I recently decided to read through Jane Austen’s five major novels: Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, Emma, and Persuasion.1 In large part, reading old books is simply something I enjoy. Such reading is an eminently Epicurean hobby, since it is practically free and doesn’t generally do you any harm. In my case, it also gave me a good opportunity for rich family time, since my wife and I both read the books, talked about them, then watched various film adaptations and talked some more. But as I read through these novels, I couldn’t help noticing how particularly Epicurean the Austenian virtues seemed to be.
I haven’t read much Austen criticism, but I get a general impression that this is sometimes a theme of complaint: the characters have highly domestic preoccupations, concerning themselves with practical questions of financial prudence, managing their various social relationships, and above all getting married. Austen’s protagonists are not very concerned with big political questions, historically important events, or even particularly dramatic personal events (there are some peripheral elopements and adultery and so on, but it is never the sensible heroines themselves getting mixed up in such scandals). Much of our culture, in contrast, celebrates what appears sensational and important—the noble cause, the passionate feeling—at the expense of prudence and other virtues of stability that are the normal constituents of a happy life.
As with my recent piece on Ralph Waldo Emerson as an Epicurean ally, I think it is hugely valuable to recognize the degree to which the Epicurean insistence on individual tranquility and practical decision-making—while being routinely undervalued by philosophers—was integral to the basic background fabric of accepted wisdom until quite recently. The denigration of prudence, along with the advocacy of emotional instability on behalf of self-important aspirations, political causes, or valorized angst, begins to feel like a strange quirk of modernity when you immerse yourself in the world of Austen’s wiser women.
In this essay, I’ll share my brief reflections on each of these five novels, with two overarching aims. First, to encourage you to read these books, if you’d like to get a taste of extremely well-written characters who embody a largely Epicurean perspective on the good life. Second, to come at the Epicurean virtues from a different angle, one that might persuade Austen sympathizers to recognize what they actually value—these have long been traditional virtues, and while some of them have been de-emphasized in our modern world, Austen had greater insight and granted them appropriate centrality. If you admire her wisdom, then I suggest that Epicureanism might be the philosophical school for you.
Sense and Sensibility
The title of this book refers to two sisters, Elinor and Marianne. Elinor exemplifies “sense”: she is frequently singled out as the most financially prudent of her family, she always controls her emotions, and she behaves generally in a mature, practical, reliable way. Marianne exemplifies “sensibility,” which means something like “sensitivity to emotions”—she is passionate about music, literature, nature, and romance. She has very strong opinions, which lead her to a great deal of grief and their eventual recantation, before ending up realizing that Elinor’s path is wiser.
The title, then, could be rendered in explicitly Epicurean terms: Phronesis and Kenai Doxai, or Prudence and Empty Opinions. I find this extremely refreshing. In so many stories, the dramatic, passionate characters take center stage, no matter how foolish, unwise, unreasonable, or self-destructive their passions may be, while the level-headed, practical people are relegated to minor supporting roles. Here, Elinor is clearly Austen’s preferred model of a good person, a preference which is then reflected in all the other characters. People who are financially extravagant, excessively occupied by social appearances, excessively prone to romantic enthusiasm, excessively prone to anger, or unfaithful to their friends and family are not admirable. People who can live on a modest income, don’t care about social pretensions, have slow and steady feelings, are slow to anger and quick to forgive, and who are loyal and trustworthy are.
Pride and Prejudice
In Austen’s second published novel, she again landed on a two-trait alliterative title. Here, though, we are not given a simple contrast of a wise and a less wise characteristic, but two different flaws, both of which will be alleviated by the book’s end. Pride is the fault of Mr. Darcy, who overvalues social position and propriety. Prejudice is the fault of Lizzie Bennett, who judges people too quickly and harshly based on insufficient information. Both of those faults certainly fall within the realm of Epicurean criticism, though they are not particularly unique to the philosophy.
This book gives a good opportunity—since this is probably the most well-known of the stories through the various film adaptations2—to note the most obvious preoccupation of the typical Austen heroine: securing a good marriage. For them, this absolutely requires personal affection, but it also requires a significant degree of social appropriateness—good partners belong to a similar class and educational level, are financially stable, and should generally earn your family’s approval (unless your family are terrible empty-headed snobs). It does not require extreme, immediate passion. In fact, that is often a warning sign. In Pride and Prejudice, Lizzie’s younger sister Lydia is misled by such passion into a very unsatisfactory match. In Sense and Sensibility, multiple characters (Marianne and Edward) are temporarily misled by such passions. In contrast, the wiser heroines do not fall in love quickly and impulsively, but instead develop their attachments gradually, as their knowledge of the value and worthiness of their prospective partners become clear. They do not rush into relationships, but once they commit to one through a formal process of engagement and marriage, their bond is inviolable. This seems quite compatible with Epicurean romantic preferences. Consuetudo concinnat amorem, says Lucretius—habit produces love worth having, while overwhelming passion results in frustration and illusion.
