by Jane Austen
“Upon my word! Well, that is very decided indeed—that does seem as if—but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know.”
“My overhearings were more to the purpose than yours, Eliza,” said Charlotte. “Mr Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend, is he?—poor Eliza!—to be only just tolerable.”
Elizabeth Bennet offered her friend a warm smile. She had tried not to be pained by the slur, for she remembered the unbridled heat in the man’s eyes when he had looked over her, but the words had been cutting nonetheless. And why he had felt the need to dismiss her out of hand still perplexed her. It was odd and incomprehensible behaviour.
“I beg you would not put it into Lizzy’s head to be vexed by his ill-treatment, for he is such a disagreeable man, that it would be quite a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs Long told me last night that he sat close to her for half-an-hour without once opening his lips.”
“Are you quite sure, ma’am?—is not there a little mistake?” said Jane. “I certainly saw Mr Darcy speaking to her.”
“Aye—because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he could not help answering her, but she said he seemed quite angry at being spoke to.”
Elizabeth could not help but be comforted by the news, though she did not make her feelings known to her friends.
“Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, “that he never speaks much, unless among his intimate acquaintances. With them he is remarkably agreeable.”
Elizabeth speculated privately how differently Mr Darcy would indeed behave among his intimate acquaintances. She imagined his face would be quite the sight to behold if warmth shone in his eyes and his mouth was curved into a pleasant and welcoming smile.
“I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs Long. But I can guess how it was, everybody says that he is eat up with pride, and I dare say he had heard somehow that Mrs Long does not keep a carriage, and had come to the ball in a hack chaise.”
“I do not mind his not talking to Mrs Long,” said Miss Lucas, “but I wish he had danced with Eliza.”
Elizabeth tried to fight them, but images of being held in Mr Darcy’s arms while they sailed around a dance floor flashed through her mind. Though they were at no assembly—they were alone and had eyes only for each other. And as the soft, entrancing music filled the space around them, he would pull her closer to his body and…
“Another time, Lizzy,” said her mother, “I would not dance with him, if I were you.”
Elizabeth shook the images from her mind. “I believe, ma’am, I may safely promise you never to dance with him.”
“His pride,” said Miss Lucas, “does not offend me so much as pride often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so very fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour, should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a right to be proud.”
“That is very true,” replied Elizabeth, “and I could easily forgive his pride, if he had not mortified mine.”
“Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her reflections, “is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed, that human nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.”
Elizabeth pondered Mary’s wise words. Was Mr Darcy vain, was he proud, or a combination of the two? Elizabeth did not know him well enough to speculate, though his behaviour at the assembly had certainly been such that she could indeed label him as both.
“If I were as rich as Mr Darcy,” cried a young Lucas, who came with his sisters, “I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine a day.”
“Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,” said Mrs Bennet, “and if I were to see you at it, I should take away your bottle directly.”
The boy protested that she should not, she continued to declare that she would, and the argument ended only with the visit.
Chapter Six
The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit was soon returned in due form. Miss Bennet’s pleasing manners grew on the goodwill of Mrs Hurst and Miss Bingley, and though the mother was found to be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth speaking to, a wish of being better acquainted with them was expressed towards the two eldest. By Jane, this attention was received with the greatest pleasure, but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment of everybody, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them, though their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in all probability from the influence of their brother’s admiration. It was generally evident whenever they met, that he did admire her and to her it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference which she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a way to be very much in love. But she considered with pleasure that it was not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane united, with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and a uniform cheerfulness of manner which would guard her from the suspicions of the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas.
“It may perhaps be pleasant,” replied Charlotte, “to be able to impose on the public in such a case, but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him, and it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all begin freely—a slight preference is natural enough, but there are very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement. In nine cases out of ten a woman had better show more affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly, but he may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on.”
“But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If I can perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton, indeed, not to discover it too.”
“Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane’s disposition as you do.”
“But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal it, he must find it out.”
“Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But, though Bingley and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together, and, as they always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should therefore make the most of every half-hour in which she can command his attention. When she is secure of him, there will be more leisure for falling in love as much as she chooses.”
“Your plan is a good one,” replied Elizabeth, “where nothing is in question but the desire of being well married, and if I were determined to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But these are not Jane’s feelings, she is not acting by design. As yet, she cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard nor of its reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four dances with him at Meryton, she saw him one morning at his own house, and has since dined with him in company four times. This is not quite enough to make her understand his character.”
“Not as you represent it. Had she merely dined with him, she might only have discovered whether he had a good appetite, but you must remember that four evenings have also been spent together—and four evenings may do a great deal.”
