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Chapter 17
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.
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