Sense and Sensibility E-Book

Jane Austen.

• Herausgeber: Infilaindiana Edizioni
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2016

Beschreibung

Sense and Sensibility, published anonymously in 1811, is a novel written by Jane Austen between 1795 and 1810. Elinor and Marianne Dashwood are two sisters with opposite personalities. Elinor, the eldest, is 19 years old and represents the "sense" mentioned in the novel’s title. Marianne, instead, is 17 years old and symbolizes the "sensibility". The fate of the two main characters revolves around what, in the past, was considered the most important event of female life: marriage. In 1995 the film director Ang Lee made a movie adaptation of the novel.


Jane Austen was born in Steventon, England, in 1775. Not much else is known other than she always lived with her family and that she never got married. After she died, her brothers destroyed most of her private letters, leaving very little biographical detail about her private life. Her novels are: Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, Emma, Northanger Abbey and Persuasion.

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Introduction

Sense and Sensibility, published anonymously in 1811, is a novel written by Jane Austen between 1795 and 1810.

Elinor and Marianne Dashwood are two sisters with opposite personalities. Elinor, the eldest, is 19 years old and represents the “sense” mentioned in the novel’s title. Marianne, instead, is 17 years old and symbolizes the “sensibility”. The fate of the two main characters revolves around what, in the past, was considered the most important event of female life: marriage. In 1995 the film director Ang Lee made a movie adaptation of the novel.

Biography

Jane Austen was born in Steventon, England, in 1775.

Not much else is known other than she always lived with her family and that she never got married. After she died, her brothers destroyed most of her private letters, leaving very little biographical detail about her private life.

Her novels are: Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice, Mansfield Park, Emma, NorthangerAbbey and Persuasion.

Sense and Sensibility

By

Jane Austen

Chapter 1

The family of Dashwood had long been settled in Sussex.

Their estate was large, and their residence was at Norland

Park, in the centre of their property, where, for many

generations, they had lived in so respectable a manner as to

engage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance.

The late owner of this estate was a single man,

who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of

his life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his

sister. But her death, which happened ten years before his

own, produced a great alteration in his home; for to supply

her loss, he invited and received into his house the family of

his nephew Mr. Henry Dashwood, the legal inheritor of the

Norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to bequeath

it. In the society of his nephew and niece, and their

children, the old Gentleman’s days were comfortably spent.

His attachment to them all increased. The constant attention

of Mr. and Mrs. Henry Dashwood to his wishes, which

proceeded not merely from interest, but from goodness of

heart, gave him every degree of solid comfort which his age

could receive; and the cheerfulness of the children added a

relish to his existence.

By a former marriage, Mr. Henry Dashwood had one

son: by his present lady, three daughters. The son, a steady

respectable young man, was amply provided for by the fortune

of his mother, which had been large, and half of which

devolved on him on his coming of age. By his own marriage,

likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his

wealth. To him therefore the succession to the Norland estate

was not so really important as to his sisters; for their

fortune, independent of what might arise to them from their

father’s inheriting that property, could be but small. Their

mother had nothing, and their father only seven thousand

pounds in his own disposal; for the remaining moiety of his

first wife’s fortune was also secured to her child, and he had

only a life-interest in it.

The old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost

every other will, gave as much disappointment as

pleasure. He was neither so unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to

leave his estate from his nephew;—but he left it to him on

such terms as destroyed half the value of the bequest. Mr.

Dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife

and daughters than for himself or his son;—but to his son,

and his son’s son, a child of four years old, it was secured,

in such a way, as to leave to himself no power of providing

for those who were most dear to him, and who most needed

a provision by any charge on the estate, or by any sale of its

valuable woods. The whole was tied up for the benefit of this

child, who, in occasional visits with his father and mother at

Norland, had so far gained on the affections of his uncle, by

such attractions as are by no means unusual in children of

two or three years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest

desire of having his own way, many cunning tricks, and a

great deal of noise, as to outweigh all the value of all the attention which,

for years, he had received from his niece and

her daughters. He meant not to be unkind, however, and,

as a mark of his affection for the three girls, he left them a

thousand pounds a-piece.

Mr. Dashwood’s disappointment was, at first, severe; but

his temper was cheerful and sanguine; and he might reasonably

hope to live many years, and by living economically, lay

by a considerable sum from the produce of an estate already

large, and capable of almost immediate improvement. But

the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was his

only one twelvemonth. He survived his uncle no longer;

and ten thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was

all that remained for his widow and daughters.

His son was sent for as soon as his danger was known,

and to him Mr. Dashwood recommended, with all the

strength and urgency which illness could command, the

interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.

Mr. John Dashwood had not the strong feelings of the

rest of the family; but he was affected by a recommendation

of such a nature at such a time, and he promised to do

every thing in his power to make them comfortable. His father

was rendered easy by such an assurance, and Mr. John

Dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there

might prudently be in his power to do for them.

He was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather

cold hearted and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but

he was, in general, well respected; for he conducted himself

with propriety in the discharge of his ordinary duties. Had

he married a more amiable woman, he might have been

made still more respectable than he was:—he might even

have been made amiable himself; for he was very young

when he married, and very fond of his wife. But Mrs. John

Dashwood was a strong caricature of himself;— more narrow-

minded and selfish.

When he gave his promise to his father, he meditated

within himself to increase the fortunes of his sisters by the

present of a thousand pounds a-piece. He then really thought

himself equal to it. The prospect of four thousand a-year, in

addition to his present income, besides the remaining half

of his own mother’s fortune, warmed his heart, and made

him feel capable of generosity.— ‘Yes, he would give them

three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome!

It would be enough to make them completely easy. Three

thousand pounds! he could spare so considerable a sum

with little inconvenience.’— He thought of it all day long,

and for many days successively, and he did not repent.

