That was the joy of rediscovering this novel at forty-five, having not appreciated it in my youth. This is not some cosy, Downton Abbey period romantic drama but something far, far deeper, and I strongly suspecxt that anyfilm or television adaptation, or most at any rate, would indeed end up as a mere cosy genre piece, entirely missing the (very) suppressed rage in the authorial voice of the rigid social conventions of Regency England, which are subtly condemned. In a similar vein, it would be anachronistic to call Austen a feminist. Yet gender roles and conventions do not go uncommented on.
Yes, there is a rather pat happy ending. But not one that undoes the pain of six years of unnecessary separation of two people forced to deny their love through the petty respectability and snobbishness of those around them. Lady Russell is an idiot, yes. Mr Elliott is a bounder and a cad. Yet the subtle excoriation of Sir Walter exposes him as the worst of them all, and I love how the ending not-so-subtly implies that such things as baronetcies are worthless. Love is what matters. And that we must all be free to choose whom we love.
Sometimes, a classic novel is every bit as sublime as it's said to be.
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