finished_summaries/shmoop/Sense and Sensibility/section_45_part_0.txt
Sense and Sensibility.chapter 46
chapter 46
{"name": "Chapter 46", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210421140324/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/sense-and-sensibility/summary/chapter-46", "summary": "Marianne improves rapidly, and soon receives a visit from Colonel Brandon. Her mother anxiously looks on, seeking signs of love. She believes that Marianne's attitude towards the Colonel is starting to change. Mrs. Dashwood begins to make plans to go back to Barton with her daughters. Mrs. Jennings and Colonel Brandon insist that the Dashwoods take his carriage to make their journey easier. He promises to make a visit to the cottage at Barton soon. As they leave for home, Marianne says goodbye fondly to Mrs. Jennings, and quite cordially to Colonel Brandon. After the Dashwoods leave, Mrs. Jennings and Colonel Brandon are left to their own devices; he goes home to Delaford, and she gossips with her maid. The Dashwoods take two days for their trip home, and Marianne seems particularly calm. Elinor is especially grateful for Marianne's seeming mental health. When they get home, Marianne seems sad, but otherwise OK - she appears to have decided to get over Willoughby. Everything reminds her of him, but she tries to get past these memories. The next day, Marianne is optimistic, and she and Elinor make plans to talk long walks and have a good summer. Marianne is determined to be more serious, and devote her time to reading and music. Elinor is pleased that her sister is taking her life seriously, instead of lolling around, indulging in her romantic fantasies. The only thing that mars her happiness is her promise to Willoughby, that she will tell Marianne everything. One day, the two sisters go for a walk. They pass the place where Marianne first met Willoughby, which sets her off on a pensive train of thought. She says that she would simply like to know that he actually felt something for her sometime. Elinor, happy with this statement, wants to know if it would settle Marianne's mind to know this. Marianne says it would, and Elinor wonders if she should tell all to her sister. Marianne goes on - apparently, her illness has made her think over a lot of things. She's realized that her own emotional weakness and imprudence are what led her to her own situation, and that she almost caused her own death by foolishness. She feels bad for everything she's put Elinor and Mrs. Dashwood through. Furthermore, she feels terrible for all the friends she's slighted or been rude to - the Middletons, Mrs. Jennings, the Palmers, the Steeles, and even John and Fanny. Most of all, Marianne feels as though she's wronged the people who mean the most to her - Elinor and their mother. She should have paid more attention to Elinor's behavior, and tried to be more like her. Even when she knew Elinor was unhappy, she wasn't sympathetic enough to her, and was too wrapped up in her own concerns about Willoughby. Elinor tells her sister that she shouldn't worry about it, and praises her for being so honest with herself. Marianne vows to be better in the future, and to be more like her sister. With regards to Willoughby, she promises that she will do her best to get over him. She only wishes she knew what had gone on with him, as it would make things easier for her. That's Elinor's cue. She reveals everything Willoughby told her, and observes her sister's reaction: Marianne is struck by it, and is clearly incredibly sad. She has a ton of questions, and weeps profusely. However, this behavior is much more measured and under control than the old Marianne. When the sisters get home, Marianne goes to her room to try and make sense of all of this, asking Elinor to tell their mother the whole story.", "analysis": ""}


Marianne's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long
enough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength, and
her mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her
to remove, within four days after the arrival of the latter, into Mrs.
Palmer's dressing-room.  When there, at her own particular request, for
she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching her
mother, Colonel Brandon was invited to visit her.

His emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in
receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was
such, as, in Elinor's conjecture, must arise from something more than
his affection for Marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to
others; and she soon discovered in his melancholy eye and varying
complexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many
past scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance
between Marianne and Eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened
by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness,
and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.

Mrs. Dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but
with a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to very
different effect, saw nothing in the Colonel's behaviour but what arose
from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions
and words of Marianne she persuaded herself to think that something
more than gratitude already dawned.

At the end of another day or two, Marianne growing visibly stronger
every twelve hours, Mrs. Dashwood, urged equally by her own and her
daughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to Barton.  On HER
measures depended those of her two friends; Mrs. Jennings could not
quit Cleveland during the Dashwoods' stay; and Colonel Brandon was soon
brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there as
equally determinate, if not equally indispensable.  At his and Mrs.
Jennings's united request in return, Mrs. Dashwood was prevailed on to
accept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better
accommodation of her sick child; and the Colonel, at the joint
invitation of Mrs. Dashwood and Mrs. Jennings, whose active good-nature
made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself,
engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in the
course of a few weeks.

The day of separation and departure arrived; and Marianne, after taking
so particular and lengthened a leave of Mrs. Jennings, one so earnestly
grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own
heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding
Colonel Brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was carefully
assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that she
should engross at least half.  Mrs. Dashwood and Elinor then followed,
and the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and
feel their own dullness, till Mrs. Jennings was summoned to her chaise
to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young
companions; and Colonel Brandon immediately afterwards took his
solitary way to Delaford.