No sooner was his father’s funeral over, than Mrs. John

Dashwood, without sending any notice of her intention to

her mother-in-law, arrived with her child and their attendants.

No one could dispute her right to come; the house

was her husband’s from the moment of his father’s decease;

but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the greater,

and to a woman in Mrs. Dashwood’s situation, with only

common feelings, must have been highly unpleasing;— but

in HER mind there was a sense of honor so keen, a generosity

so romantic, that any offence of the kind, by whomsoever

given or received, was to her a source of immoveable disgust.

Mrs. John Dashwood had never been a favourite with

any of her husband’s family; but she had had no opportunity,

till the present, of shewing them with how little attention

to the comfort of other people she could act when occasion

required it.

So acutely did Mrs. Dashwood feel this ungracious

behaviour, and so earnestly did she despise her daughterin-

law for it, that, on the arrival of the latter, she would have

quitted the house for ever, had not the entreaty of her eldest

girl induced her first to reflect on the propriety of going,

and her own tender love for all her three children determined

her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid a

breach with their brother.

Elinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual,

possessed a strength of understanding, and coolness

of judgment, which qualified her, though only nineteen, to

be the counsellor of her mother, and enabled her frequently

to counteract, to the advantage of them all, that eagerness

of mind in Mrs. Dashwood which must generally have led

to imprudence. She had an excellent heart;—her disposition

was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew

how to govern them: it was a knowledge which her mother

had yet to learn; and which one of her sisters had resolved

never to be taught.

Marianne’s abilities were, in many respects, quite equal

to Elinor’s. She was sensible and clever; but eager in everything:

her sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation. She

was generous, amiable, interesting: she was everything but

prudent. The resemblance between her and her mother was

strikingly great.Elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister’s sensibility;

but by Mrs. Dashwood it was valued and cherished.

They encouraged each other now in the violence of their affliction.

The agony of grief which overpowered them at first,

was voluntarily renewed, was sought for, was created again

and again. They gave themselves up wholly to their sorrow,

seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection that

could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation

in future. Elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she

could struggle, she could exert herself. She could consult

with her brother, could receive her sister-in-law on her arrival,

and treat her with proper attention; and could strive

to rouse her mother to similar exertion, and encourage her

to similar forbearance.

Margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, welldisposed

girl; but as she had already imbibed a good deal

of Marianne’s romance, without having much of her sense,

she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal her sisters at a more

advanced period of life.

Chapter 2

Mrs. John Dashwood now installed herself mistress of

Norland; and her mother and sisters-in-law were degraded

to the condition of visitors. As such, however, they

were treated by her with quiet civility; and by her husband

with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody

beyond himself, his wife, and their child. He really pressed

them, with some earnestness, to consider Norland as their

home; and, as no plan appeared so eligible to Mrs. Dashwood

as remaining there till she could accommodate herself

with a house in the neighbourhood, his invitation was accepted.

A continuance in a place where everything reminded

her of former delight, was exactly what suited her mind. In

seasons of cheerfulness, no temper could be more cheerful

than hers, or possess, in a greater degree, that sanguine

expectation of happiness which is happiness itself. But in

sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy, and

as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.

Mrs. John Dashwood did not at all approve of what her

husband intended to do for his sisters. To take three thousand

pounds from the fortune of their dear little boy would

be impoverishing him to the most dreadful degree. She

begged him to think again on the subject. How could he answer

it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too,

of so large a sum? And what possible claim could the Miss

Dashwoods, who were related to him only by half blood,

which she considered as no relationship at all, have on his

generosity to so large an amount. It was very well known

that no affection was ever supposed to exist between the

children of any man by different marriages; and why was he

to ruin himself, and their poor little Harry, by giving away

all his money to his half sisters?

‘It was my father’s last request to me,’ replied her husband,

‘that I should assist his widow and daughters.’

‘He did not know what he was talking of, I dare say; ten

to one but he was light-headed at the time. Had he been in

his right senses, he could not have thought of such a thing

as begging you to give away half your fortune from your

own child.’

‘He did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear

Fanny; he only requested me, in general terms, to assist

them, and make their situation more comfortable than it

was in his power to do. Perhaps it would have been as well

if he had left it wholly to myself. He could hardly suppose

I should neglect them. But as he required the promise, I

could not do less than give it; at least I thought so at the

time. The promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed.

Something must be done for them whenever they

leave Norland and settle in a new home.’

‘Well, then, LET something be done for them; but THAT

something need not be three thousand pounds. Consider,’

she added, ‘that when the money is once parted with, it never

can return. Your sisters will marry, and it will be gone

for ever. If, indeed, it could be restored to our poor little

boy—‘

‘Why, to be sure,’ said her husband, very gravely, ‘that

would make great difference. The time may come when

Harry will regret that so large a sum was parted with. If he

should have a numerous family, for instance, it would be a

very convenient addition.’

‘To be sure it would.’

‘Perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the

sum were diminished one half.—Five hundred pounds

would be a prodigious increase to their fortunes!’

‘Oh! beyond anything great! What brother on earth

would do half so much for his sisters, even if REALLY his

sisters! And as it is—only half blood!—But you have such a

generous spirit!’

‘I would not wish to do any thing mean,’ he replied. ‘One

had rather, on such occasions, do too much than too little.

No one, at least, can think I have not done enough for them:

even themselves, they can hardly expect more.’

‘There is no knowing what THEY may expect,’ said the

lady, ‘but we are not to think of their expectations: the question

is, what you can afford to do.’

‘Certainly—and I think I may afford to give them five

hundred pounds a-piece. As it is, without any addition of

mine, they will each have about three thousand pounds on

their mother’s death—a very comfortable fortune for any

young woman.’

‘To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can

want no addition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds

divided amongst them. If they marry, they will be sure of

doing well, and if they do not, they may all live very comfortably

together on the interest of ten thousand pounds.’

