finished_summaries/cliffnotes/Sense and Sensibility/section_11_part_0.txt
Sense and Sensibility.chapters 16-17
chapters 16-17
{"name": "Chapters 16-17", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201101060302/https://www.cliffsnotes.com/literature/s/sense-and-sensibility/summary-and-analysis/chapters-1617", "summary": "Marianne continued to grieve. No letter came from Willoughby and she did not seem to expect one. \"Why do you not ask Marianne at once whether she is or is not engaged to Willoughby?\" Elinor asked her mother. But Mrs. Dashwood's \"romantic delicacy\" forbade such a thing. One morning when the three sisters were out walking, a man appeared on horseback. Marianne started running toward him, certain it was Willoughby. It was, however, Edward Ferrars. He \"was welcomed by them all with great cordiality.\" Mrs. Dashwood \"was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural.\" Edward was overcome by the warmth of her welcome, but throughout his visit, he appeared depressed. When Marianne told him he was reserved, Edward was startled and upset. He seemed to take the remark much more seriously than it was meant.", "analysis": "Marianne's romantic sensibility demands that she suffer acutely because of Willoughby's departure. All the typical symptoms of romantic melancholy are hers -- sleepless nights, listless days, loss of appetite, headaches, and periods of weeping and despair. She is, however, unconcerned about the misery she inflicts on her family. Edward acts rather strangely. He seems depressed and grave, giving Elinor cause for concern."}


Marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able
to sleep at all the first night after parting from Willoughby.  She
would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next
morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than
when she lay down in it.  But the feelings which made such composure a
disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it.  She was awake the
whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it.  She got up with a
headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment;
giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all
attempt at consolation from either.  Her sensibility was potent enough!

When breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about
the village of Allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment
and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.

The evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling.  She played
over every favourite song that she had been used to play to Willoughby,
every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at
the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out
for her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be
gained; and this nourishment of grief was every day applied.  She spent
whole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing and crying; her voice
often totally suspended by her tears.  In books too, as well as in
music, she courted the misery which a contrast between the past and
present was certain of giving.  She read nothing but what they had been
used to read together.

Such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it
sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employments,
to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and silent meditations,
still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever.

No letter from Willoughby came; and none seemed expected by Marianne.
Her mother was surprised, and Elinor again became uneasy.  But Mrs.
Dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at
least satisfied herself.

"Remember, Elinor," said she, "how very often Sir John fetches our
letters himself from the post, and carries them to it.  We have already
agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it
could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through
Sir John's hands."

Elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a
motive sufficient for their silence.  But there was one method so
direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real
state of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she
could not help suggesting it to her mother.

"Why do you not ask Marianne at once," said she, "whether she is or she
is not engaged to Willoughby?  From you, her mother, and so kind, so
indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence.  It would be
the natural result of your affection for her.  She used to be all
unreserve, and to you more especially."

"I would not ask such a question for the world.  Supposing it possible
that they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry
inflict!  At any rate it would be most ungenerous.  I should never
deserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of
what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one.  I know
Marianne's heart: I know that she dearly loves me, and that I shall not
be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances make
the revealment of it eligible.  I would not attempt to force the
confidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty
would prevent the denial which her wishes might direct."

Elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's
youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common
care, common prudence, were all sunk in Mrs. Dashwood's romantic
delicacy.

It was several days before Willoughby's name was mentioned before
Marianne by any of her family; Sir John and Mrs. Jennings, indeed, were
not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour;--but
one evening, Mrs. Dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of
Shakespeare, exclaimed,

"We have never finished Hamlet, Marianne; our dear Willoughby went away
before we could get through it.  We will put it by, that when he comes
again...But it may be months, perhaps, before THAT happens."

"Months!" cried Marianne, with strong surprise.  "No--nor many weeks."

Mrs. Dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave Elinor
pleasure, as it produced a reply from Marianne so expressive of
confidence in Willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.

One morning, about a week after his leaving the country, Marianne was
prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of
wandering away by herself.  Hitherto she had carefully avoided every
companion in her rambles.  If her sisters intended to walk on the
downs, she directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of the
valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be
found when the others set off.  But at length she was secured by the
exertions of Elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion.
They walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence,
for Marianne's MIND could not be controlled, and Elinor, satisfied with
gaining one point, would not then attempt more.  Beyond the entrance of
the valley, where the country, though still rich, was less wild and
more open, a long stretch of the road which they had travelled on first
coming to Barton, lay before them; and on reaching that point, they
stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect which formed the
distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot which they had
never happened to reach in any of their walks before.

Amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated one;
it was a man on horseback riding towards them.  In a few minutes they
could distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment afterwards
Marianne rapturously exclaimed,

"It is he; it is indeed;--I know it is!"--and was hastening to meet
him, when Elinor cried out,

"Indeed, Marianne, I think you are mistaken.  It is not Willoughby.
The person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air."

"He has, he has," cried Marianne, "I am sure he has.  His air, his
coat, his horse.  I knew how soon he would come."