As with the other novels, the generally ambient virtues are highly Epicurean: safety and stability, faith and trustworthiness, family and friends, honesty and wisdom. Imprudence is bad, dramatic passions are bad, frivolous pleasure-seeking is bad, snobbery based on birth and wealth is bad, and the ornaments of an elite education are highly overrated. Not enough of our stories these days have these kinds of ethical priors!
Mansfield Park
The heroine of Mansfield Park, Fanny Price, is famously passive and so not very much to contemporary tastes. Austen is not blind to her heroine’s limitations (perfect heroines would be boring), but clearly prefers her over the various rich, spoiled, underoccupied young people who surround her. Many of Austen’s character preferences can easily be rendered through an Epicurean lens:
Fanny is not too rich (which spoils a person), but is not improvident like her very imprudent family (who cause themselves daily discomfort and unpleasantness). That’s the Epicurean sweet spot too.
Fanny is meek and self-deprecating, but this is better than being vain and performative. Epicurus always teaches the futility of seeking popularity.
Fanny has a strong sense of propriety, which is much preferable to the dismissiveness of societal rules exhibited by the other young people. Sometimes that has small consequences (angry father stops their amateur theatricals), sometimes it has big ones (adultery leads to loss of all resources and social standing). Fanny and Epicurus think it is very important to avoid incurring social animosity.
Fanny’s preferred pastimes are reading for pleasure, spending time in nature, and helping people. The other young women pride themselves on their accomplishments in music, art, and learning. Epicurus criticizes the traditional education (paideia), thinking it produces mostly vanity.
Fanny’s romantic preferences develop slowly, based primarily on admirability and compatibility of character. Other characters follow momentary passions (which lead to bad outcomes, as warned against in Lucretius) or chase wealth (also bad, according to all Epicureans).
I think Jane Austen is correct in all of these preferences. The novelist’s myriad fans should know that Epicurus is the appropriate philosopher for them.
Emma
Emma Woodhouse begins her eponymous novel with a few flaws. She has an excessive interest in steering her friend’s matrimonial interests in ways that she deems proper (a process in which she neglects authentic worth and feelings in favor of social standing). More generally, she gets too caught up in her “schemes” for others and is consequently led to misread their behaviors. Most generally, she is too sure of herself—a result, we are told, of being excessively spoiled and admired throughout her life.
While the exact manifestations of these flaws are, of course, quite different than those familiar to Epicurus, the underlying essence of Emma’s bad habits is timeless. Overrating social standing? Basing your happiness on things outside of your control and which have no real bearing on your personally-felt pleasure? Thinking poorly because you have never submitted to a wiser teacher or frank-speaking friends? All of these are regular topics of Epicurean advice.
Of course, Emma amends her ways by the end of the book. After spending some time with shallower men, such as Mr. Elton (status-obsessed, generally empty-headed) and Frank Churchill (too interested in superficial things, lacking in frankness, impetuous), she comes to realize that the better influence is that of Mr. Knightley, who is one of the worthier Austen leading men. He is marked in particular by his penchant for what the Epicureans call “frank speech”—he is willing to tell Emma when she is acting wrongly, while maintaining complete goodwill towards her. The rest of his portrait is the usual catalog of Epicurean-Austenian virtues: financial prudence, distaste for ostentation, unconcern with social prestige, relative disinterest in frivolous entertainments, and a mature lack of romantic hurry.
Persuasion
The heroine of Austen’s last novel is Anne Elliot. As usual, the plot revolves around the protagonist’s successful overcoming of interpersonal misunderstandings in her own romantic arc, periodically contrasted with the varying fortunes of friends and family in their own matrimonial endeavors. We have the typical array of admirable and unadmirable side characters, whose conduct is gently but unmistakably judged by Austen. Anne’s elder sister and father are obsessed with vanity and social prestige, while being incapable of truly warm friendship or financial prudence—not good! One suitor is revealed to be highly mercenary and unfaithful to his friends—very bad! In contrast, this novel finds its more admirable characters in an array of naval officers and their families, who have known hardships and obligations (unlike the idle aristocrats), and who continue to live responsibly within their means on land, bound together by warm, enduring bonds of fellowship.
