Jane Austin
Pride and Prejudice
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Inhaltsverzeichnis
Titel
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 12
Impressum neobooks
Pride and Prejudice
By Jane Austen
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in
possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be
on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well
fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is
considered the rightful property of some one or other of their
daughters.
“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one day, “have you
heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?”
Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
“But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and
she told me all about it.”
Mr. Bennet made no answer.
“Do you not want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife
impatiently.
“_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”
This was invitation enough.
“Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is
taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England;
that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the
place, and was so much delighted with it, that he agreed with Mr.
Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before
Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by
the end of next week.”
“What is his name?”
“Bingley.”
“Is he married or single?”
“Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune;
four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!”
“How so? How can it affect them?”
“My dear Mr. Bennet,” replied his wife, “how can you be so
tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of
them.”
“Is that his design in settling here?”
“Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely
that he _may_ fall in love with one of them, and therefore you
must visit him as soon as he comes.”
“I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may
send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for
as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley may like you
the best of the party.”
“My dear, you flatter me. I certainly _have_ had my share of
beauty, but I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now.
When a woman has five grown-up daughters, she ought to give over
thinking of her own beauty.”
“In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of.”
“But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he
comes into the neighbourhood.”
“It is more than I engage for, I assure you.”
“But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it
would be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are
determined to go, merely on that account, for in general, you
know, they visit no newcomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be
impossible for _us_ to visit him if you do not.”
“You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be
very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to
assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying whichever he
chooses of the girls; though I must throw in a good word for my
little Lizzy.”
“I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better
than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as
Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always
giving _her_ the preference.”
“They have none of them much to recommend them,” replied he;
“they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has
something more of quickness than her sisters.”
“Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way?
You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor
nerves.”
“You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves.
They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with
consideration these last twenty years at least.”
“Ah, you do not know what I suffer.”
“But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men
of four thousand a year come into the neighbourhood.”
“It will be no use to us, if twenty such should come, since you
will not visit them.”
“Depend upon it, my dear, that when there are twenty, I will
visit them all.”
Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour,
reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty
years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his
character. _Her_ mind was less difficult to develop. She was a
woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain
temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous.
The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its
solace was visiting and news.
Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr.
Bingley. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last
always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the
evening after the visit was paid she had no knowledge of it. It
was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second
daughter employed in trimming a hat, he suddenly addressed her
with:
“I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy.”
“We are not in a way to know _what_ Mr. Bingley likes,” said her
mother resentfully, “since we are not to visit.”
“But you forget, mamma,” said Elizabeth, “that we shall meet him
at the assemblies, and that Mrs. Long promised to introduce him.”
“I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two
nieces of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I
have no opinion of her.”
“No more have I,” said Mr. Bennet; “and I am glad to find that
you do not depend on her serving you.”
Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply, but, unable to contain
herself, began scolding one of her daughters.
“Don’t keep coughing so, Kitty, for Heaven’s sake! Have a little
compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces.”
“Kitty has no discretion in her coughs,” said her father; “she
times them ill.”
“I do not cough for my own amusement,” replied Kitty fretfully.
“When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?”
“To-morrow fortnight.”
“Aye, so it is,” cried her mother, “and Mrs. Long does not come
back till the day before; so it will be impossible for her to
introduce him, for she will not know him herself.”
“Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and
introduce Mr. Bingley to _her_.”
“Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted
with him myself; how can you be so teasing?”
“I honour your circumspection. A fortnight’s acquaintance is
certainly very little. One cannot know what a man really is by
the end of a fortnight. But if _we_ do not venture somebody else
will; and after all, Mrs. Long and her nieces must stand their
chance; and, therefore, as she will think it an act of kindness,
if you decline the office, I will take it on myself.”
The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only,
“Nonsense, nonsense!”
“What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?” cried he.
“Do you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that
is laid on them, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you
_there_. What say you, Mary? For you are a young lady of deep
reflection, I know, and read great books and make extracts.”
Mary wished to say something sensible, but knew not how.
“While Mary is adjusting her ideas,” he continued, “let us return
to Mr. Bingley.”
“I am sick of Mr. Bingley,” cried his wife.
“I am sorry to hear _that_; but why did not you tell me that
before? If I had known as much this morning I certainly would not
have called on him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually
paid the visit, we cannot escape the acquaintance now.”
The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of
Mrs. Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though, when the first
tumult of joy was over, she began to declare that it was what she
had expected all the while.
“How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should
persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to
neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is
such a good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning and
never said a word about it till now.”
“Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose,” said Mr.
Bennet; and, as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the
raptures of his wife.
“What an excellent father you have, girls!” said she, when the
door was shut. “I do not know how you will ever make him amends
for his kindness; or me, either, for that matter. At our time of
life it is not so pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new
acquaintances every day; but for your sakes, we would do
anything. Lydia, my love, though you _are_ the youngest, I dare
say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next ball.”
“Oh!” said Lydia stoutly, “I am not afraid; for though I _am_ the
youngest, I’m the tallest.”
The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he
would return Mr. Bennet’s visit, and determining when they should
ask him to dinner.
Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her
five daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw
from her husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley.
They attacked him in various ways—with barefaced questions,
ingenious suppositions, and distant surmises; but he eluded the
skill of them all, and they were at last obliged to accept the
second-hand intelligence of their neighbour, Lady Lucas. Her
report was highly favourable. Sir William had been delighted with
him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely
agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next
assembly with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To
be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love;
and very lively hopes of Mr. Bingley’s heart were entertained.
“If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at
Netherfield,” said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, “and all the
others equally well married, I shall have nothing to wish for.”
In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet’s visit, and sat
about ten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained
hopes of being admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose
beauty he had heard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies
were somewhat more fortunate, for they had the advantage of
ascertaining from an upper window that he wore a blue coat, and
rode a black horse.
An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and
already had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do
credit to her housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred
it all. Mr. Bingley was obliged to be in town the following day,
and, consequently, unable to accept the honour of their
invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite disconcerted. She could
not imagine what business he could have in town so soon after his
arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that he might be
always flying about from one place to another, and never settled
at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a
little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to
get a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that
Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with
him to the assembly. The girls grieved over such a number of
ladies, but were comforted the day before the ball by hearing,
that instead of twelve he brought only six with him from
London—his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered
the assembly room it consisted of only five altogether—Mr.
Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and another
young man.
Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant
countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine
women, with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr.
Hurst, merely looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon
drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome
features, noble mien, and the report which was in general
circulation within five minutes after his entrance, of his having
ten thousand a year. The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine
figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer than
Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration for about
half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which turned
the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud; to
be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his
large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most
forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be
compared with his friend.
Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the
principal people in the room; he was lively and unreserved,
danced every dance, was angry that the ball closed so early, and
talked of giving one himself at Netherfield. Such amiable
qualities must speak for themselves. What a contrast between him
and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced only once with Mrs. Hurst and
once with Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to any other
lady, and spent the rest of the evening in walking about the
room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party. His
character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man
in the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there
again. Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet,
whose dislike of his general behaviour was sharpened into
particular resentment by his having slighted one of her
daughters.
Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen,
to sit down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr.
Darcy had been standing near enough for her to hear a
conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance
for a few minutes, to press his friend to join it.
“Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you
standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much
better dance.”
“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am
particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as
this it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and
there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a
punishment to me to stand up with.”
“I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Mr. Bingley,
“for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant
girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of
them you see uncommonly pretty.”
“_You_ are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said
Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.
“Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there
is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very
pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner
to introduce you.”
“Which do you mean?” and turning round he looked for a moment at
Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly
said: “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt _me_; I
am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies
who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your
partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with
me.”
Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and
Elizabeth remained with no very cordial feelings toward him. She
told the story, however, with great spirit among her friends; for
she had a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in
anything ridiculous.
The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family.
Mrs. Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the
Netherfield party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she
had been distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified
by this as her mother could be, though in a quieter way.
Elizabeth felt Jane’s pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned
to Miss Bingley as the most accomplished girl in the
neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been fortunate enough
never to be without partners, which was all that they had yet
learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good
spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which
they were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still
up. With a book he was regardless of time; and on the present
occasion he had a good deal of curiosity as to the event of an
evening which had raised such splendid expectations. He had
rather hoped that his wife’s views on the stranger would be
disappointed; but he soon found out that he had a different story
to hear.
“Oh, my dear Mr. Bennet,” as she entered the room, “we have had a
most delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had
been there. Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it.
Everybody said how well she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her
quite beautiful, and danced with her twice! Only think of _that_,
my dear; he actually danced with her twice! and she was the only
creature in the room that he asked a second time. First of all,
he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand up with her!
But, however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody can,
you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going
down the dance. So he enquired who she was, and got introduced,
and asked her for the two next. Then the two third he danced with
Miss King, and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth
with Jane again, and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the
_Boulanger_—”
“If he had had any compassion for _me_,” cried her husband
impatiently, “he would not have danced half so much! For God’s
sake, say no more of his partners. Oh that he had sprained his
ankle in the first dance!”
