A Lesson from Elinor

M ortician Victor Sweeney was recently interviewed on the Visitation Sessions podcast, a show hosted by two couples who discuss “the sacred, the profane, and everything in between.” Sweeney became a bit of an internet sensation a few years ago after he participated in a Wired video answering questions about his job. His interview on Visitation Sessions is well worth a listen (and I’m trying to get a hold of his new book, Now Departing), but one comment caught my attention and has been on my mind ever since.

Before I relate that, though, I have to tell you what’s also been on my mind: Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility. Specifically, Elinor Dashwood, the eldest daughter and the embodiment of “sense” from the title. Her character delighted and charmed me throughout the book, and since finishing it recently, I’ve been pondering why I appreciate her so much.

Which brings me back to Minnesota-based mortician Victor Sweeney.

One of the hosts asked Sweeney about his “musings on affability” and why he believes “to be affable, to be likable, [to be] friendly is an act of justice and not of love.” It was Sweeney’s response that caught my attention:

Affability is friendliness, right? It’s not kindness. Maybe it’s something more like niceness. . . . Because here’s the thing. If affability, if to be friendly was a matter of charity . . . then it would hinge on your ability to love people, I think. And in some ways, you can love people without being affable, right?

You can tell someone the hard truth. But I like the idea that it is a matter of justice because everybody deserves it, right? Not everybody deserves your love in a kind of outward-facing way. I mean, everybody deserves love and that you ought to will the good for them, right?

But I can’t love every person like I love my kids or something. But if kindness is something, if affability, rather, is based on justice, then yeah, it’s very simply just do to every person, whether you actually like them or not, whether you love them or not.

While Sweeney was talking about affability in the context of working with people on some of the saddest days of their lives, it also knocked up against my impressions of Elinor Dashwood and her treatment of others throughout Austen’s story.

While “sense” is the undergirding element of Elinor’s character, it has many facets, two of which I’d like to highlight here.

Let’s start with affability — which we could also call consideration of others. It’s easy to look at the Dashwoods’ situation and feel they’ve been very ill-used. A dreadful sister-in-law, a weak brother, squishy love interests, spiteful acquaintances, and overly exuberant neighbors are just a few of the trials they face after Mr. Dashwood’s death. Those neighbors — Sir John and Lady Middleton and Lady Middleton’s mother, Mrs. Jennings — seem especially silly, with all their oddities and jokes and incessant need for company. Sir John and Mrs. Jennings are particularly trying in some respects, and Marianne (the “sensibility” of the title and the second sister) behaves rather thoughtlessly and even rudely to them.

Elinor, however, gives them her attention and her time. Yes, they can be ridiculous or prying at times, but Elinor understands what is due to them not just as neighbors and benefactors but as human beings. She is pleasant and considerate even when she might wish to be otherwise. She listens and makes conversation. In doing so, she earns the respect of those around her and learns to see the good features in their characters.

Importantly, though, Elinor isn’t sycophantic or a shameless bootlicker like Lucy Steele (a dreadful character who latches onto Elinor to make her life miserable over their mutual love interest, Edward Ferrars), and she won’t say silly or untrue sentiments simply to get in others’ good graces. But even when she disagrees or doesn’t overflow with gushing praise, Elinor does it tactfully and gracefully.

This virtue of affability is connected to and undergirded by an even stronger one: forbearance. Elinor spends much of the book enduring various trials, from losing her home, to loving a man who can’t express love for her, to living with two passionate and often intemperate women, to being targeted by a nasty acquaintance (looking at you, Lucy Steele). Through all of these challenges and many others, Elinor remains reserved and generally calm. She holds in check her temper and her tongue, her passion and her sorrow, throughout much of the tale. While Elinor has much inner turmoil, she refrains from burdening others with it.

This patience also saves her additional pain by protecting her from some of Lucy Steele’s barbs (Lucy is secretly engaged to Ferrars, and she spends her time trying to bait Elinor into expressing distress over this), which Elinor avoids by controlling her expressions and reactions, even when Lucy wants to ruin her happiness. And for all we know, Lucy has ruined her happiness, but Elinor still forbears. She stays steady, balancing her sister and her mother and not letting idle chatter or overwrought emotion overcome her better judgment.

Some may argue that this makes Elinor a dull or one-dimensional character, especially when she’s seen next to the vivacious Marianne, who seems to feel life so intensely. Marianne’s feelings, however, are too extreme for her own good, and are not grounded in right or reasonable judgment. Led by her feelings, she falls victim, in many ways, to an unscrupulous man, and she disdains all those who would be her friends.

Constant and steady Elinor leaves us much more satisfied. It is she who holds Marianne together, comforts their mother, befriends Mrs. Jennings, and appreciates Colonel Brandon (Marianne’s worthier lover). Without her sense, and its attendant virtues of affability and forbearance, chaos would reign.

Finally, it is her forbearance which brings the whole book to such a satisfying conclusion. We have seen her through so much, have hoped with her and then mourned with her over Edward Ferrars, and are suddenly met with just the right ending — complete with a well-timed outburst of tears.

We aren’t all Jane Austen heroines, nor are many of us morticians. But Sweeney’s reflections and Elinor’s example should give us pause, prompting us to remember what is due to everyone who crosses our path.