The particularly unique element of Persuasion is the greater maturity of its heroine and romantic perspective: Anne’s romance is the story of a resumed relationship, thought to have ended eight years in the past (she is 27 as the novel opens). As I have noted throughout all the novels, the Austen heroine in general is noted for her more measured approach to romance, one in which she is not overly swayed by impetuous passion. Persuasion takes this to a new extreme, with the success of its central relationship not truly evidenced until an approximate decade after the couple’s initial meeting. This entails no loss of interest, no diminishment of their intense affection—their love is no less real. But, just as in Lucretius, it is built on well-founded knowledge of each other’s character and constancy. The perfect Austenian marriage, like the perfect Epicurean marriage, is not one of maximum, lightning-bolt suddenness. It is one that lasts, constantly reinforced by unwavering friendship and mutual support.
Some modern readers find the scope of Austen’s heroines’ ambition dissatisfying. Is all they hope for marriage? We have various ideologies that preach the inadequacy of such mindsets: maybe everyone should strive for worldly success (careerism), maybe women need to “catch up” with such aspirations (feminism), and maybe we should embrace feelings of guilt as a spur to our moral betterment (Christianity) or welcome difficulty and hardship as part and parcel of virtuous action (Stoicism). This is not Austen’s way.
She appreciates money, but only instrumentally, as it serves security and happiness. She thinks women are at least men’s equals, emotionally and intellectually, but doesn’t see that as necessitating careerist ambition. She is nominally a Christian, but religious doctrine is essentially absent from the novels. And her attitude towards suffering and difficulty is distinctly more Epicurean than Stoic. Consider the case of a minor character in Persuasion, a friend of Anne’s who has fallen on hard times. Her husband has died, she is broke, and she is an invalid who cannot move without assistance. Nonetheless, she lives fairly happily:
[Anne] determined that this was not a case of fortitude or of resignation only. A submissive spirit might be patient, a strong understanding would supply resolution, but here was something more; here was that elasticity of mind, that disposition to be comforted, that power of turning readily from evil to good… (Volume 2, Chapter 5)
To cultivate an “elasticity of mind” which “turns readily from evil to good” is arguably the center of the Epicurean project. It is not Christian submission or Stoic fortitude that is most effective at securing our happiness in any circumstances. It is the ability to let go of what is inessential and focus on what brings us joy.
Do Austen’s heroines lack worldly ambition? They have this greater virtue.
Conclusion
In reading these selective summaries, you might still be underwhelmed by the supposed Epicurean undertones I am asserting. Are these virtues really particularly Epicurean? Surely everyone thinks that prudence, faithfulness, and a preference for friendship over social ostentation are good things? In part I agree, and this is in fact one of the underappreciated motifs I like to reiterate about Epicureanism: our virtues are the familiar, conventional virtues. We do not advocate for some radical discarding of everything the world recognizes as good, nor for the kind of impulsive, sensual hedonism which we are often caricatured as endorsing. If you think these “normal” virtues are admirable, then Epicureanism will seem sensible and familiar compared to a lot of philosophy, which travels far away from such practical matters.
At the same time, I think it is true that the particular virtues that Austen highlights, although “traditionally” recognized in significant swathes of our cultural history, are not the dominant virtues in our contemporary culture, in our contemporary romantic narratives, or in contemporary philosophy. Consider a few examples. Technological modernity has amplified the fetishization of celebrity and invented new ways to quantify and trivialize social standing (every form of online “like”). How many modern romance films portray financial prudence as a key quality in a good suitor? (Sometimes they advocate for career ambition, but very rarely for career contentment.) If you were to poll university students about the content of their philosophy courses, how many lectures do you think are dedicated to the value of reining in our expenses, making ourselves useful to our families, treating those we dislike with politeness, restraining our emotions, choosing our romantic partners wisely, or considering stable marriage as a high-priority life goal?
Almost none. Popular culture is often stupid, broadly speaking, and its visions of romance are typically shallow and unhelpful. This is unsurprising. Unfortunately, the academic field that is theoretically dedicated to the love of wisdom also has very little to say to those who actually want useful guidance on the crucial decisions of life, neglecting the practical in favor of esoteric abstraction. Jane Austen, in contrast, does address the real qualities that separate the wise from the unwise, the happy from the unhappy. Her answers may seem distant from philosophy as one encounters it today. But they are not at all distant from the teachings of Epicurus.
I’ll get to Northanger Abbey someday.
The 2005 film with Kiera Knightly is not bad, but the 1995 mini-series with Jennifer Ehle and Colin Firth is excellent.