CHAPTER XVII

rs. 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 stedfast 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 stared―"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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