She walked eagerly on as she spoke; and Elinor, to screen Marianne from
particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being Willoughby,
quickened her pace and kept up with her.  They were soon within thirty
yards of the gentleman.  Marianne looked again; her heart sunk within
her; and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back, when the voices
of both her sisters were raised to detain her; a third, almost as well
known as Willoughby's, joined them in begging her to stop, and she
turned round with surprise to see and welcome Edward Ferrars.

He was the only person in the world who could at that moment be
forgiven for not being Willoughby; the only one who could have gained a
smile from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on HIM, and in her
sister's happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.

He dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with
them to Barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.

He was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by
Marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him than
even Elinor herself.  To Marianne, indeed, the meeting between Edward
and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness
which she had often observed at Norland in their mutual behaviour.  On
Edward's side, more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a
lover ought to look and say on such an occasion.  He was confused,
seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither
rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by
questions, and distinguished Elinor by no mark of affection.  Marianne
saw and listened with increasing surprise.  She began almost to feel a
dislike of Edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by
carrying back her thoughts to Willoughby, whose manners formed a
contrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect.

After a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and enquiries
of meeting, Marianne asked Edward if he came directly from London.  No,
he had been in Devonshire a fortnight.

"A fortnight!" she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the same
county with Elinor without seeing her before.

He looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with
some friends near Plymouth.

"Have you been lately in Sussex?" said Elinor.

"I was at Norland about a month ago."

"And how does dear, dear Norland look?" cried Marianne.

"Dear, dear Norland," said Elinor, "probably looks much as it always
does at this time of the year.  The woods and walks thickly covered
with dead leaves."

"Oh," cried Marianne, "with what transporting sensation have I formerly
seen them fall!  How have I delighted, as I walked, to see them driven
in showers about me by the wind!  What feelings have they, the season,
the air altogether inspired!  Now there is no one to regard them.  They
are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as
possible from the sight."

"It is not every one," said Elinor, "who has your passion for dead
leaves."

"No; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood.  But
SOMETIMES they are."--As she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a
few moments;--but rousing herself again, "Now, Edward," said she,
calling his attention to the prospect, "here is Barton valley.  Look up
to it, and be tranquil if you can.  Look at those hills!  Did you ever
see their equals?  To the left is Barton park, amongst those woods and
plantations.  You may see the end of the house.  And there, beneath
that farthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage."

"It is a beautiful country," he replied; "but these bottoms must be
dirty in winter."

"How can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?"

"Because," replied he, smiling, "among the rest of the objects before
me, I see a very dirty lane."

"How strange!" said Marianne to herself as she walked on.

"Have you an agreeable neighbourhood here?  Are the Middletons pleasant
people?"

"No, not all," answered Marianne; "we could not be more unfortunately
situated."

"Marianne," cried her sister, "how can you say so? How can you be so
unjust?  They are a very respectable family, Mr. Ferrars; and towards
us have behaved in the friendliest manner.  Have you forgot, Marianne,
how many pleasant days we have owed to them?"

"No," said Marianne, in a low voice, "nor how many painful moments."

Elinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their
visitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by
talking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c. extorting
from him occasional questions and remarks.  His coldness and reserve
mortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to
regulate her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, she
avoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated him
as she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection.




Mrs. Dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his
coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural.
Her joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder.  He received
the kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not
stand against such a reception.  They had begun to fail him before he
entered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating
manners of Mrs. Dashwood.  Indeed a man could not very well be in love
with either of her daughters, without extending the passion to her; and
Elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like
himself.  His affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his
interest in their welfare again became perceptible.  He was not in
spirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was
attentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits.  The whole family
perceived it, and Mrs. Dashwood, attributing it to some want of
liberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all
selfish parents.

"What are Mrs. Ferrars's views for you at present, Edward?" said she,
when dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire; "are you still
to be a great orator in spite of yourself?"

"No. I hope my mother is now convinced that I have no more talents than
inclination for a public life!"

"But how is your fame to be established? for famous you must be to
satisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no
affection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find
it a difficult matter."

"I shall not attempt it.  I have no wish to be distinguished; and have
every reason to hope I never shall.  Thank Heaven! I cannot be forced
into genius and eloquence."

"You have no ambition, I well know.  Your wishes are all moderate."

"As moderate as those of the rest of the world, I believe.  I wish as
well as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body
else it must be in my own way.  Greatness will not make me so."

"Strange that it would!" cried Marianne.  "What have wealth or grandeur
to do with happiness?"

"Grandeur has but little," said Elinor, "but wealth has much to do with
it."

"Elinor, for shame!" said Marianne, "money can only give happiness
where there is nothing else to give it.  Beyond a competence, it can
afford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned."

"Perhaps," said Elinor, smiling, "we may come to the same point.  YOUR
competence and MY wealth are very much alike, I dare say; and without
them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind of
external comfort must be wanting.  Your ideas are only more noble than
mine.  Come, what is your competence?"

"About eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than THAT."

Elinor laughed.  "TWO thousand a year! ONE is my wealth! I guessed how
it would end."

"And yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income," said Marianne.
"A family cannot well be maintained on a smaller.  I am sure I am not
extravagant in my demands.  A proper establishment of servants, a
carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less."

Elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their
future expenses at Combe Magna.

"Hunters!" repeated Edward--"but why must you have hunters?  Every body
does not hunt."

Marianne coloured as she replied, "But most people do."

"I wish," said Margaret, striking out a novel thought, "that somebody
would give us all a large fortune apiece!"

"Oh that they would!" cried Marianne, her eyes sparkling with
animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary
happiness.

"We are all unanimous in that wish, I suppose," said Elinor, "in spite
of the insufficiency of wealth."

"Oh dear!" cried Margaret, "how happy I should be!  I wonder what I
should do with it!"

Marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.

"I should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself," said Mrs.
Dashwood, "if my children were all to be rich without my help."

"You must begin your improvements on this house," observed Elinor, "and
your difficulties will soon vanish."

"What magnificent orders would travel from this family to London," said
Edward, "in such an event!  What a happy day for booksellers,
music-sellers, and print-shops!  You, Miss Dashwood, would give a
general commission for every new print of merit to be sent you--and as
for Marianne, I know her greatness of soul, there would not be music
enough in London to content her.  And books!--Thomson, Cowper,
Scott--she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up
every copy, I believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands;
and she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old
twisted tree.  Should not you, Marianne?  Forgive me, if I am very
saucy.  But I was willing to shew you that I had not forgot our old
disputes."

"I love to be reminded of the past, Edward--whether it be melancholy or
gay, I love to recall it--and you will never offend me by talking of
former times.  You are very right in supposing how my money would be
spent--some of it, at least--my loose cash would certainly be employed
in improving my collection of music and books."

"And the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the
authors or their heirs."

"No, Edward, I should have something else to do with it."

"Perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who
wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever
be in love more than once in their life--your opinion on that point is
unchanged, I presume?"

"Undoubtedly. At my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed.  It is
not likely that I should now see or hear any thing to change them."

"Marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said Elinor, "she is not
at all altered."

"She is only grown a little more grave than she was."

"Nay, Edward," said Marianne, "you need not reproach me.  You are not
very gay yourself."

"Why should you think so!" replied he, with a sigh.  "But gaiety never
was a part of MY character."

"Nor do I think it a part of Marianne's," said Elinor; "I should hardly
call her a lively girl--she is very earnest, very eager in all she
does--sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation--but she
is not often really merry."

"I believe you are right," he replied, "and yet I have always set her
down as a lively girl."

"I have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said
Elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or
other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or
stupid than they really are, and I can hardly tell why or in what the
deception originated.  Sometimes one is guided by what they say of
themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them,
without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge."

"But I thought it was right, Elinor," said Marianne, "to be guided
wholly by the opinion of other people.  I thought our judgments were
given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours.  This has
always been your doctrine, I am sure."

"No, Marianne, never.  My doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of
the understanding.  All I have ever attempted to influence has been the
behaviour.  You must not confound my meaning.  I am guilty, I confess,
of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with
greater attention; but when have I advised you to adopt their
sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"

"You have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of
general civility," said Edward to Elinor.  "Do you gain no ground?"

"Quite the contrary," replied Elinor, looking expressively at Marianne.

"My judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but I
am afraid my practice is much more on your sister's.  I never wish to
offend, but I am so foolishly shy, that I often seem negligent, when I
am only kept back by my natural awkwardness.  I have frequently thought
that I must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, I
am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!"

"Marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said
Elinor.

"She knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied Edward.
"Shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or
other.  If I could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy
and graceful, I should not be shy."

"But you would still be reserved," said Marianne, "and that is worse."

Edward started--"Reserved! Am I reserved, Marianne?"

"Yes, very."

"I do not understand you," replied he, colouring.  "Reserved!--how, in
what manner?  What am I to tell you?  What can you suppose?"

Elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the
subject, she said to him, "Do not you know my sister well enough to
understand what she means?  Do not you know she calls every one
reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as
rapturously as herself?"

Edward made no answer.  His gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him
in their fullest extent--and he sat for some time silent and dull.



Chapters 16-17
Marianne continued to grieve. No letter came from Willoughby and she did not seem to expect one. "Why do you not ask Marianne at once whether she is or is not engaged to Willoughby?" Elinor asked her mother. But Mrs. Dashwood's "romantic delicacy" forbade such a thing. One morning when the three sisters were out walking, a man appeared on horseback. Marianne started running toward him, certain it was Willoughby. It was, however, Edward Ferrars. He "was welcomed by them all with great cordiality." Mrs. Dashwood "was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his coming to Barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural." Edward was overcome by the warmth of her welcome, but throughout his visit, he appeared depressed. When Marianne told him he was reserved, Edward was startled and upset. He seemed to take the remark much more seriously than it was meant.
Marianne's romantic sensibility demands that she suffer acutely because of Willoughby's departure. All the typical symptoms of romantic melancholy are hers -- sleepless nights, listless days, loss of appetite, headaches, and periods of weeping and despair. She is, however, unconcerned about the misery she inflicts on her family. Edward acts rather strangely. He seems depressed and grave, giving Elinor cause for concern.