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Readers of Sense
and Sensibility frequently complain at Marianne Dashwood’s
fate, marriage to the grave Colonel Brandon. Marianne “was born to
overcome an affection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no
sentiment superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to give
her hand to another!” (378) reports the narrator with a gentle mockery.
Despite the fact that conduct books of the day advised girls to marry where
they felt regard and gratitude, the devoted soldier remains an object of
disappointment for fans of the sentimental Dashwood sister. The
1995 movie adaptation of Sense and
Sensibility brought, however, a favorable reversal in opinion.
Directed by Ang Lee with an Oscar-winning screenplay by actress Emma Thompson,
the film cast Alan Rickman as the man destined to marry Marianne and revised
the Colonel’s character. Those who preferred a more emotive masculinity
approved of the changes. In a collection on film adaptations of Austen, Linda
Troost and Sayre Greenfield caption a close-up of Rickman as “exuding danger,
mystery, and barely controlled passion—a very different figure from the stolid
character Austen created.”
Alan Rickman as Colonel Brandon (publicity photo) How
could Marianne Dashwood—or moviegoers—resist? Brandon, handsome,
thoughtful, and wealthy, now shares the heroine’s musical skills as well.
Typically adaptations of literary works change details of the original texts,
yet of all avenues of transformation, associating the hero with the piano
represents one of the least appropriate for both Augustan culture and the
Austen canon. Rather than being a simple anachronism, as Robynn J. Stillwell
observes, piano-playing calls into question Brandon’s fitness as a match for
Marianne. In Austen’s novels, especially in Sense and Sensibility and Emma,
male musicians rank among the least desirable husbands, and the piano figures
as a means of deception. From the standpoint of the novel, for Colonel Brandon
to play the instrument strikes a blow to his status as a model of the wealthy
and eligible man, yet exactly the opposite is true from the perspective of the
modern movie audience, accustomed to screen romance fostered through attraction
and mutual interests. Though musicianship destabilizes masculinity in
1811, it becomes a crucial component of the Colonel’s appeal in 1995. England’s
social discourses at the turn of the nineteenth century clearly discouraged gentlemen
from dabbling in music. Playing the piano was “considered a task only fit
for ladies and professional musicians” (Burgan 59), so being musical endangered
both gender and class status, particularly, we might imagine, for Brandon, an
army officer living comfortably on £2,000 a year. Emily Auerbach explains
that throughout the eighteenth century “professional musicians had little more
social status than ordinary servants” in England (9). To break into the
field, a performer often had to complete an apprenticeship (McVeigh, Concert 184). Aside from its association with labor, musicianship held
further dangers for upper-class masculinity. As far back as Some Thoughts Concerning Education in
1693, John Locke had ranked music as the least desirable accomplishment for a
man since it squanders time (Burgan 59). John Newbery (1788) declared that
music has the power to “enervate the mind” (Auerbach 10), and even Samuel
Johnson reportedly announced at a dinner party that “no man of talent or whose
mind was capable of better things, ever would or could devote his time and
attention to so idle and frivolous a pursuit,” although he took back his remark
as “nonsense” when a young lady mentioned King David, whose youthful skills at
the harp cheered Saul during war (Boswell 503). Overall, therefore, an
English gentleman who wanted to be known for gentility and manliness would
avoid musical performance. Yet both the fashionable bourgeoisie and upper echelons in London
patronized subscription concerts in the 1790s. At the invitation of
Johann Saloman, a transplanted German violinist, Joseph Haydn premiered some of
his best-known works, including twelve new symphonies, during visits to England
in 1791-1792 and 1794-1795. Like George Handel and Johann
Christian Bach in previous decades, Haydn came to England from abroad, and
without a doubt their foreignness added to their popularity and ameliorated the
low associations of their profession. Native gentleman singers might join
one of the amateur glee clubs that started during the 1790s musical vogue
(McVeigh, Concert 8), but in private,
household concerts, “while many ladies approached a professional standard on
the keyboard very few gentlemen had the application or the inclination to
achieve anything comparable” (45). What’s more, by 1800, concerts fell
out of style as society embraced modesty and utility as preferred virtues
(68). The highest mark of class, as well as masculinity, remained the
ability to patronize rather than to perform. As for Jane Austen herself, she both performed and patronized.