‘That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether,

upon the whole, it would not be more advisable to do

something for their mother while she lives, rather than for

them—something of the annuity kind I mean.—My sisters

would feel the good effects of it as well as herself. A hundred

a year would make them all perfectly comfortable.’

His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent

to this plan.

‘To be sure,’ said she, ‘it is better than parting with fifteen

hundred pounds at once. But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood

should live fifteen years we shall be completely taken in.’

‘Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth

half that purchase.’

‘Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for

ever when there is an annuity to be paid them; and she is

very stout and healthy, and hardly forty. An annuity is a

very serious business; it comes over and over every year,

and there is no getting rid of it. You are not aware of what

you are doing. I have known a great deal of the trouble of

annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment

of three to old superannuated servants by my father’s will,

and it is amazing how disagreeable she found it. Twice every

year these annuities were to be paid; and then there was

the trouble of getting it to them; and then one of them was

said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be no such

thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her income was not

her own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it

was the more unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the

money would have been entirely at my mother’s disposal,

without any restriction whatever. It has given me such an

abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would not pin myself

down to the payment of one for all the world.’

‘It is certainly an unpleasant thing,’ replied Mr. Dashwood,

‘to have those kind of yearly drains on one’s income.

One’s fortune, as your mother justly says, is NOT one’s own.

To be tied down to the regular payment of such a sum, on

every rent day, is by no means desirable: it takes away one’s

independence.’

‘Undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it.

They think themselves secure, you do no more than what

is expected, and it raises no gratitude at all. If I were you,

whatever I did should be done at my own discretion entirely.

I would not bind myself to allow them any thing yearly.

It may be very inconvenient some years to spare a hundred,

or even fifty pounds from our own expenses.’

‘I believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there

should by no annuity in the case; whatever I may give them

occasionally will be of far greater assistance than a yearly

allowance, because they would only enlarge their style of

living if they felt sure of a larger income, and would not be

sixpence the richer for it at the end of the year. It will certainly

be much the best way. A present of fifty pounds, now

and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for money,

and will, I think, be amply discharging my promise to my

father.’

‘To be sure it will. Indeed, to say the truth, I am convinced

within myself that your father had no idea of your

giving them any money at all. The assistance he thought of,

I dare say, was only such as might be reasonably expected

of you; for instance, such as looking out for a comfortable

small house for them, helping them to move their things,

and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth,

whenever they are in season. I’ll lay my life that he meant

nothing farther; indeed, it would be very strange and

unreasonable if he did. Do but consider, my dear Mr. Dashwood,

how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law and

her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand

pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of

the girls, which brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece,

and, of course, they will pay their mother for their board out

of it. Altogether, they will have five hundred a-year amongst

them, and what on earth can four women want for more

than that?—They will live so cheap! Their housekeeping will

be nothing at all. They will have no carriage, no horses, and

hardly any servants; they will keep no company, and can

have no expenses of any kind! Only conceive how comfortable

they will be! Five hundred a year! I am sure I cannot

imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to your giving

them more, it is quite absurd to think of it. They will be

much more able to give YOU something.’

‘Upon my word,’ said Mr. Dashwood, ‘I believe you are

perfectly right. My father certainly could mean nothing

more by his request to me than what you say. I clearly understand

it now, and I will strictly fulfil my engagement by

such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you have

described. When my mother removes into another house

my services shall be readily given to accommodate her as

far as I can. Some little present of furniture too may be acceptable

then.’

‘Certainly,’ returned Mrs. John Dashwood. ‘But, however,

ONE thing must be considered. When your father and

mother moved to Norland, though the furniture of Stanhill

was sold, all the china, plate, and linen was saved, and is

now left to your mother. Her house will therefore be almost

completely fitted up as soon as she takes it.’

‘That is a material consideration undoubtedly. A valuable

legacy indeed! And yet some of the plate would have

been a very pleasant addition to our own stock here.’

‘Yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome

as what belongs to this house. A great deal too handsome, in

my opinion, for any place THEY can ever afford to live in.

But, however, so it is. Your father thought only of THEM.

And I must say this: that you owe no particular gratitude

to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we very well know

that if he could, he would have left almost everything in the

world to THEM.’

This argument was irresistible. It gave to his intentions

whatever of decision was wanting before; and he finally resolved,

that it would be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly

indecorous, to do more for the widow and children of his

father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as his own wife

pointed out.

Chapter 3

Mrs. Dashwood remained at Norland several months;

not from any disinclination to move when the sight

of every well known spot ceased to raise the violent emotion

which it produced for a while; for when her spirits began to

revive, and her mind became capable of some other exertion

than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy remembrances,

she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in

her inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood

of Norland; for to remove far from that beloved spot was

impossible. But she could hear of no situation that at once

answered her notions of comfort and ease, and suited the

prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment

rejected several houses as too large for their income, which

her mother would have approved.

Mrs. Dashwood had been informed by her husband

of the solemn promise on the part of his son in their favour,

which gave comfort to his last earthly reflections. She

doubted the sincerity of this assurance no more than he had

doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her daughters’

sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was persuaded

that a much smaller provision than 7000L would

support her in affluence. For their brother’s sake, too, for

the sake of his own heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached

herself for being unjust to his merit before, in believing him

incapable of generosity. His attentive behaviour to herself

and his sisters convinced her that their welfare was dear to

him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the liberality

of his intentions.

The contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance,

felt for her daughter-in-law, was very much increased

by the farther knowledge of her character, which half a

year’s residence in her family afforded; and perhaps in spite

of every consideration of politeness or maternal affection

on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it

impossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular

circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility,

according to the opinions of Mrs. Dashwood, to her daughters’

continuance at Norland.

