence. She read what made her wretched. Her wretchedness I could have borne, but her passion—her malice—at all events it must be appeased. And in short, what do you think of my wife’s style of letter-writing? —delicate, tender, truly feminine—was it not?

Yet another reveal! Now we have confirmation that Willoughby didn’t draft the letter he sent to MA, but merely copied it. At first I toyed with the idea that this is an outright lie, but then I came across Shapard’s footnote: “[Willoughby’s] bad actions frequently result more from weakness and an inclination to follow the path of least resistance than from actual villainy or malice.” Checks out for me!

[…] In honest words, her money was necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, anything was to be done to prevent a rupture. 

It was either a) break off the engagement, which was in Sophia Grey’s power, or b) meekly copy Miss Grey’s words to make himself look like “a scoundrel.” Willoughby picks “b” and ends up returning the “last relics of Marianne” (previous letters and that all-too-important lock of hair), which I guess he’d been planning on keeping forever?

Elinor scolds him for the inappropriate (bitter) way he refers to Mrs. Willoughby: “To treat her with unkindness … is no atonement to Marianne, nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience.” Yeah! Take him down, El! But he doesn’t care, since Sophia Grey committed the great sin of not being Marianne Dashwood. As has every other woman he has ever encountered ...

And now do you pity me, Miss Dashwood? or have I said all this to no purpose? Am I … less guilty in your opinion than I was before? My intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained away any part of my guilt?

See, Willoughby is sorry, you guys. He is, in fact, the sorriest excuse for a man so very sorry.

Elinor admits that he has “proved” to be “much less wicked,” but reflecting on “the misery that you have inflicted” leaves her unable to really forgive him. He asks (at least it’s not a demand) that she tell MA his story.

Let me be able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified forgiveness. Tell her of my misery and my penitence, tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever.

Willoughby is asking for a more nuanced response from MA because he believes his own feelings are nuanced and important. Elinor tells him that she’ll tell MA only what she thinks MA should know. He knows, in short, that the optics look bad for him:

What I felt on hearing that your sister was dying—and dying, too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in her latest moments— [...] One person I was sure would represent me as capable of anything. What I felt was dreadful!

If you’ll recall, “one person” in fact “represent[ed]” Willoughby as “capable” of sincere change in conduct under MA’s influence. 

During a pause, Elinor reflects “on the irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind” of a man with the capacity to love. His “extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish,” and unfortunately MA’s love for him (and his for her) couldn’t overcome that. All his remaining goodness can do is force him to reflect on MA’s “misery” over and over.

… as well ass his own. Because Willoughby just has to put in one last parting shot at Col. Brandon, who he sees as the man most likely to marry MA (“the very he whom, of all others, I could least bear”). All of this PROVES that Willoughby was all too aware of the colonel’s feelings, and I get to be right about this, damn it!

Whew. Okay, folks … join me next time for some quality mother-daughter time and a rehash of all of whatever this was.

*I know there’s a theory that it was Col. Brandon. I reject this theory.