She took lessons from George William Chard, who became the organist of
Winchester Cathedral, and accumulated an impressive collection of sheet music.
Her letters also indicate attendance at many concerts (some of which she even
enjoyed) and at least one experience with a male musician. In late 1815,
Dr. Charles Haden cared for Austen’s brother Henry in London and won her poetic
praise as “a sort of wonderful nondescript Creature on two
legs, something between a Man & an Angel” (2
December 1815). The physician knew the arts
well, having married the daughter of famed singer Samuel Harrison; with Charles
Knyvett, he performed a successful Vocal Concert series in 1792 (McVeigh, “Society” 148). Haden also sang, but the Austen
household could not prevail upon him to perform without a proper accompaniment.
He did offer an opinion, however, that struck Jane Austen powerfully. At
the close of her 24 November 1815 letter to sister Cassandra, she confides, “I
have been listening to dreadful Insanity.—It is Mr Haden’s firm beleif
that a person not musical is fit for
every sort of Wickedness.—I ventured to assert a little on the other side, but
wished the cause in abler hands.—” While
“the other side” could mean that one who shuns music is not wicked, that the
musical are more capable of evil, or that musical aptitude has no bearing on
morality, Austen’s portrayal of fictional male musicians leaves little room for
uncertainty. As Kathryn Libin argues, music in the novels “is not just a
pleasant domestic activity, but one that offers potential for discord,
instability, and deception in an otherwise well-ordered world” (141).
A love of performance in a young man suggests a
duplicitous character. Judging
from the textual evidence, one such character is John Willoughby, a musician
who behaves without sincerity, modesty, or respect. In Austen’s Sense and Sensibility, Willoughby,
although he does not play the piano, copies scores for Marianne: “They
read, they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable”
(48). That Willoughby has “considerable” skill signals weak character.
According to eighteenth-century conduct books, neglect of talents indicated
lack of discipline, so a man would be wrong to shun music if he had skill, yet
too much time devoted to any artistic gift rendered an individual “ridiculous”
(Fritzer 17). One need only consider Mary Bennet of Pride and Prejudice for an example of how even a woman expected to
perform at the pianoforte could go too far. Only
if a gentleman approached music “to abstract it according to principles of
Enlightenment reasoning into a science governed by rules and laws” (Lustig 89)
could he escape its feminine associations. Because Willoughby seems to
adore music more for the society of Marianne than for its intellectual charms,
his masculinity falters. Additionally, just as critics of musicianship
warn, he fails to show strong character by following up his attentive behavior
and intimate moments at the piano with a marriage proposal. Willoughby exhibits
what John Gregory, in his 1774 conduct book, condemns as male coquetry.
Such a practitioner makes it impossible for a lady to “to specify a single
expression that could be said to be directly expressive of love” (Gregory 41),
and Marianne uncannily echoes the sentiment when she tells Elinor that
Willoughby’s love “‘was every day implied, but never professedly declared’”
(186). Readers of the novel certainly may be tempted to connect the
gentleman’s lack of true gentility to his musical leanings, especially since
another male singer in the Austen canon distinguishes himself in deceit. In Emma, although Frank Churchill
ultimately honors his promises to an impoverished pianist, he too manipulates
music and the piano out of self-interest. Like Willoughby, he sings very
well, although he modestly describes himself as “‘without the smallest skill or
right of judging any body’s performance’” (201). He performs several
public duets and provokes Mr. Knightley to accuse him of showing off when he
begs Jane Fairfax to undertake a third song at the Coles’ party.