This circumstance was a growing attachment between her

eldest girl and the brother of Mrs. John Dashwood, a gentleman-

like and pleasing young man, who was introduced to

their acquaintance soon after his sister’s establishment at

Norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of his

time there.

Some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy

from motives of interest, for Edward Ferrars was the eldest

son of a man who had died very rich; and some might have

repressed it from motives of prudence, for, except a trifling

sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the will of his

mother. But Mrs. Dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either

consideration. It was enough for her that he appeared

to be amiable, that he loved her daughter, and that Elinor

returned the partiality. It was contrary to every doctrine of

her’s that difference of fortune should keep any couple asunder

who were attracted by resemblance of disposition; and

that Elinor’s merit should not be acknowledged by every

one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.

Edward Ferrars was not recommended to their good

opinion by any peculiar graces of person or address. He

was not handsome, and his manners required intimacy

to make them pleasing. He was too diffident to do justice

to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome,

his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate

heart. His understanding was good, and his education

had given it solid improvement. But he was neither fitted by

abilities nor disposition to answer the wishes of his mother

and sister, who longed to see him distinguished—as—they

hardly knew what. They wanted him to make a fine figure

in the world in some manner or other. His mother wished

to interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament,

or to see him connected with some of the great men

of the day. Mrs. John Dashwood wished it likewise; but in

the mean while, till one of these superior blessings could

be attained, it would have quieted her ambition to see him

driving a barouche. But Edward had no turn for great men

or barouches. All his wishes centered in domestic comfort

and the quiet of private life. Fortunately he had a younger

brother who was more promising.

Edward had been staying several weeks in the house before

he engaged much of Mrs. Dashwood’s attention; for she

was, at that time, in such affliction as rendered her careless

of surrounding objects. She saw only that he was quiet and

unobtrusive, and she liked him for it. He did not disturb

the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation.

She was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a

reflection which Elinor chanced one day to make on the difference

between him and his sister. It was a contrast which

recommended him most forcibly to her mother.

‘It is enough,’ said she; ‘to say that he is unlike Fanny is

enough. It implies everything amiable. I love him already.’

‘I think you will like him,’ said Elinor, ‘when you know

more of him.’

‘Like him!’ replied her mother with a smile. ‘I feel no sentiment

of approbation inferior to love.’

‘You may esteem him.’

‘I have never yet known what it was to separate esteem

and love.’

Mrs. Dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with

him. Her manners were attaching, and soon banished his

reserve. She speedily comprehended all his merits; the

persuasion of his regard for Elinor perhaps assisted her penetration;

but she really felt assured of his worth: and even

that quietness of manner, which militated against all her

established ideas of what a young man’s address ought to be,

was no longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be

warm and his temper affectionate.

No sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his

behaviour to Elinor, than she considered their serious attachment

as certain, and looked forward to their marriage

as rapidly approaching.

‘In a few months, my dear Marianne.’ said she, ‘Elinor

will, in all probability be settled for life. We shall miss her;

but SHE will be happy.’

‘Oh! Mamma, how shall we do without her?’

‘My love, it will be scarcely a separation. We shall live

within a few miles of each other, and shall meet every day of

our lives. You will gain a brother, a real, affectionate brother.

I have the highest opinion in the world of Edward’s heart.

But you look grave, Marianne; do you disapprove your sister’s

choice?’

‘Perhaps,’ said Marianne, ‘I may consider it with some

surprise. Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly.

But yet—he is not the kind of young man—there is something

wanting—his figure is not striking; it has none of that

grace which I should expect in the man who could seriously

attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which

at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides all

this, I am afraid, Mamma, he has no real taste. Music seems

scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor’s

drawings very much, it is not the admiration of a person

who can understand their worth. It is evident, in spite of

his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in fact

he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover, not

as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be

united. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did

not in every point coincide with my own. He must enter

into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must

charm us both. Oh! mama, how spiritless, how tame was

Edward’s manner in reading to us last night! I felt for my

sister most severely. Yet she bore it with so much composure,

she seemed scarcely to notice it. I could hardly keep

my seat. To hear those beautiful lines which have frequently

almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable

calmness, such dreadful indifference!’—

‘He would certainly have done more justice to simple and

elegant prose. I thought so at the time; but you WOULD

give him Cowper.’

‘Nay, Mamma, if he is not to be animated by Cowper!—

but we must allow for difference of taste. Elinor has not my

feelings, and therefore she may overlook it, and be happy

with him. But it would have broke MY heart, had I loved

him, to hear him read with so little sensibility. Mama, the

more I know of the world, the more am I convinced that I

shall never see a man whom I can really love. I require so

much! He must have all Edward’s virtues, and his person

and manners must ornament his goodness with every possible

charm.’

‘Remember, my love, that you are not seventeen. It is yet

too early in life to despair of such a happiness. Why should

you be less fortunate than your mother? In one circumstance

only, my Marianne, may your destiny be different

from her’s!’

Chapter 4

‘What a pity it is, Elinor,’ said Marianne, ‘that Edward

should have no taste for drawing.’

‘No taste for drawing!’ replied Elinor, ‘why should you

think so? He does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great

pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and

I assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste,

though he has not had opportunities of improving it. Had

he ever been in the way of learning, I think he would have

drawn very well. He distrusts his own judgment in such

matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his

opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and

simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly

right.’

Marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on

the subject; but the kind of approbation which Elinor described

as excited in him by the drawings of other people,

was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion,

could alone be called taste. Yet, though smiling within

herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind

partiality to Edward which produced it.

‘I hope, Marianne,’ continued Elinor, ‘you do not consider

him as deficient in general taste. Indeed, I think I may say

that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial,

and if THAT were your opinion, I am sure you could

never be civil to him.’

