by Austen, Jane
“Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding your's. I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express.”
“I am sorry, exceedingly sorry,” replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise and emotion, “that you have ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner was so little to be trusted.”2
“You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering them.”
“If you will thank me,” he replied, “let it be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you, might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your family owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe, I thought only of you.”
Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause, her companion added, “You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever.”
Elizabeth feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand, that her sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude and pleasure, his present assurances. The happiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly3 and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do.4 Had Elizabeth been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him; but, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of feelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable.
They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him in her return through London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on every expression of the latter, which, in her ladyship's apprehension,5 peculiarly6 denoted her perverseness and assurance,7 in the belief that such a relation8 must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from her nephew, which she had refused to give. But, unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.
“It taught me to hope,” said he, “as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before.9 I knew enough of your disposition to be certain, that, had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly.”
Elizabeth coloured10 and laughed as she replied, “Yes, you know enough of my frankness to believe me capable oithat. After abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all your relations.”
“What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour to you at the time, had merited the severest reproof. It was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence.”
“We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that evening,” said Elizabeth. “The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved in civility.”11
“I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: ‘had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner.' Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;12 —though it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice.”
“I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way.”
“I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance13 I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed14 you in any possible way, that would induce you to accept me.”
“Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you, that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it.”
Darcy mentioned his letter. “Did it,” said he, “did it soon make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?”
She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed.
“I knew,” said he, “that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power of reading again. I can remember some expressions15 which might justly make you hate me.”16
“The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies.”17
“When I wrote that letter,” replied Darcy, “I believed myself perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit.”
“The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance attending it, ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure.”18
“I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. Your retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment arising from them, is not of philosophy, but what is much better, of ignorance.19 But with me, it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude, which cannot, which ought not to be repelled. I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle.20 As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper.211 was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. Unfortunately an only son, (for many years an only child)221 was spoilt by my parents, who though good themselves, (my father particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable,) allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond my own family circle, to think meanly23 of all the rest of the world, to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own.24 Such I was, from eight to eight and twenty;25 and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth!26 What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You shewed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.”
“Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?”
“Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be wishing, expecting my addresses.”
“My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally I assure you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits27 might often lead me wrong. H
ow you must have hated me after that evening?”
“Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take a proper direction.”
“I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me; when we met at Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?”
“No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise.”28
“Your surprise could not be greater than mine in being noticed by you. My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I confess that I did not expect to receive more than my due.”29
“My object then” replied Darcy, “was to shew you, by every civility in my power, that I was not so mean30 as to resent the past; and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an hour after I had seen you.”31
He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of her disappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading to the cause ofthat interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of following her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister, had been formed before he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness there, had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must comprehend.32
She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to each, to be dwelt on farther.
After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know any thing about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that it was time to be at home.
“What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!” was a wonder which introduced the discussion of their affairs. Darcy was delighted with their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of it.
“I must ask whether you were surprised?” said Elizabeth.
“Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen.”
“That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much.” And though he exclaimed at33 the term, she found that it had been pretty much the case.
“On the evening before my going to London,” said he “I made a confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told him of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his affairs, absurd and impertinent.34 His surprise was great. He had never had the slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent to him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together.”
Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his friend.
“Did you speak from your own observation,” said she, “when you told him that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?”
“From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits which I had lately made her here; and I was convinced of her affection.”
“And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to him.”
“It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but his reliance on mine, made every thing easy.35 I was obliged to confess one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was angry.36 But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained in any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me now.”
Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful friend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checked herself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laught at, and it was rather too early to begin.37 In anticipating the happiness of Bingley, which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the conversation till they reached the house.38 In the hall they parted.
1. His resolution could be to propose to her. Hers we see, and it could be made with the idea of provoking such a response in him.
2. Darcy has already shown how much he wishes to keep Elizabeth from learning of his assistance to Lydia, for which purpose he extracted strict promises of secrecy from the Gardiners and from Wickham and Lydia. Now he indicates the reason: fear of making her uneasy. What he probably feared most was that she would interpret his actions as an attempt to make her feel obliged to marry him in return; he may even have feared that she would actually feel such an obligation. Many in this society would consider themselves, or someone like Elizabeth, to be under such an obligation in this case: in one of Jane Austen's favorite novels, Fanny Burney's Camilla, the heroine is considered by her sisters to be morally obliged to marry a man, even though she does not wish to, after he gives critical financial assistance to her brother. Darcy, of course, would not want Elizabeth to be made uncomfortable in this way, nor to resent him because of what she might believe was manipulation on his part. Finally, as much as he wishes Elizabeth to marry him, he does not want her to do so out of a sense of obligation.