The Dashwoods were two days on the road, and Marianne bore her journey
on both, without essential fatigue.  Every thing that the most zealous
affection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable,
was the office of each watchful companion, and each found their reward
in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits.  To Elinor, the
observation of the latter was particularly grateful.  She, who had seen
her week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of
heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to
conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, an
apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted
of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and
cheerfulness.

As they approached Barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every
field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection,
she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their
notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window.  But here, Elinor
could neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she assisted
Marianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an
emotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender than pity,
and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise.  In the whole of her
subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened to
reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common
sitting-room, than Marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of
resolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the
sight of every object with which the remembrance of Willoughby could be
connected.--She said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness,
and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without
the atonement of a smile.  After dinner she would try her piano-forte.
She went to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was an
opera, procured for her by Willoughby, containing some of their
favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his
hand-writing.--That would not do.--She shook her head, put the music
aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of
feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring
however with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice
much.

The next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms.  On the
contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked
and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of
Margaret's return, and talking of the dear family party which would
then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the
only happiness worth a wish.

"When the weather is settled, and I have recovered my strength," said
she, "we will take long walks together every day.  We will walk to the
farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will
walk to Sir John's new plantations at Barton Cross, and the Abbeyland;
and we will often go to the old ruins of the Priory, and try to trace its
foundations as far as we are told they once reached.  I know we shall
be happy.  I know the summer will pass happily away.  I mean never to
be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner I shall
divide every moment between music and reading.  I have formed my plan,
and am determined to enter on a course of serious study.  Our own
library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond
mere amusement.  But there are many works well worth reading at the
Park; and there are others of more modern production which I know I can
borrow of Colonel Brandon.  By reading only six hours a-day, I shall
gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which
I now feel myself to want."

Elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this;
though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her
to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work
in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and
virtuous self-control. Her smile however changed to a sigh when she
remembered that promise to Willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared
she had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of
Marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy
tranquillity.  Willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved
to wait till her sister's health were more secure, before she appointed
it.  But the resolution was made only to be broken.

Marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was
fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out.  But at last a
soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter's
wishes and the mother's confidence; and Marianne, leaning on Elinor's
arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in
the lane before the house.

The sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of Marianne in an
exercise hitherto untried since her illness required;--and they had
advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the
hill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned
towards it, Marianne calmly said,

"There, exactly there,"--pointing with one hand, "on that projecting
mound,--there I fell; and there I first saw Willoughby."

Her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added,

"I am thankful to find that I can look with so little pain on the
spot!--shall we ever talk on that subject, Elinor?"--hesitatingly it
was said.--"Or will it be wrong?--I can talk of it now, I hope, as I
ought to do."--

Elinor tenderly invited her to be open.

"As for regret," said Marianne, "I have done with that, as far as HE is
concerned.  I do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been
for him, but what they are NOW.--At present, if I could be satisfied on
one point, if I could be allowed to think that he was not ALWAYS acting
a part, not ALWAYS deceiving me;--but above all, if I could be assured
that he never was so VERY wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied
him, since the story of that unfortunate girl"--

She stopt.  Elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered,

"If you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy."

"Yes. My peace of mind is doubly involved in it;--for not only is it
horrible to suspect a person, who has been what HE has been to ME, of
such designs,--but what must it make me appear to myself?--What in a
situation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could
expose me to"--

"How then," asked her sister, "would you account for his behaviour?"

"I would suppose him,--Oh, how gladly would I suppose him, only fickle,
very, very fickle."

Elinor said no more.  She was debating within herself on the
eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till
Marianne were in stronger health;--and they crept on for a few minutes
in silence.

"I am not wishing him too much good," said Marianne at last with a
sigh, "when I wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant
than my own.  He will suffer enough in them."

"Do you compare your conduct with his?"

"No. I compare it with what it ought to have been; I compare it with
yours."

"Our situations have borne little resemblance."

"They have borne more than our conduct.--Do not, my dearest Elinor, let
your kindness defend what I know your judgment must censure.  My
illness has made me think-- It has given me leisure and calmness for
serious recollection.  Long before I was enough recovered to talk, I
was perfectly able to reflect.  I considered the past: I saw in my own
behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last
autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of
kindness to others.  I saw that my own feelings had prepared my
sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me
to the grave.  My illness, I well knew, had been entirely brought on by
myself by such negligence of my own health, as I had felt even at the
time to be wrong.  Had I died,--it would have been self-destruction. I
did not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such
feelings as these reflections gave me, I wonder at my recovery,--wonder
that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for
atonement to my God, and to you all, did not kill me at once.  Had I
died,--in what peculiar misery should I have left you, my nurse, my
friend, my sister!--You, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my
latter days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart!--How should
I have lived in YOUR remembrance!--My mother too! How could you have
consoled her!--I cannot express my own abhorrence of myself.  Whenever
I looked towards the past, I saw some duty neglected, or some failing
indulged.  Every body seemed injured by me.  The kindness, the
unceasing kindness of Mrs. Jennings, I had repaid with ungrateful
contempt.  To the Middletons, to the Palmers, the Steeles, to every
common acquaintance even, I had been insolent and unjust; with a heart
hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very
attention.--To John, to Fanny,--yes, even to them, little as they
deserve, I had given less than their due.  But you,--you above all,
above my mother, had been wronged by me.  I, and only I, knew your
heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?--not to any
compassion that could benefit you or myself.--Your example was before
me; but to what avail?--Was I more considerate of you and your comfort?
Did I imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking
any part in those offices of general complaisance or particular
gratitude which you had hitherto been left to discharge
alone?--No;--not less when I knew you to be unhappy, than when I had
believed you at ease, did I turn away from every exertion of duty or
friendship; scarcely allowing sorrow to exist but with me, regretting
only THAT heart which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for
whom I professed an unbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake."