Marianne hardly knew what to say. She would not wound

the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what

she did not believe was impossible. At length she replied:

‘Do not be offended, Elinor, if my praise of him is not in

every thing equal to your sense of his merits. I have not had

so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities

of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but

I have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and

sense. I think him every thing that is worthy and amiable.’

‘I am sure,’ replied Elinor, with a smile, ‘that his dearest

friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation

as that. I do not perceive how you could express yourself

more warmly.’

Marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily

pleased.

‘Of his sense and his goodness,’ continued Elinor, ‘no one

can, I think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to

engage him in unreserved conversation. The excellence of

his understanding and his principles can be concealed only

by that shyness which too often keeps him silent. You know

enough of him to do justice to his solid worth. But of his minuter

propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar

circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself. He

and I have been at times thrown a good deal together, while

you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate

principle by my mother. I have seen a great deal of him,

have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects

of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, I venture

to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of

books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation

just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure. His

abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance

as his manners and person. At first sight, his address

is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called

handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly

good, and the general sweetness of his countenance,

is perceived. At present, I know him so well, that I think

him really handsome; or at least, almost so. What say you,

Marianne?’

‘I shall very soon think him handsome, Elinor, if I do

not now. When you tell me to love him as a brother, I shall

no more see imperfection in his face, than I now do in his

heart.’

Elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the

warmth she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him.

She felt that Edward stood very high in her opinion. She

believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater

certainty of it to make Marianne’s conviction of their attachment

agreeable to her. She knew that what Marianne

and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the

next—that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was

to expect. She tried to explain the real state of the case to

her sister.

‘I do not attempt to deny,’ said she, ‘that I think very

highly of him—that I greatly esteem, that I like him.’

Marianne here burst forth with indignation—

‘Esteem him! Like him! Cold-hearted Elinor! Oh! worse

than cold-hearted! Ashamed of being otherwise. Use those

words again, and I will leave the room this moment.’

Elinor could not help laughing. ‘Excuse me,’ said she;

‘and be assured that I meant no offence to you, by speaking,

in so quiet a way, of my own feelings. Believe them to be

stronger than I have declared; believe them, in short, to be

such as his merit, and the suspicion—the hope of his affection

for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly. But

farther than this you must not believe. I am by no means

assured of his regard for me. There are moments when the

extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully

known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement

of my own partiality, by believing or calling it

more than it is. In my heart I feel little—scarcely any doubt

of his preference. But there are other points to be considered

besides his inclination. He is very far from being independent.

What his mother really is we cannot know; but, from

Fanny’s occasional mention of her conduct and opinions,

we have never been disposed to think her amiable; and I

am very much mistaken if Edward is not himself aware that

there would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to

wish to marry a woman who had not either a great fortune

or high rank.’

Marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination

of her mother and herself had outstripped the truth.

‘And you really are not engaged to him!’ said she. ‘Yet it

certainly soon will happen. But two advantages will proceed

from this delay. I shall not lose you so soon, and Edward

will have greater opportunity of improving that natural

taste for your favourite pursuit which must be so indispensably

necessary to your future felicity. Oh! if he should be so

far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself,

how delightful it would be!’

Elinor had given her real opinion to her sister. She could

not consider her partiality for Edward in so prosperous a

state as Marianne had believed it. There was, at times, a

want of spirits about him which, if it did not denote indifference,

spoke a something almost as unpromising. A doubt

of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give him

more than inquietude. It would not be likely to produce that

dejection of mind which frequently attended him. A more

reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation

which forbad the indulgence of his affection. She knew

that his mother neither behaved to him so as to make his

home comfortable at present, nor to give him any assurance

that he might form a home for himself, without strictly attending

to her views for his aggrandizement. With such a

knowledge as this, it was impossible for Elinor to feel easy

on the subject. She was far from depending on that result of

his preference of her, which her mother and sister still considered

as certain. Nay, the longer they were together the

more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard; and sometimes,

for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no

more than friendship.

But, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough,

when perceived by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the

same time, (which was still more common,) to make her

uncivil. She took the first opportunity of affronting her

mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to her so expressively

of her brother’s great expectations, of Mrs. Ferrars’s

resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of

the danger attending any young woman who attempted to

DRAW HIM IN; that Mrs. Dashwood could neither pretend

to be unconscious, nor endeavor to be calm. She gave

her an answer which marked her contempt, and instantly

left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the inconvenience

or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved

Elinor should not be exposed another week to such insinuations.

In this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her

from the post, which contained a proposal particularly

well timed. It was the offer of a small house, on very easy

terms, belonging to a relation of her own, a gentleman of

consequence and property in Devonshire. The letter was

from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit

of friendly accommodation. He understood that she was in

need of a dwelling; and though the house he now offered

her was merely a cottage, he assured her that everything

should be done to it which she might think necessary, if the

situation pleased her. He earnestly pressed her, after giving

the particulars of the house and garden, to come with her

daughters to Barton Park, the place of his own residence,

from whence she might judge, herself, whether Barton Cottage,

for the houses were in the same parish, could, by any

alteration, be made comfortable to her. He seemed really

anxious to accommodate them and the whole of his letter

was written in so friendly a style as could not fail of giving

pleasure to his cousin; more especially at a moment when

she was suffering under the cold and unfeeling behaviour

of her nearer connections. She needed no time for deliberation

or inquiry. Her resolution was formed as she read. The

situation of Barton, in a county so far distant from Sussex as

Devonshire, which, but a few hours before, would have been

a sufficient objection to outweigh every possible advantage

belonging to the place, was now its first recommendation.

To quit the neighbourhood of Norland was no longer an

evil; it was an object of desire; it was a blessing, in comparison

of the misery of continuing her daughter-in-law’s

guest; and to remove for ever from that beloved place would

be less painful than to inhabit or visit it while such a woman

was its mistress. She instantly wrote Sir John Middleton

her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance of

his proposal; and then hastened to shew both letters to her

daughters, that she might be secure of their approbation before

her answer were sent.

Elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for

them to settle at some distance from Norland, than immediately

amongst their present acquaintance. On THAT

head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose her mother’s

intention of removing into Devonshire. The house, too, as

described by Sir John, was on so simple a scale, and the rent

so uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection

on either point; and, therefore, though it was not a

plan which brought any charm to her fancy, though it was

a removal from the vicinity of Norland beyond her wishes,

she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from sending

a letter of acquiescence.

Chapter 5

No sooner was her answer dispatched, than Mrs. Dashwood

indulged herself in the pleasure of announcing

to her son-in-law and his wife that she was provided with

a house, and should incommode them no longer than till

every thing were ready for her inhabiting it. They heard her

with surprise. Mrs. John Dashwood said nothing; but her

husband civilly hoped that she would not be settled far from

Norland. She had great satisfaction in replying that she was

going into Devonshire.—Edward turned hastily towards

her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of surprise and concern,

which required no explanation to her, repeated, ‘Devonshire!

Are you, indeed, going there? So far from hence! And

to what part of it?’ She explained the situation. It was within

four miles northward of Exeter.

‘It is but a cottage,’ she continued, ‘but I hope to see many

of my friends in it. A room or two can easily be added; and

if my friends find no difficulty in travelling so far to see me,

I am sure I will find none in accommodating them.’

She concluded with a very kind invitation to Mr. and

Mrs. John Dashwood to visit her at Barton; and to Edward

she gave one with still greater affection. Though her late conversation

with her daughter-in-law had made her resolve on

remaining at Norland no longer than was unavoidable, it

had not produced the smallest effect on her in that point to

which it principally tended. To separate Edward and Elinor

was as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to

show Mrs. John Dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her

brother, how totally she disregarded her disapprobation of

the match.

Mr. John Dashwood told his mother again and again

how exceedingly sorry he was that she had taken a house

at such a distance from Norland as to prevent his being of

any service to her in removing her furniture. He really felt

conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very exertion

to which he had limited the performance of his promise to

his father was by this arrangement rendered impracticable.—

The furniture was all sent around by water. It chiefly

consisted of household linen, plate, china, and books, with

a handsome pianoforte of Marianne’s. Mrs. John Dashwood

saw the packages depart with a sigh: she could not help feeling

it hard that as Mrs. Dashwood’s income would be so

trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any

handsome article of furniture.

Mrs. Dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it

was ready furnished, and she might have immediate possession.

No difficulty arose on either side in the agreement;

and she waited only for the disposal of her effects at Norland,

and to determine her future household, before she set

off for the west; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in

the performance of everything that interested her, was soon

done.—The horses which were left her by her husband had

been sold soon after his death, and an opportunity now offering

of disposing of her carriage, she agreed to sell that

likewise at the earnest advice of her eldest daughter. For

the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her

own wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of

Elinor prevailed. HER wisdom too limited the number of

their servants to three; two maids and a man, with whom

they were speedily provided from amongst those who had

formed their establishment at Norland.

The man and one of the maids were sent off immediately

into Devonshire, to prepare the house for their mistress’s

arrival; for as Lady Middleton was entirely unknown to

Mrs. Dashwood, she preferred going directly to the cottage

to being a visitor at Barton Park; and she relied so undoubtingly

on Sir John’s description of the house, as to feel no

curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her own.

Her eagerness to be gone from Norland was preserved from

diminution by the evident satisfaction of her daughter-inlaw

in the prospect of her removal; a satisfaction which was

but feebly attempted to be concealed under a cold invitation

to her to defer her departure. Now was the time when

her son-in-law’s promise to his father might with particular

propriety be fulfilled. Since he had neglected to do it on

first coming to the estate, their quitting his house might be

looked on as the most suitable period for its accomplishment.

But Mrs. Dashwood began shortly to give over every

hope of the kind, and to be convinced, from the general

drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended no farther

than their maintenance for six months at Norland. He

so frequently talked of the increasing expenses of housekeeping,

and of the perpetual demands upon his purse,

which a man of any consequence in the world was beyond

calculation exposed to, that he seemed rather to stand in

need of more money himself than to have any design of giving

money away.

In a very few weeks from the day which brought Sir John

Middleton’s first letter to Norland, every thing was so far

settled in their future abode as to enable Mrs. Dashwood

and her daughters to begin their journey.

Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a

place so much beloved. ‘Dear, dear Norland!’ said Marianne,

as she wandered alone before the house, on the last evening

of their being there; ‘when shall I cease to regret you!—when

learn to feel a home elsewhere!—Oh! happy house, could

you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this spot,

from whence perhaps I may view you no more!—And you,

ye well-known trees!—but you will continue the same.—

No leaf will decay because we are removed, nor any branch

become motionless although we can observe you no longer!—

No; you will continue the same; unconscious of the

pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any

change in those who walk under your shade!—But who will

remain to enjoy you?’

Chapter 6

The first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy

a disposition to be otherwise than tedious and

unpleasant. But as they drew towards the end of it, their

interest in the appearance of a country which they were

to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view of Barton

Valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness. It was a

pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture. After

winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their

own house. A small green court was the whole of its demesne

in front; and a neat wicket gate admitted them into

it.

As a house, Barton Cottage, though small, was comfortable

and compact; but as a cottage it was defective, for the

building was regular, the roof was tiled, the window shutters

were not painted green, nor were the walls covered with

honeysuckles. A narrow passage led directly through the

house into the garden behind. On each side of the entrance

was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond

them were the offices and the stairs. Four bed-rooms and

two garrets formed the rest of the house. It had not been

built many years and was in good repair. In comparison

of Norland, it was poor and small indeed!—but the tears

which recollection called forth as they entered the house

were soon dried away. They were cheered by the joy of the

servants on their arrival, and each for the sake of the others

resolved to appear happy. It was very early in September;

the season was fine, and from first seeing the place under

the advantage of good weather, they received an impression

in its favour which was of material service in recommending

it to their lasting approbation.

