The Annotated Sense and Sensibility

by Jane Austen

  When the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this poverty was particularly evident, for the gentlemen had supplied the discourse with some variety—the variety of politics, inclosing land, and breaking horses30—but then it was all over; and one subject only engaged the ladies till coffee came in,31 which was the comparative heights of Harry Dashwood, and Lady Middleton’s second son William, who were nearly of the same age.

  Had both the children been there, the affair might have been determined too easily by measuring them at once; but as Harry only was present, it was all conjectural assertion on both sides, and every body had a right to be equally positive in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over again as often as they liked.

  The parties stood thus:32

  The two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the tallest, politely decided in favour of the other.

  The two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity, were equally earnest in support of their own descendant.

  Lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other, thought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world between them; and Miss Steele, with yet greater address33 gave it, as fast as she could, in favour of each.34

  Elinor, having once delivered her opinion on William’s side, by which she offended Mrs. Ferrars and Fanny still more, did not see the necessity of enforcing35 it by any farther assertion; and Marianne, when called on for her’s, offended them all, by declaring that she had no opinion to give, as she had never thought about it.36

  Before her removing from Norland, Elinor had painted a very pretty pair of screens for her sister-in-law,37 which being now just mounted and brought home,38 ornamented her present drawing room; and these screens, catching the eye of John Dashwood on his following the other gentlemen into the room, were officiously handed by him to Colonel Brandon for his admiration.

  “These are done by my eldest sister,” said he; “and you, as a man of taste, will, I dare say, be pleased with them.39 I do not know whether you ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she is in general reckoned to draw extremely well.”40

  The Colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship, warmly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted by Miss Dashwood; and the curiosity of the others being of course excited, they were handed round for general inspection. Mrs. Ferrars, not aware of their being Elinor’s work, particularly requested to look at them; and after they had received the gratifying testimony of Lady Middleton’s approbation, Fanny presented them to her mother, considerately informing her at the same time, that they were done by Miss Dashwood.

  “Hum”—said Mrs. Ferrars—“very pretty,”—and without regarding them at all, returned them to her daughter.

  Perhaps Fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude enough,—for, colouring41 a little, she immediately said,

  “They are very pretty, ma’am—an’t42 they?” But then again, the dread of having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her, for she presently added,

  “Do you not think they are something in Miss Morton’s style of painting, ma’am?—She does paint most delightfully!—How beautifully her last landscape is done!43

  “Beautifully indeed! But she does every thing well.”

  Marianne could not bear this.—She was already greatly displeased with Mrs. Ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at Elinor’s expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth,

  “This is admiration of a very particular44 kind!—what is Miss Morton to us?—who knows, or who cares, for her?—it is Elinor of whom we think and speak.”

  And so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law’s hands, to admire them herself as they ought to be admired.

  Mrs. Ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter phillippic; “Miss Morton is Lord Morton’s daughter.”45

  Fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at his sister’s audacity. Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne’s warmth, than she had been by what produced it;46 but Colonel Brandon’s eyes, as they were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable47 in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister slighted in the smallest point.

  Marianne’s feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs. Ferrars’s general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretel such difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart taught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of affectionate sensibility, she moved, after a moment, to her sister’s chair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to her’s, said in a low, but eager, voice,

  “Dear, dear Elinor, don’t mind them. Don’t let them make you unhappy.”

  She could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her face on Elinor’s shoulder, she burst into tears.48—Every body’s attention was called, and almost every body was concerned.—Colonel Brandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he did.—Mrs. Jennings, with a very intelligent49 “Ah! poor dear,” immediately gave her, her salts;50 and Sir John felt so desperately enraged against the author of this nervous distress,51 that he instantly changed his seat to one close by Lucy Steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of the whole shocking affair.