Churchill is acting selfishly—here,
however, to remain close to Jane rather than to impress the gathering with his
voice. Pianos help him deflect suspicion of their attachment. For
example, Frank helps Emma conclude that, because Mr. Dixon showed a marked
preference for Jane’s playing over that of his fiancée—something Miss Woodhouse
labels an “‘improper and dangerous distinction’” (202)—that gentleman feels a
deep passion for Miss Fairfax and has sent her an expensive pianoforte. Emma
is not alone in the belief that the instrument might reveal a young man’s
heart. Mrs. Weston confides that Mr. Knightley must be in love with Jane
because he expresses great concern for her health and compliments her piano
playing (226). Similar
to its role in Sense and Sensibility,
the piano in Emma serves as a locus
for flirtation as well as a tool for misdirection. Although often prone
to dramatic exaggeration, Emma rightly accuses Mr. Churchill of behaving “‘[m]uch,
much beyond impropriety’” (397) when she learns about the secret engagement.
Knightley (albeit out of concern for Emma) brands him an “‘[a]bominable scoundrel’” and “‘disgrace to the name
of man’” (426). Attractive and young, like many of the ladies who perform
at the pianoforte to attract husbands, both Churchill and Willoughby reveal
themselves as false and cruel to women who adore them. Their ardent
enjoyment of singing, and in the case of Frank Churchill, abuse of the piano,
reinforce their masculine shortcomings. In
contrast, the ideal man displays not musical virtuosity but rather sincerity,
respect, modesty, and duty. Above all, Austen’s novels stress that a man
ought to be active since too much leisure cripples many characters. In Sense and Sensibility, Mr. Palmer “idled
away the mornings at billiards, which ought to have been devoted to business”
(305), and Edward Ferrars characterizes his proposal to Lucy Steele as “‘a
foolish, idle inclination’” encouraged by lack of “‘some active profession’”
(362). Mr. Knightley, appropriately busy as a magistrate and farmer,
criticizes Frank Churchill in Emma,
saying, “‘He cannot want money—he cannot want leisure.
We know, on the contrary, that he has so much of both, that he is glad to get
rid of them at the idlest haunts in the kingdom’” (146). Because
music could not be a gentleman’s profession, piano playing, like billiards,
threatens conventional masculinities by encouraging leisure over important
matters of business, law, or farming. In
contrast to idlers like Frank Churchill and John Willoughby, Austen’s Colonel
Brandon embodies a model masculinity. He fulfills the requirement of a
profession, having served in East Indies for several years. More
significant, embracing what Marilyn Butler calls “Christian self-examination”
(189), he questions his every motive for the impact of his actions on others.
Before telling Elinor about Eliza and Willoughby, Brandon wonders aloud if he
should speak, and after the story he points out that he thinks only of soothing
Marianne. Most tellingly, his behavior towards his beloved follows the
conduct book pattern as laid out by John Gregory: “True love, in all its
stages, seeks concealment, and never expects success” (34). Colonel
Brandon betrays his affection only by small signs, such as at a gathering at
Barton Park when “his eyes were fixed on Marianne”
(55). He actually treats the young lady with apparent indifference,
taking the time to bid Elinor farewell before he leaves for London while “[t]o
Marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing” (66). Later, after
Marianne softens towards him and begins to speak to him following her break
with Willoughby, he still converses primarily with
Elinor. Even when he confesses his love to Mrs. Dashwood, he seems “‘too
diffident of himself to believe, that with such a difference of age and
disposition, he could ever attach her’” (338). In complete contrast to
John Willoughby, who confesses to “‘trying to engage [Marianne’s] regard,
without a thought of returning it’” (320), Brandon waits and watches while
Elinor pities his quiet suffering. In
fact, Elinor, through whose eyes readers gain most of their perspective on the
Colonel, steadfastly admires the gentleman despite his dullness. Early in
the novel, she defends him from the jests of Willoughby and Marianne by
pronouncing, “‘He has seen a great deal of the world; has been abroad; has
read, and has a thinking mind. I have found him capable of giving me much
information on various subjects, and he has always answered my inquiries with
the readiness of good-breeding and good nature’” (51). Clearly Brandon
neither sings nor indulges in effeminate, class-inappropriate piano playing. The
piano itself appears only once in relation to the novel’s Colonel. When
he hears Marianne play, he merely pays “attention” (35). The narrator
even notes how the performer appreciates Brandon’s taste: “His pleasure
in music, though it amounted not to that extatic delight which alone could
sympathize with her own, was estimable when contrasted against the horrible
insensibility of the others” (35). Far from the behavior of Willoughby
and Churchill, active participants in
any musical entertainment, the Colonel of the novel plays the appropriate
upper-class role of attentive listener,
a sign of his superior masculinity. The
novel thus emphasizes Brandon’s gravitas as it sets him forth as a model man,
but “strong and silent” is insufficient to charm a modern movie audience.