The situation of the house was good. High hills rose immediately

behind, and at no great distance on each side;

some of which were open downs, the others cultivated and

woody. The village of Barton was chiefly on one of these

hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cottage windows.

The prospect in front was more extensive; it commanded

the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond.

The hills which surrounded the cottage terminated

the valley in that direction; under another name, and in

another course, it branched out again between two of the

steepest of them.

With the size and furniture of the house Mrs. Dashwood

was upon the whole well satisfied; for though her former

style of life rendered many additions to the latter indispensable,

yet to add and improve was a delight to her; and she

had at this time ready money enough to supply all that was

wanted of greater elegance to the apartments. ‘As for the

house itself, to be sure,’ said she, ‘it is too small for our family,

but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the

present, as it is too late in the year for improvements. Perhaps

in the spring, if I have plenty of money, as I dare say I

shall, we may think about building. These parlors are both

too small for such parties of our friends as I hope to see of

ten collected here; and I have some thoughts of throwing

the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the other,

and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance;

this, with a new drawing room which may be easily added,

and a bed-chamber and garret above, will make it a very

snug little cottage. I could wish the stairs were handsome.

But one must not expect every thing; though I suppose it

would be no difficult matter to widen them. I shall see how

much I am before-hand with the world in the spring, and

we will plan our improvements accordingly.’

In the mean time, till all these alterations could be made

from the savings of an income of five hundred a-year by a

woman who never saved in her life, they were wise enough

to be contented with the house as it was; and each of them

was busy in arranging their particular concerns, and

endeavoring, by placing around them books and other possessions,

to form themselves a home. Marianne’s pianoforte

was unpacked and properly disposed of; and Elinor’s drawings

were affixed to the walls of their sitting room.

In such employments as these they were interrupted soon

after breakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord,

who called to welcome them to Barton, and to offer them

every accommodation from his own house and garden in

which theirs might at present be deficient. Sir John Middleton

was a good looking man about forty. He had formerly

visited at Stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins

to remember him. His countenance was thoroughly goodhumoured;

and his manners were as friendly as the style of

his letter. Their arrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction,

and their comfort to be an object of real solicitude to

him. He said much of his earnest desire of their living in

the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed them

so cordially to dine at Barton Park every day till they were

better settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried

to a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could

not give offence. His kindness was not confined to words;

for within an hour after he left them, a large basket full of

garden stuff and fruit arrived from the park, which was followed

before the end of the day by a present of game. He

insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and

from the post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction

of sending them his newspaper every day.

Lady Middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting

her intention of waiting on Mrs. Dashwood as soon

as she could be assured that her visit would be no inconvenience;

and as this message was answered by an invitation

equally polite, her ladyship was introduced to them the next

day.

They were, of course, very anxious to see a person on

whom so much of their comfort at Barton must depend;

and the elegance of her appearance was favourable to their

wishes. Lady Middleton was not more than six or seven and

twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking,

and her address graceful. Her manners had all the elegance

which her husband’s wanted. But they would have been improved

by some share of his frankness and warmth; and her

visit was long enough to detract something from their first

admiration, by shewing that, though perfectly well-bred,

she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself

beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark.

Conversation however was not wanted, for Sir John was

very chatty, and Lady Middleton had taken the wise precaution

of bringing with her their eldest child, a fine little boy

about six years old, by which means there was one subject

always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of extremity,

for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty,

and ask him questions which his mother answered for

him, while he hung about her and held down his head, to

the great surprise of her ladyship, who wondered at his being

so shy before company, as he could make noise enough

at home. On every formal visit a child ought to be of the

party, by way of provision for discourse. In the present case

it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were

most like his father or mother, and in what particular he resembled

either, for of course every body differed, and every

body was astonished at the opinion of the others.

An opportunity was soon to be given to the Dashwoods

of debating on the rest of the children, as Sir John would not

leave the house without securing their promise of dining at

the park the next day.

Chapter 7

Barton Park was about half a mile from the cottage. The

ladies had passed near it in their way along the valley,

but it was screened from their view at home by the projection

of a hill. The house was large and handsome; and

the Middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality and elegance.

The former was for Sir John’s gratification, the latter

for that of his lady. They were scarcely ever without some

friends staying with them in the house, and they kept more

company of every kind than any other family in the neighbourhood.

It was necessary to the happiness of both; for

however dissimilar in temper and outward behaviour, they

strongly resembled each other in that total want of talent

and taste which confined their employments, unconnected

with such as society produced, within a very narrow compass.

Sir John was a sportsman, Lady Middleton a mother.

He hunted and shot, and she humoured her children; and

these were their only resources. Lady Middleton had the

advantage of being able to spoil her children all the year

round, while Sir John’s independent employments were

in existence only half the time. Continual engagements at

home and abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies

of nature and education; supported the good spirits of Sir

John, and gave exercise to the good breeding of his wife.

Lady Middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her

table, and of all her domestic arrangements; and from this

kind of vanity was her greatest enjoyment in any of their

parties. But Sir John’s satisfaction in society was much more

real; he delighted in collecting about him more young people

than his house would hold, and the noisier they were the

better was he pleased. He was a blessing to all the juvenile

part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever

forming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors,

and in winter his private balls were numerous enough for

any young lady who was not suffering under the unsatiable

appetite of fifteen.