3. sensibly: vehemently, fervently. It is possible that “sensibly” is being used in the sense of rationally or with good sense, in which case the logical meaning would be that Darcy is not showing much reason or good sense (since that is what would be expected from a man violently in love). But this seems unlikely. While at this time the adjective “sensible” was already being used to mean rational or level-headed (as it is at points in this novel), the adverb form does not seem to have adopted a comparable meaning until later. “Sensibly” continued to mean acutely or with aroused feeling; that it meant such in this instance is indicated by its being paired with warmly.
4. As in other novels, Jane Austen only provides a general summary of what is said in a successful proposal. She always avoids relating enthusiastic lovers' talk (except when she ridicules foolish examples of it). In this scene she only returns to direct dialogue when the characters have resumed speaking in more analytical or ironic tones, the tones that are most congenial to Jane Austen.
5. apprehension: conception, view.
6. peculiarly: particularly.
7. assurance: audacity, impudence.
8. relation: account, i.e., relation of events.
9. Darcy's reluctance at this stage to be too hopeful about Elizabeth's willingness to accept him stands in contrast to his arrogant certainty before his Erst proposal.
10. coloured: blushed.
11. Both Darcy and Elizabeth are admitting their past wrongs, but they do so in different manners. She is more likely to look on it calmly and laugh about it. He, who has always tried to be so scrupulous in acting rightly and has prided himself on his success, is more severe, unable to think lightheart-edly about occasions when he failed in that endeavor. He also is inclined to reproach only himself, rather than to call them both at fault as she does. Thus, even as both have genuinely changed in important respects, they continue to display certain characteristic traits.
12. Darcy was shown starting at her words when she uttered them. For him failure to act like a gentleman would be the greatest catastrophe, and this was probably one of the only, if not the only, time in his adult life when he was directly accused ofthat (at least by someone whose opinion he valued).
13. turn of your countenance: manner or character of your facial expression.
14. addressed: proposed to, courted.
15. expressions: statements, choices of words.
16. It was the opening of the letter where Darcy displayed his resentment at her rejection, as well as his remaining pride. At the same time, it was not so bad as to make someone likely to hate the writer—Darcy is again showing his tendency to hold himself up to the strictest possible standards.
17. That is, Elizabeth—once more introducing an element of playfulness into Darcy's solemn reflections—asserts, with a slight tone of mock offense, that he should trust that her fe
elings are not so changeable that they would be turned against him by a simple rereading of his letter.
18. Elizabeth's stated philosophy here stands in contradiction to her own earlier behavior, when she engaged in many painful reflections on her mistakes and faulty conduct. Her change to a more lighthearted perspective could reflect her happier condition now that Darcy has proposed; in other words, she, like many people, is only inclined to reproach herself for errors while she is actually suffering their ill effects. It is also possible she is simply responding to Darcy: she sees him inclined to dwell, more than she thinks he should, on his own errors, and she wishes to divert his thoughts from that. If so, her action would form an early example of the “ease and liveliness” she has already identified as a principal benefit she could impart to Darcy in the event of their union.
19. In other words, Darcy says that because Elizabeth, unlike himself, has acted so well, she can simply ignore or not think about her past deeds, which means she has no need of any special philosophy in order to feel contented.
20. One commentator (Lord David Cecil) has described Darcy as confessing to “the besetting weakness of all men who, though conscientious and unegotistic, are accustomed to have their own way.” Such characteristics, though they undoubtedly could be found anywhere, may have abounded particularly among upper-class males of this society, who tended to be educated in strict principles while also being accorded high status and endowed with great power over others. Jane Austen probably observed a number of examples of this herself.
21. temper: disposition. Meaning that he was not taught to be more friendly and affable toward others.
22. Darcy is 28, while his sister is only 16, so he would have been an only child for his first twelve years.
23. meanly: disdainfully.
24. This account of Darcy as a child differs from the laudatory one of the housekeeper at Pemberley (p. 452). One possible explanation for the discrepancy is that the housekeeper judged Darcy mainly by his behavior to those within the family circle, possibly including family servants, and they are the ones Darcy says he did care about. Another possible explanation is that one or both of their accounts are biased, with either the housekeeper being inclined to praise her master excessively or Darcy being inclined to condemn himself excessively—which he might wish to do at this time since he is describing the badness of the habits that Elizabeth forced him to confront and reform.