In the 1995 film adaptation of Sense and
Sensibility, measured approbation falls away in favor of a more Byronic
vision of the scene in which the Colonel hears Marianne at the pianoforte.
An enraptured Colonel Brandon, in his first appearance onscreen, watches from
the shadowed doorway, gazing at Marianne with “an expression of pained
surprise,” “melancholy, brooding eyes,” and “an unfathomable look of grief and
longing” (Thompson 71). Brandon meets—and presumably falls for—Marianne
when she plays the piano. According to the DVD commentary by Emma
Thompson and producer Lindsay Doran, an earlier version of the scene, vetoed by
the film’s male director and co-producer, even called for Colonel Brandon to
join Marianne in an impromptu duet! Even though he does not sing here,
that Brandon reacts, strongly and visibly, to the piano performance already
sets him apart from his novelistic counterpart. His emotional response
here is not as problematic, however, as the fact that in the movie, he also is
a performer. The
film sets up the Colonel’s musical talents through several small revisions to
the novel text. First, Thompson’s screenplay requires that Marianne leave
her pianoforte behind when the women move to Barton Cottage, whereas Austen
clearly states that Marianne’s instrument arrives safely from Norland (30).
Onscreen, Marianne can play the pianoforte only in the home of Sir John
Middleton. Therefore although the movie’s
Willoughby and Marianne adore wildflowers and Shakespearean sonnets, the two never
sing together since no piano is readily available. Additionally, no one
ever mentions that Willoughby has the slightest aptitude for music. The
crucial, artistic bond between the young lady and her first love vanishes, and
the private intimacy of sitting together at an instrument is replaced by much
more public and—to the film viewer, perhaps more clearly inappropriate—reckless
carriage rides through the village. After
stripping Willoughby of his musical inclinations, the film then bestows them on
Brandon, alienating him further from Austen’s preferred, moderate masculinity.
The film establishes Marianne as the sole female artist and Brandon as the only
male one, and a talented one at that. When busybody Mrs. Jennings schemes
to match her neighbors, she reveals his talent. “We have not heard you
play for us of late. . . . He plays the pianoforte very well.
. . . Come, I’ll trow you know as many melancholy tunes as Miss
Marianne. You must play us a duet! Let us see you both side by
side!” she teases, much to the embarrassment of both parties.
Marianne
and Colonel Brandon react to Mrs. Jennings’s proposal. Marianne,
who moments before has been smiling and chatting with Brandon, becomes haughty
and claims to know no duets, and the Colonel fidgets with his hat, grimaces,
and avoids all eye contact. In contrast to its use for deceit in the
novels Sense and Sensibility and Emma, in the film the piano is thus
depicted as a positive, intimate space where duets might encourage bashful
suitors. As Julian North rightly concludes, in the film version, “Brandon
has been the hero of sensibility all along, and Marianne gets her Willoughby
after all” (47-48). Another
departure from the novel further emphasizes Brandon’s ties to music. In
the Colonel’s presence, Willoughby mentions to Marianne that the soldier owns a
fine Broadwood Grand. In the early nineteenth century, Broadwood enjoyed
status as the finest manufacturer, connoting taste and high social standing
(Burgan 54). A Grand, with its six-octave range, cost 70 guineas in the
1790s, compared to just 20 for the least expensive square model (Wainwright 677),
indicating that Brandon would have to be either serious about his music or
determined to impress local society. Both scenarios clash with the picture
of a modest masculinity, but the possession appeals to the film’s feminine
subject. Marianne reacts joyfully to the brand-name: “A Broadwood
Grand? Then I shall really be able to play for you all!” She then
rides off with Willoughby, and the performance never materializes. That
Marianne, a musician, is too blind to recognize the merits of a fellow
performer neatly reinforces for the modern audience that she has chosen the
wrong suitor. Her
choice lands on Brandon at last. In the novel, Moreland Perkins argues,
the narrator glosses over Marianne’s change of heart because it cannot be shown
convincingly (193). The film fills in these blanks, first with the
Colonel reading The Faerie Queene to
the convalescent Marianne with “a soul-breathing glance” (Thompson 187).
