The Books: “Sense and Sensibility” (Jane Austen)

Daily Book Excerpt: Adult fiction:

Sense and Sensibility – by Jane Austen.

I know Willoughby is a user. And a weak man. And what he did was unforgivable. And Marianne is well to be rid of him. But for me, this excerpt below is pretty much the most heart-wrenching in the book. Ouch, man. OUCH.

Marianne has had a life-threatening illness. Due to her heartbreak over the loss of Willoughby. Marianne and Elinor are holed up at the Palmers house … recovering. The cranky (yet kind at heart) Hugh Laurie has given up his mansion to the invalid. And one day, with no warning, Willoughby appears. He has gotten word that Marianne might die. He and Elinor talk. She is not predisposed to think well of him, to forgive him. He tries to explain why, why he did what he did. And then …

OUCH.

Excerpt from Sense and Sensibility – by Jane Austen.

A short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded. Willoughby, first rousing himself, broke it thus:

“Well, let me make haste and be gone. Your sister is certainly better, certainly out of danger?”

“We are assured of it.”

“Your poor mother too! — doting on Marianne.”

“But the letter, Mr. Willoughby, your own letter; have you anything to say about that?”

“Yes, yes, that in particular. Your sister wrote to me again, you know, the very next morning. You saw what she said. I was breakfasting at the Ellisons’; and her letter, with some others, was brought to me there from my lodgings. It happened to catch Sophia’ eye before it caught mine; and its size, the elegance of the paper, the handwriting, altogether immediately gave her a suspicion. Some vague report had reached her before of my attachment to some young lady in Devonshire, and what had passed within her observation the preceding evening had marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous than ever. Affecting the air of playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its contents. She was well paid for her impudence. She read what made her wretched. Her wretchedness I could have borne, but her passion – her malice – at all events it must be appeased. And in short, what do you think of my wife’s style of letter writing? Delicate, tender, truly feminine – was it not?”

“Your wife! The letter was in your own handwriting.”

“Yes, but I had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as I was ashamed to put my name to. The original was all her own, her own happy thoughts and gentle diction. But what could I do? We were engaged, everything in preparation, the day almost fixed – but I am talking like a fool. Preparation! Day! In honest words, her money was necessary to me, and in a situation like mine anything was to be done to prevent a rupture. And, after all, what did it signify to my character in the opinion of Marianne and her friends, in what language my answer was couched? It must have been only to one end. My business was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether I did it with a bow or a bluster was of little importance. ‘I am ruined for ever in their opinion,’ said I to myself; ‘I am shut out for ever from their society; they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will only make them think me a blackguard one.’ Such were my reasonings as, in a sort of desperate carelessness, I copied my wife’s words, and parted with the last relics of Marianne. Her three notes – unluckily they were all in my pocket-book, or I should have denied their existence, and hoarded them for ever; I was forced to put them up, and could not even kiss them. And the lock of hair – that, too, I had always carried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by Madam with the most ingratiating virulence – the dear lock – all, every memento was torn from me.”

“You are very wrong, Mr. Willoughby, very blameable,” said Elinor, while her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion; “you ought not to speak in this way, either of Mrs. Willoughby or my sister. You hae made your own choice. It was not forced on you. Your wife has a claim to your politeness, your respect, at least. She must be attached to you, or she would not have married you. To treat her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly, is no atonement to Marianne, nor can I suppose it a relief to your own conscience.”

“Do not talk to me of my wife,” said he, with a heavy sigh. “She does not deserve your compassion. She knew I had no regard for her when we married. Well, married we were, and came down to Combe Magna to be happy; and afterwards returned to town to be gay. And, now do you pity me, Miss Dashwood? Or have I said all this to no purpose? Am I – be it only one degree – am I less guilty in your opinion than I was before? My intentions were not always wrong. Have I explained away any part of my guilt?”

“Yes, you have certainly removed something – a little. You have proved yourself, on the whole, less faulty than I had believed you. You have proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked. But I hardly know – the misery that you have inflicted – I hardly know what could have made it worse.”

“Would you repeat to your sister, when she is recovered, what I have been telling you? Let me be a little lightened, too, in her opinion as well as in yours. You tell me that she has forgiven me already. Let me be able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified forgiveness. Tellh er of my misery and my penitence, tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever.”

“I will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be called your justification. But you have not explained to me the particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness.”

“Last night, in Drury Lane lobby, I ran against Sir John Middleton, and when he saw who I was (for the first time these two months) he spoke to me. That he had cut me ever since my marriage, I had seen without surprise or resentment. Now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister, could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought to, though probably he did not think it would, vex me horribly. As bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that Marianne Dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at Cleveland – a letter that morning received from Mrs. Jennings declared her danger most imminent – the Palmers all gone off in a fright, etc. I was too much shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible, even to the undiscerning Sir John. His heart was softened in seeing mine suffer; and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he almost shook me by the hand, while he reminded me of an old promise about a pointer puppy. What I felt on hearing that your sister was dying – and dying, too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in her latest moments – for how could I tell what horried projects might not have been imputed? One person I was sure would represent me as capable of anything. What I felt was dreadful! My resolution was soon made, and at eight o’clock this morning I was in my carriage. Now you know all.”

Elinor made no answer. Her thoughts were silently fixed on the irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the character, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person and talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a feeling, affectionate temper. The world had made him extravagant and vain; extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish. Vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least its offspring necessity, had required to be sacrificed. Each faulty propensity, in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment/. The attachment from which against honour, against feeling, against every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the sake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more incurable nature. From a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the end of some minutes by Willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and said:

“There is no use in staying here; I must be off.”

“Are you going back to town?”

“No, to Combe Magna. I have business there; from thence to town in a day or two. Good-bye.”

He held out his hand. She could not refuse to give him hers; he pressed it with affection.

“And you do think something better of me than you did?” said he, letting it fall, and leaning against the mantelpiece, as if forgetting he was to go.

Elinor assured him that she did; that she forgave, pitied him, wished him well – was even interested in his happiness – and added some gentle counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it. His answer was not very encouraging.

“As to that,” said he, “I must rub through the world as well as I can. Domestic happiness is out of the question. If, however, I am allowed to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means – it may put me on my guard – at least, it may be something to live for. Marianne, to be sure, is lost to me for ever. Were I even, by any blessed chance, at liberty again –”

Elinor stopped him with a reproof.

“Well,” he replied, “once more good-bye. I shall now go away and live in dread of one event.”

“What do you mean?”

“Your sister’s marriage.”

“You are very wrong. She can never be more lost to you than she is now.”

“But she will be gained by some one else. And if that some one should be the very he, whom, of all others, I could least bear —– But I will not stay to rob myself of all your compassionate good-will by showing that where I have most injured I can least forgive. Good-bye; God bless you!”

And with these words, he almost ran out of the room.