SENSE AND SENSIBILITY by Jane Austen - FULL Audiobook (Chapter 11)

CHAPTER XI Little had Mrs. Dashwood or her daughters imagined, when they first came into Devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their time, as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have such frequent invitations, and such constant visitors, as to leave them little leisure for serious employment. Yet such was the case. When Marianne was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which Sir John had been previously forming, were put into execution. The private balls at the park then began, and parties on the water were made and accomplished as often as a showery October would allow. In every meeting of the kind, Willoughby was included, and the ease and familiarity which naturally attended these parties, were exactly calculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the Dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of Marianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving, in her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her affection. Eleanor could not be surprised at their attachment. She only wished that it were less openly shown, and once or twice did venture to suggest the propriety of some self-command to Marianne. But Marianne abhorred all concealment, where no real disgrace could attend unreserved, and to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves illaudible, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a disgraceful subjection of reason to commonplace and mistaken notions. Willoughby thought the same, and their behaviour at all times was an illustration of their opinions. When he was present, she had no eyes for any one else. Everything he did was right. Everything he said was clever. If their evenings at the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest of the party to get her a good hand. If dancing formed the amusement of the night, they were partners for half the time, and when obliged to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together, and scarcely spoke a word to anybody else. Such conduct made them, of course, most exceedingly laughed at, but ridicule could not shame, and seemed hardly to provoke them. Mrs. Dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left her no inclination for checking the successive display of them. To her, it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and ardent mind. This was the season of happiness to Marianne. Her heart was devoted to Willoughby, and the fond attachment to Norland, which she brought with her from Sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought it possible Eleanor's happiness was not so great. Her heart was not so much at ease, nor her satisfaction in their amusement so pure. They afforded her no companion that could make amends for what she had left behind, nor that could teach her to think of Norland with less regret than ever. Neither Lady Middleton nor Mrs. Jennings could supply to her the conversation she missed, although the latter was an everlasting talker, and from the first, had regarded her with a kindness which ensured her a large share of her discourse. She had already repeated her own history to Eleanor three or four times, and had Eleanor's memory been equal to her means of improvement, she might have known very early in their acquaintance all the particulars of Mr. Jennings's last illness, and what he said to his wife a few minutes before he died. Lady Middleton was more agreeable than her mother, only in being more silent. Eleanor needed little observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do. Towards her husband and mother she was the same as to them, and intimacy was therefore neither to be looked for nor desired. She had nothing to say one day that she had not said the day before. Her insipidity was invariable, for even her spirits were always the same, and though she did not oppose the parties arranged by her husband, provided everything were conducted in style, and her two eldest children attended her, she never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them than she might have experienced in sitting at home. And so little did her presence add to the pleasure of the others, by any share in their conversation, that they were sometimes only reminded of her being amongst them by her solicitude about her troublesome boys. In Colonel Brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did Eleanor find a person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion. Willoughby was out of the question. Her admiration and regard, even her sisterly regard, was all his own. But he was a lover, his attentions were wholly Marianne's, and a far less agreeable man might have been more generally pleasing. Colonel Brandon, unfortunately for himself, had no such encouragement to think only of Marianne, and in conversing with Eleanor, he found the greatest consolation for the indifference of her sister. Eleanor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect that the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him. This suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropped from him one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by mutual consent, while the others were dancing. His eyes were fixed on Marianne, and after a silence of some minutes he said, with a faint smile,— "'Your sister,' I understand, does not approve of second attachments." "'No,' replied Eleanor, 'her opinions are all romantic. Or rather, as I believe, she considers them impossible to exist. I believe she does. But how she contrives it without reflecting on the character of her own father, who had himself two wives, I know not. A few years, however, will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of common sense and observation, and then they may be more easy to define and to justify, than they now are by anybody but herself.'" "'This will probably be the case,' he replied. And yet there is something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions.'" "'I cannot agree with you there,' said Eleanor. "'There are inconveniences attending such feelings as Marianne's, which all the charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for. Her systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought, and a better acquaintance with the world is what I look forward to as her greatest possible advantage.'" After a short pause, he resumed the conversation by saying, "'Does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a second attachment? Or is it equally criminal in everybody? Are those who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the inconsistency of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be equally indifferent during the rest of their lives? Upon my word, I am not acquainted with the minutia of her principles. I only know that I have never yet heard her admit any instance of a second attachment's being pardonable.'" "'This,' said he, "'cannot hold. But a change—a total change of sentiments—no, no, do not desire it, for when the romantic refinements of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they succeeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous? I speak from experience. I once knew a lady who, in temper and mind, greatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who, from an enforced change, from a series of unfortunate circumstances—' Here he stopped suddenly, appeared to think that he had said too much, and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures which might not otherwise have entered Elinor's head. The lady would probably have passed without suspicion, had he not convinced Miss Dashwood that what concerned her ought not to escape his lips. As it was, it required but a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender recollection of past regard. Elinor attempted no more. But Marianne, in her place, would not have done so little. The whole story would have been speedily formed under her active imagination, and everything established in the most melancholy order of disastrous love. End Chapter 11