When he closes the book and announces he must leave, she protests, “You will
not stay away long?”
Marianne
reveals her change of heart. Next,
in a grand romantic gesture, a pianoforte and sheet music arrive unexpectedly
from London. The present proves Brandon by today’s standards to be a
considerate suitor, for the accompanying letter reads, “At last I have found a
small enough instrument to fit the parlor. I shall follow in a day or two
by which time I expect you to have learnt the enclosed.” The note
suggests a long search for the perfect pianoforte and also puts the sender
himself forward as instructor and another parlor fixture. For an even
bolder touch, the enclosed tune, with lyrics from Ben Jonson’s “The Dream,”
explores the singer’s sudden realization of love and the need to confess it: Or scorn or pity on me
take, I must the true
relation make: I am undone tonight: Love, in a
subtle dream disguised, Hath both
my heart and me surprised. (1-5) The
Colonel indirectly requests that Marianne acknowledge her affection for him
when he asks her to learn the song. Far from Austen’s version of the
character, who almost never speaks to Marianne in the text, the commanding
Brandon of the film has expectations.
Marianne
begins to learn the music Colonel Brandon has sent with the pianoforte. Yet
in the novels Sense and Sensibility and
Emma, costly gifts, especially
surprises, smack of impropriety. Willoughby presents Marianne with a
horse, and Elinor, shocked, convinces her sister to refuse. When Jane
Fairfax receives her Broadwood pianoforte, Mr. Knightley objects not to the
present per se—he, like most of Highbury, believes that Colonel Campbell, Miss
Fairfax’s surrogate father, sent the instrument, and so close a connection
prompts no talk of indecency—but to the manner in which the piano arrives.
Surprises unnerve the recipient; a man of “‘better judgment’” would give
advance notice (228). The only other piano bestowed in the Austen canon
goes to Georgiana Darcy, as a gift from her brother when she comes to Pemberley
for the summer. Ideal men do not give expensive presents, especially
without warning. Brandon’s sending the instrument directly to the
Dashwood home therefore would in Austen’s world class him with the thoughtless
Willoughby and Churchill. Even
though the changes to the Colonel violate Jane Austen’s norms, they satisfy the
demands of 1990s masculinity. Typically the novels’ heroes are reserved,
rising above rivals through their mastery of feeling (Nixon 25). In the
1790s, the sentimental hero retained charm as a cherished tradition (Johnson
153), but he fell from favor over the next decade. English society came
to view the man of sensibility, with his weeping and tender feelings, as “demoralizing,
anti-Christian and childishly French” (Todd 131). By contrast, the 1990s
film audience expected a man unafraid to show his vulnerability. Susan
Jeffords, looking at changes in cinematic representations of masculinity from
the 1980s to the 1990s, writes that emotion replaced action as the hero’s
motivating force and that he sought connection rather than combat (245).
Brandon’s talent at the piano provides by modern standards a perfect connection
to Marianne: artistic, expressive, and cultured. Cheryl
Nixon claims that Austen’s “notions of masculinity are unbalanced by our
revisions of her novels” (28), and Ang Lee’s Sense and Sensibility indeed knocks askew the novel’s portrait of
manliness. Brandon’s new musical inclinations might have raised more than
one eyebrow among Jane Austen’s 1811 audience, but today those moments
involving the piano add to his appeal and help explain Marianne’s change of
heart. Perhaps the Colonel’s added charms suffice; perhaps scrupulous
readers can overlook his rumored musical skills and gift of a pianoforte, both
so improper for an Augustan gentleman and so dangerous for a character in an
Austen novel. And perhaps, just as a precaution to ensure domestic bliss,
the cinematic Marianne Brandon ought to convince her new husband that their
household needs only one (female) pianist. Works
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