“Yes, these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they both like Vingt-un better than Commerce, but with respect to any other leading characteris
tic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded.”
“Well,” said Charlotte, “I wish Jane success with all my heart, and if she were married to him tomorrow, I should think she had as good a chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other or ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of vexation, and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life.”
“You make me laugh, Charlotte, but it is not sound. You know it is not sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself.”
Occupied in observing Mr Bingley’s attentions to her sister, Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty. After their initial eye contact, during which Elizabeth had been certain something passed between them, he had looked at her without admiration at the ball, and when they next met, he had looked at her only to criticise. But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she hardly had a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and pleasing, and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of this she was perfectly unaware. To her he was only the man who made himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough to dance with. Elizabeth refused to think about his nightly visits in her dreams or the way her heart began to beat rapidly on the occasions during which they were in close proximity.
Mr Darcy began to wish to know more of Elizabeth, and as a step towards conversing with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas’s, where a large party were assembled, that his sudden turnaround both surprised and confused Miss Bennet.
“What does Mr Darcy mean,” said she to Charlotte, “by listening to my conversation with Colonel Forster?”
“That is a question which Mr Darcy only can answer.”
“But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him.”
On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such a subject to him, which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she turned to him and said, “Did you not think, Mr Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?”
“With great energy, but it is always a subject which makes a lady energetic.”
Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. “You are severe on us, sir.”
“It will be her turn soon to be teased,” said Miss Lucas. “I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows.”
“You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!—always wanting me to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable, but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers.” On Miss Lucas’s persevering, however, she added, “Very well, if it must be so, it must.” And gravely glancing at Mr Darcy, “There is a fine old saying, which everybody here is of course familiar with. ‘Keep your breath to cool your porridge, and I shall keep mine to swell my song.’”
Mr Darcy nodded his accord through a tight-lipped smile, and before she took leave to play, he bowed low, his eyes meeting hers. Elizabeth was quite captivated and though she tried, she could not look away. Her breath caught in her chest as his expression rearranged itself to that of appraisal, equivalent to the night they had first met. Elizabeth finally lowered her gaze and curtsied.
“Mr Darcy,” said she, her voice breathy and tinged with a cadence the likes of which she had never before heard upon her lips.
Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always impatient for display.
Mary had neither genius nor taste, and though vanity had given her application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with much more pleasure, though not playing half so well. Mary, at the end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who, with some of the Lucases, and two or three officers, joined eagerly in dancing at one end of the room.
Mr Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too much engrossed by his thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas was his neighbour, till Sir William thus began, “What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr Darcy! There is nothing like dancing after all. I consider it as one of the first refinements of polished society.”
“Certainly, sir, and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world. Every savage can dance.”
Sir William only smiled. “Your friend performs delightfully,” he continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group, “and I doubt not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr Darcy.”
“You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir.”
“Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do you often dance at St James’s?”
“Never, sir.”
“Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?”
“It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it.”
“You have a house in town, I conclude?”
Mr Darcy bowed.
“I had once had some thought of fixing in town myself—for I am fond of superior society, but I did not feel quite certain that the air of London would agree with Lady Lucas.”
He paused in hopes of an answer, but his companion was not disposed to make any, and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was struck with the action of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to her, “My dear Miss Eliza, why are you not dancing? Mr Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure when so much beauty is before you.” And, taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr Darcy who, though extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William, “Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.”
Mr Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the honour of her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined. Nor did Sir William at all shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion.
“You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me the happiness of seeing you, and though this gentleman dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one half-hour.”
“Mr Darcy is all politeness,” said Elizabeth, smiling.
“He is, indeed, but, considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza, we cannot wonder at his complaisance—for who would object to such a part
ner?”
Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not injured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley.
“I can guess the subject of your reverie,” she said.
Mr Darcy doubted it to be so. If Miss Bingley were to guess at the manner of his thoughts she would be quite scandalised. “I should imagine not,” said he.
“You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner—in such society, and indeed I am quite of your opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise—the nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all those people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!”
“Your conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow.”
Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections.
Mr Darcy replied with great intrepidity. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet.”
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet!” repeated Miss Bingley. “I am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite?—and pray, when am I to wish you joy?”
“That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady’s imagination is very rapid. It jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy.”
“Nay, if you are serious about it, I shall consider the matter is absolutely settled. You will be having a charming mother-in-law, indeed, and, of course, she will always be at Pemberley with you.”
