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Sense and Sensibility Marianne Dashwood Quotes

"Elinor," cried Marianne, "is this fair? is this just? are my ideas so scanty? But I see what you mean. I have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank. I have erred against every common-place notion of decorum! I have been open and sincere where I ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful. Had I talked only of the weather and the roads, and had I spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared." (10.5)

Again, we see Marianne struggling with notions of what a proper lady does. While she can recognize crimes against convention in others (such as Mrs. Jennings), she always hotly defends her own conduct when it's outside the realm of the ordinary or proper.

"I have not a doubt of it," said Marianne; "and I have nothing to regret -- nothing but my own folly." (47.8)

Marianne's views on love are clearly changing – she recognizes that she herself was a fool for love with Willoughby, and now repents.

Many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so much beloved. "Dear, dear Norland!" said Marianne, as she wandered alone before the house, on the last evening of their being there; "when shall I cease to regret you? -- when learn to feel a home elsewhere? -- Oh happy house! could you know what I suffer in now viewing you from this spot, from whence perhaps I may view you no more! -- And you, ye well-known trees! -- but you will continue the same. -- No leaf will decay because we are removed, nor any branch become motionless although we can observe you no longer! -- No; you will continue the same; unconscious of the pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any change in those who walk under your shade! -- But who will remain to enjoy you?" (5.8)

Marianne's lament to Norland is a heartfelt one – she sounds melodramatic, but she's serious. Imagine leaving the only home you've ever known – that's about how the Dashwoods feel! Underneath Marianne's poetic pretension, there's genuine feeling.

"That is an expression, Sir John," said Marianne warmly, "which I particularly dislike. I abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is intended; and 'setting one's cap at a man,' or 'making a conquest,' are the most odious of all. Their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity." (9.16)

Marianne expresses her dislike for perfectly normal colloquial speech, which she finds too crude entirely. While Sir John could be a bit less direct and blunt, we have to say that he does manage to communicate more clearly than some of the other characters. Perhaps some of Marianne's troubles come from her desire to phrase everything poetically.

At last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to him. He approached, and addressing himself rather to Elinor than Marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after Mrs. Dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town. Elinor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word. But the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed. Her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed in a voice of the greatest emotion, "Good God! Willoughby, what is the meaning of this? Have you not received my letters? Will you not shake hands with me?" (28.6)

Again, we see a kind of odd disconnect between modes of conversation, even when two people are standing face to face. Willoughby is playing the stiff upper lip society guy, while Marianne, unable to pretend, speaks directly – a rare occurrence in any of the conversations we've seen.

The sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return of the same excessive affliction. It was some minutes before she could go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the last time to Willoughby. (29.2)

The only clear line of communication available here is letter writing – it's only in written form that Marianne can say what she was unable to say to Willoughby in person.

Elinor was much more hurt by Marianne's warmth, than she had been by what produced it; but Colonel Brandon's eyes, as they were fixed on Marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable in it; the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister slighted in the smallest point.

Marianne's feelings did not stop here. The cold insolence of Mrs. Ferrars's general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell such difficulties and distresses to Elinor, as her own wounded heart taught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of affectionate sensibility, she moved, after a moment, to her sister's chair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers, said in a low, but eager voice:

"Dear, dear Elinor, don't mind them. Don't let them make you unhappy." (34.34-35)

Marianne's sisterly love emerges here, proving that, despite their troubles, Elinor and Marianne have a profound bond. Perhaps a little too profound on Marianne's part, based on her uncontrollable emotions.

"It is a great relief to me -- what Elinor told me this morning -- I have now heard exactly what I wished to hear." For some moments her voice was lost; but, recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness than before: "I am now perfectly satisfied, I wish for no change. I never could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or later I must have known, all this. I should have had no confidence, no esteem. Nothing could have done it away to my feelings." (47.5)

Marianne recognizes, after hearing Willoughby's true story, that their breakup was for the best – a life forever with someone as inconsistent and untrustworthy as he is would have been ultimately miserable.

"A woman of seven-and-twenty," said Marianne, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again; and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, I can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife. In his marrying such a woman, therefore, there would be nothing unsuitable. It would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied. In my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing. To me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other." (8.4)

Marianne's view of love and marriage (and who merits either of them) is extremely prejudiced – her attitude is what we would call ageist these days. She seems to believe that the capability to love simply dissipates after the age of 25 or so; this is a ridiculously youth-centric and ultimately rather pessimistic way of looking at the prospect of matrimony.

"Strange if 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." (17.2)

Wealth, we see here, means different things to different people. To Elinor (and Edward), it's simply a certain level of comfort – but to Marianne, there's a base level of luxury that she can't imagine herself living without. Of course, this idea is attuned to what her life with Willoughby would be like.

Edward is very amiable, and I love him tenderly. But yet, he is not the kind of young man -- there is a something wanting, his figure is not striking -- it has none of that grace which I should expect in the man who could seriously attach my sister. His eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence. And besides all this, I am afraid, mama, he has no real taste. Music seems scarcely to attract him, and though he admires Elinor's drawings very much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their worth. It is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter. He admires as a lover, not as a connoisseur. To satisfy me, those characters must be united. I could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own. He must enter into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm us both. (3.11)

Marianne shows us her dreams for the future here – she clearly has a mystery man already composed in her mind, and is just waiting for him to show up in real life.