The arrival of a new family in the country was always

a matter of joy to him, and in every point of view he was

charmed with the inhabitants he had now procured for his

cottage at Barton. The Miss Dashwoods were young, pretty,

and unaffected. It was enough to secure his good opinion;

for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to

make her mind as captivating as her person. The friendliness

of his disposition made him happy in accommodating

those, whose situation might be considered, in comparison

with the past, as unfortunate. In showing kindness to

his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction of a good

heart; and in settling a family of females only in his cottage,

he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman,

though he esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen

likewise, is not often desirous of encouraging their taste by

admitting them to a residence within his own manor.

Mrs. Dashwood and her daughters were met at the door

of the house by Sir John, who welcomed them to Barton

Park with unaffected sincerity; and as he attended them to

the drawing room repeated to the young ladies the concern

which the same subject had drawn from him the day before,

at being unable to get any smart young men to meet them.

They would see, he said, only one gentleman there besides

himself; a particular friend who was staying at the park, but

who was neither very young nor very gay. He hoped they

would all excuse the smallness of the party, and could assure

them it should never happen so again. He had been to

several families that morning in hopes of procuring some

addition to their number, but it was moonlight and every

body was full of engagements. Luckily Lady Middleton’s

mother had arrived at Barton within the last hour, and as

she was a very cheerful agreeable woman, he hoped the

young ladies would not find it so very dull as they might

imagine. The young ladies, as well as their mother, were

perfectly satisfied with having two entire strangers of the

party, and wished for no more.

Mrs. Jennings, Lady Middleton’s mother, was a good-humoured,

merry, fat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal,

seemed very happy, and rather vulgar. She was full of jokes

and laughter, and before dinner was over had said many

witty things on the subject of lovers and husbands; hoped

they had not left their hearts behind them in Sussex, and

pretended to see them blush whether they did or not. Marianne

was vexed at it for her sister’s sake, and turned her

eyes towards Elinor to see how she bore these attacks, with

an earnestness which gave Elinor far more pain than could

arise from such common-place raillery as Mrs. Jennings’s.

Colonel Brandon, the friend of Sir John, seemed no more

adapted by resemblance of manner to be his friend, than

Lady Middleton was to be his wife, or Mrs. Jennings to be

Lady Middleton’s mother. He was silent and grave. His appearance

however was not unpleasing, in spite of his being

in the opinion of Marianne and Margaret an absolute old

bachelor, for he was on the wrong side of five and thirty;

but though his face was not handsome, his countenance was

sensible, and his address was particularly gentlemanlike.

There was nothing in any of the party which could recommend

them as companions to the Dashwoods; but the

cold insipidity of Lady Middleton was so particularly repulsive,

that in comparison of it the gravity of Colonel

Brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of Sir John and

his mother-in-law was interesting. Lady Middleton seemed

to be roused to enjoyment only by the entrance of her four

noisy children after dinner, who pulled her about, tore her

clothes, and put an end to every kind of discourse except

what related to themselves.

In the evening, as Marianne was discovered to be musical,

she was invited to play. The instrument was unlocked,

every body prepared to be charmed, and Marianne, who

sang very well, at their request went through the chief of

the songs which Lady Middleton had brought into the family

on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since

in the same position on the pianoforte, for her ladyship had

celebrated that event by giving up music, although by her

mother’s account, she had played extremely well, and by her

own was very fond of it.

Marianne’s performance was highly applauded. Sir John

was loud in his admiration at the end of every song, and as

loud in his conversation with the others while every song

lasted. Lady Middleton frequently called him to order, wondered

how any one’s attention could be diverted from music

for a moment, and asked Marianne to sing a particular

song which Marianne had just finished. Colonel Brandon

alone, of all the party, heard her without being in raptures.

He paid her only the compliment of attention; and she felt

a respect for him on the occasion, which the others had

reasonably forfeited by their shameless want of taste. His

pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that ecstatic

delight which alone could sympathize with her own, was

estimable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility

of the others; and she was reasonable enough to allow that a

man of five and thirty might well have outlived all acuteness

of feeling and every exquisite power of enjoyment. She was

perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the colonel’s

advanced state of life which humanity required.

Chapter 8

Mrs. Jennings was a widow with an ample jointure.

She had only two daughters, both of whom she had

lived to see respectably married, and she had now therefore

nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the world.

In the promotion of this object she was zealously active,

as far as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of

projecting weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance.

She was remarkably quick in the discovery of

attachments, and had enjoyed the advantage of raising the

blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by insinuations

of her power over such a young man; and this kind of

discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at Barton decisively

to pronounce that Colonel Brandon was very much

in love with Marianne Dashwood. She rather suspected it

to be so, on the very first evening of their being together,

from his listening so attentively while she sang to them; and

when the visit was returned by the Middletons’ dining at

the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her

again. It must be so. She was perfectly convinced of it. It

would be an excellent match, for HE was rich, and SHE was

handsome. Mrs. Jennings had been anxious to see Colonel

Brandon well married, ever since her connection with Sir

John first brought him to her knowledge; and she was always

anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl.

The immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable,

for it supplied her with endless jokes against

them both. At the park she laughed at the colonel, and in

the cottage at Marianne. To the former her raillery was

probably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly indifferent;

but to the latter it was at first incomprehensible; and

when its object was understood, she hardly knew whether

most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence,

for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel’s

advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old

bachelor.

Mrs. Dashwood, who could not think a man five years

younger than herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared

to the youthful fancy of her daughter, ventured to clear Mrs.

Jennings from the probability of wishing to throw ridicule

on his age.

‘But at least, Mamma, you cannot deny the absurdity

of the accusation, though you may not think it intentionally

ill-natured. Colonel Brandon is certainly younger than

Mrs. Jennings, but he is old enough to be MY father; and if

he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long

outlived every sensation of the kind. It is too ridiculous!

When is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity

will not protect him?’

‘Infirmity!’ said Elinor, ‘do you call Colonel Brandon infirm?

I can easily suppose that his age may appear much

greater to you than to my mother; but you can hardly deceive