Here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and Elinor,
impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly
that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well
deserved.  Marianne pressed her hand and replied,

"You are very good.--The future must be my proof.  I have laid down my
plan, and if I am capable of adhering to it--my feelings shall be
governed and my temper improved.  They shall no longer worry others,
nor torture myself.  I shall now live solely for my family.  You, my
mother, and Margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will
share my affections entirely between you.  From you, from my home, I
shall never again have the smallest incitement to move; and if I do mix
in other society, it will be only to shew that my spirit is humbled, my
heart amended, and that I can practise the civilities, the lesser
duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance.  As for Willoughby--to
say that I shall soon or that I shall ever forget him, would be idle.
His remembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances or
opinions.  But it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion,
by reason, by constant employment."

She paused--and added in a low voice, "If I could but know HIS heart,
everything would become easy."

Elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or
impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at all
nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as
reflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself
leading to the fact.

She managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her
anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief
points on which Willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his
repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard.
Marianne said not a word.--She trembled, her eyes were fixed on the
ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them.  A
thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge
one.  She caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand,
unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered
her cheeks.

Elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they
reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity
must be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing
but Willoughby, and their conversation together; and was carefully
minute in every particular of speech and look, where minuteness could
be safely indulged.  As soon as they entered the house, Marianne with a
kiss of gratitude and these two words just articulate through her
tears, "Tell mama," withdrew from her sister and walked slowly up
stairs.  Elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable
as what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its
result, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should Marianne
fail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfill her parting
injunction.



Chapter 46
Marianne improves rapidly, and soon receives a visit from Colonel Brandon. Her mother anxiously looks on, seeking signs of love. She believes that Marianne's attitude towards the Colonel is starting to change. Mrs. Dashwood begins to make plans to go back to Barton with her daughters. Mrs. Jennings and Colonel Brandon insist that the Dashwoods take his carriage to make their journey easier. He promises to make a visit to the cottage at Barton soon. As they leave for home, Marianne says goodbye fondly to Mrs. Jennings, and quite cordially to Colonel Brandon. After the Dashwoods leave, Mrs. Jennings and Colonel Brandon are left to their own devices; he goes home to Delaford, and she gossips with her maid. The Dashwoods take two days for their trip home, and Marianne seems particularly calm. Elinor is especially grateful for Marianne's seeming mental health. When they get home, Marianne seems sad, but otherwise OK - she appears to have decided to get over Willoughby. Everything reminds her of him, but she tries to get past these memories. The next day, Marianne is optimistic, and she and Elinor make plans to talk long walks and have a good summer. Marianne is determined to be more serious, and devote her time to reading and music. Elinor is pleased that her sister is taking her life seriously, instead of lolling around, indulging in her romantic fantasies. The only thing that mars her happiness is her promise to Willoughby, that she will tell Marianne everything. One day, the two sisters go for a walk. They pass the place where Marianne first met Willoughby, which sets her off on a pensive train of thought. She says that she would simply like to know that he actually felt something for her sometime. Elinor, happy with this statement, wants to know if it would settle Marianne's mind to know this. Marianne says it would, and Elinor wonders if she should tell all to her sister. Marianne goes on - apparently, her illness has made her think over a lot of things. She's realized that her own emotional weakness and imprudence are what led her to her own situation, and that she almost caused her own death by foolishness. She feels bad for everything she's put Elinor and Mrs. Dashwood through. Furthermore, she feels terrible for all the friends she's slighted or been rude to - the Middletons, Mrs. Jennings, the Palmers, the Steeles, and even John and Fanny. Most of all, Marianne feels as though she's wronged the people who mean the most to her - Elinor and their mother. She should have paid more attention to Elinor's behavior, and tried to be more like her. Even when she knew Elinor was unhappy, she wasn't sympathetic enough to her, and was too wrapped up in her own concerns about Willoughby. Elinor tells her sister that she shouldn't worry about it, and praises her for being so honest with herself. Marianne vows to be better in the future, and to be more like her sister. With regards to Willoughby, she promises that she will do her best to get over him. She only wishes she knew what had gone on with him, as it would make things easier for her. That's Elinor's cue. She reveals everything Willoughby told her, and observes her sister's reaction: Marianne is struck by it, and is clearly incredibly sad. She has a ton of questions, and weeps profusely. However, this behavior is much more measured and under control than the old Marianne. When the sisters get home, Marianne goes to her room to try and make sense of all of this, asking Elinor to tell their mother the whole story.