  In a few minutes, however, Marianne was recovered enough to put an end to the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits retained the impression of what had passed, the whole evening.52

  “Poor Marianne!” said her brother to Colonel Brandon in a low voice, as soon as he could secure his attention,—“She has not such good health as her sister,—she is very nervous,53—she has not Elinor’s constitution;—and one must allow that there is something very trying to a young woman who has been a beauty, in the loss of her personal attractions. You would not think it perhaps, but Marianne was remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as Elinor.—Now you see it is all gone.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Elinor’s curiosity to see Mrs. Ferrars was satisfied.—She had found in her every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between the families, undesirable.—She had seen enough of her pride, her meanness,1 and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend all the difficulties that must have perplexed2 the engagement, and retarded the marriage, of Edward and herself, had he been otherwise free;—and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her own sake, that one greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under any other of Mrs. Ferrars’s creation, preserved her from all dependence upon her caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion. Or at least, if she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in Edward’s being fettered to Lucy, she determined, that had Lucy been more amiable, she ought to have rejoiced.

  She wondered that Lucy’s spirits could be so very much elevated by the civility of Mrs. Ferrars;—that her interest and her vanity should so very much blind her, as to make the attention which seemed only paid her because she was not Elinor, appear a compliment to herself—or to allow her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her, because her real situation was unknown. But that it was so, had not only been declared by Lucy’s eyes at the time, but was declared over again the next morning more openly, for at her particular desire, Lady Middleton set her down in Berkeley-street on the chance of seeing Elinor alone, to tell her how happy she was.

  The chance proved a lucky one, for a message from Mrs. Palmer soon after she arrived, carried Mrs. Jennings away.3

  “My dear friend,” cried Lucy as soon as they were by themselves, “I come to talk to you of my happiness. Could any thing be so flattering as Mrs. Ferrars’s way of treating me yesterday? So exceeding affable as she was!—You know how I dreaded the thoughts
of seeing her;—but the very moment I was introduced, there was such an affability in her behaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to me. Now was not it so?—You saw it all; and was not you quite struck with it?”

  “She was certainly very civil to you.”

  “Civil!—Did you see nothing but only civility?—I saw a vast deal more. Such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!—No pride, no hauteur, and your sister just the same—all sweetness and affability!”

  Elinor wished to talk of something else, but Lucy still pressed her to own4 that she had reason for her happiness; and Elinor was obliged to go on.—

  “Undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement,” said she, “nothing could be more flattering than their treatment of you;—but as that was not the case”—

  “I guessed you would say so”—replied Lucy quickly—“but there was no reason in the world why Mrs. Ferrars should seem to like me, if she did not, and her liking me is every thing. You shan’t talk me out of my satisfaction. I am sure it will all end well, and there will be no difficulties at all, to what I used to think. Mrs. Ferrars is a charming woman, and so is your sister. They are both delightful women indeed!—I wonder I should never hear you say how agreeable Mrs. Dashwood was!”

  To this, Elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.

  “Are you ill, Miss Dashwood?—you seem low—you don’t speak;—sure you an’t well.”

  “I never was in better health.”

  “I am glad of it with all my heart, but really you did not look it. I should be so sorry to have you ill; you, that have been the greatest comfort to me in the world!—Heaven knows what I should have done without your friendship.”—

  Elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success. But it seemed to satisfy Lucy, for she directly replied,

  “Indeed I am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to Edward’s love, it is the greatest comfort I have.—Poor Edward!—But now, there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty often, for Lady Middleton’s delighted with Mrs. Dashwood, so we shall be a good deal in Harley-street, I dare say, and Edward spends half his time with his sister—besides, Lady Middleton and Mrs. Ferrars will visit now;—and Mrs. Ferrars and your sister were both so good to say more than once, they should always be glad to see me.—They are such charming women!—I am sure if ever you tell your sister what I think of her, you cannot speak too high.”5

  But Elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she should tell her sister. Lucy continued.

  “I am sure I should have seen it in a moment, if Mrs. Ferrars had took a dislike to me. If she had only made me a formal curtsey, for instance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way—you know what I mean,—if I had been treated in that forbidding sort of way,6 I should have gave it all up in despair. I could not have stood it. For where she does dislike, I know it is most violent.”

  Elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph,7 by the door’s being thrown open, the servant’s announcing Mr. Ferrars, and Edward’s immediately walking in.

  It was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each shewed that it was so. They all looked exceedingly foolish; and Edward seemed to have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to advance farther into it. The very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them—They were not only all three together, but were together without the relief of any other person. The ladies recovered themselves first. It was not Lucy’s business to put herself forward, and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up. She could therefore only look her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him, said no more.

  But Elinor had more to do;8 and so anxious was she, for his sake and her own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment’s recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost easy,9 and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still improved them.10 She would not allow the presence of Lucy, nor the consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much regretted being from home, when he called before in Berkeley-street. She would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of Lucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her.

  Her manners gave some re-assurance to Edward, and he had courage enough to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might make it rare;11 for his heart had not the indifference of Lucy’s, nor could his conscience have quite the ease of Elinor’s.

  Lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word; and almost every thing that was said, proceeded from Elinor, who was obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother’s health, their coming to town, &c. which Edward ought to have inquired about, but never did.12

  Her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching Marianne, to leave the others by themselves: and she really did it, and that in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the landing-place,13 with the most high-minded fortitude,14 before she went to her sister. When that was once done, however, it was time for the raptures of Edward to cease;15 for Marianne’s joy hurried her into the drawing-room immediately. Her pleasure in seeing him was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken. She met him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the affection of a sister.

  “Dear Edward!” she cried, “this is a moment of great happiness!—This would almost make amends for every thing!”

  Edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt. Again they all sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while Marianne was looking with the most speaking16 tenderness, sometimes at Edward and sometimes at Elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other should be checked by Lucy’s unwelcome presence. Edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice Marianne’s altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding London agree with her.

  “Oh! don’t think of me!” she replied, with spirited earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, “don’t think of my health. Elinor is well, you see. That must be enough for us both.”17

  This remark was not calculated to make Edward or Elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the good will of Lucy, who looked up at Marianne with no very benignant expression.

  “Do you like London?” said Edward, willing to say any thing that might introduce another subject.

  “Not at all. I expected much pleasure in it, but I have found none. The sight of you, Edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank Heaven! you are what you always were!”18

  She paused—no one spoke.

  “I think, Elinor,” she presently added, “we must employ Edward to take care of us in our return to Barton. In a week or two, I suppose, we shall be going; and, I trust, Edward will not be very unwilling to accept the charge.”19

  Poor Edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even himself. But Marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it to whatever cause best pleased herself,20 was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked of something else.

  “We spent such a day, Edward, in Harley-street yesterday! So dull, so wretchedly dull!—But I have much to say to you on that head, which cannot be said now.”

  And with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her being particularly disgusted with his mother,21 till they were more in private.

 
; “But why were you not there, Edward?—Why did you not come?”

  “I was engaged elsewhere.”

  “Engaged! But what was that, when such friends were to be met?”

  “Perhaps, Miss Marianne,” cried Lucy, eager to take some revenge on her, “you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no mind to keep them, little as well as great.”22

  Elinor was very angry, but Marianne seemed entirely insensible of the sting; for she calmly replied,

  “Not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, I am very sure that conscience only kept Edward from Harley-street.23 And I really believe he has the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in performing every engagement however minute, and however it may make against24 his interest or pleasure.25 He is the most fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish, of any body I ever saw. Edward, it is so and I will say it. What! are you never to hear yourself praised!26—Then, you must be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to my open commendation.”

  The nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to Edward,27 that he very soon got up to go away.

  “Going so soon!” said Marianne; “my dear Edward, this must not be.”

  And drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that Lucy could not stay much longer. But even this encouragement failed, for he would go; and Lucy, who would have outstaid him had his visit lasted two hours, soon afterwards went away.

  “What can bring her here so often!” said Marianne, on her leaving them. “Could she not see that we wanted her gone!—how teazing28 to Edward!”

  “Why so?—we were all his friends, and Lucy has been the longest known to him of any. It is but natural that he should like to see her as well as ourselves.”