“Oh! my dear, I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively
handsome! And his sisters are charming women. I never in my life
saw anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace
upon Mrs. Hurst’s gown—”
Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any
description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another
branch of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of
spirit and some exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.
“But I can assure you,” she added, “that Lizzy does not lose much
by not suiting _his_ fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid
man, not at all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that
there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he walked there,
fancying himself so very great! Not handsome enough to dance
with! I wish you had been there, my dear, to have given him one
of your set-downs. I quite detest the man.”
When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been
cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her
sister just how very much she admired him.
“He is just what a young man ought to be,” said she, “sensible,
good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!—so
much ease, with such perfect good breeding!”
“He is also handsome,” replied Elizabeth, “which a young man
ought likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is
thereby complete.”
“I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second
time. I did not expect such a compliment.”
“Did not you? _I_ did for you. But that is one great difference
between us. Compliments always take _you_ by surprise, and _me_
never. What could be more natural than his asking you again? He
could not help seeing that you were about five times as pretty as
every other woman in the room. No thanks to his gallantry for
that. Well, he certainly is very agreeable, and I give you leave
to like him. You have liked many a stupider person.”
“Dear Lizzy!”
“Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in
general. You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good
and agreeable in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a
human being in your life.”
“I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I always
speak what I think.”
“I know you do; and it is _that_ which makes the wonder. With
_your_ good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and
nonsense of others! Affectation of candour is common enough—one
meets with it everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or
design—to take the good of everybody’s character and make it
still better, and say nothing of the bad—belongs to you alone.
And so you like this man’s sisters, too, do you? Their manners
are not equal to his.”
“Certainly not—at first. But they are very pleasing women when
you converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother,
and keep his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a
very charming neighbour in her.”
Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced; their
behaviour at the assembly had not been calculated to please in
general; and with more quickness of observation and less pliancy
of temper than her sister, and with a judgement too unassailed by
any attention to herself, she was very little disposed to approve
them. They were in fact very fine ladies; not deficient in good
humour when they were pleased, nor in the power of making
themselves agreeable when they chose it, but proud and conceited.
They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the first
private seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand
pounds, were in the habit of spending more than they ought, and
of associating with people of rank, and were therefore in every
respect entitled to think well of themselves, and meanly of
others. They were of a respectable family in the north of
England; a circumstance more deeply impressed on their memories
than that their brother’s fortune and their own had been acquired
by trade.
Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred
thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an
estate, but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it
likewise, and sometimes made choice of his county; but as he was
now provided with a good house and the liberty of a manor, it was
doubtful to many of those who best knew the easiness of his
temper, whether he might not spend the remainder of his days at
Netherfield, and leave the next generation to purchase.
His sisters were anxious for his having an estate of his own;
but, though he was now only established as a tenant, Miss Bingley
was by no means unwilling to preside at his table—nor was Mrs.
Hurst, who had married a man of more fashion than fortune, less
disposed to consider his house as her home when it suited her.
Mr. Bingley had not been of age two years, when he was tempted by
an accidental recommendation to look at Netherfield House. He did
look at it, and into it for half-an-hour—was pleased with the
situation and the principal rooms, satisfied with what the owner
said in its praise, and took it immediately.
Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in
spite of great opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to
Darcy by the easiness, openness, and ductility of his temper,
though no disposition could offer a greater contrast to his own,
and though with his own he never appeared dissatisfied. On the
strength of Darcy’s regard, Bingley had the firmest reliance, and
of his judgement the highest opinion. In understanding, Darcy was
the superior. Bingley was by no means deficient, but Darcy was
clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and
fastidious, and his manners, though well-bred, were not inviting.
In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was
sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually
giving offense.
The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was
sufficiently characteristic. Bingley had never met with more
pleasant people or prettier girls in his life; everybody had been
most kind and attentive to him; there had been no formality, no
stiffness; he had soon felt acquainted with all the room; and, as
to Miss Bennet, he could not conceive an angel more beautiful.
Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a collection of people in whom
there was little beauty and no fashion, for none of whom he had
felt the smallest interest, and from none received either
attention or pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty,
but she smiled too much.
Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so—but still they
admired her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl,
and one whom they would not object to know more of. Miss Bennet
was therefore established as a sweet girl, and their brother felt
authorized by such commendation to think of her as he chose.
Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the
Bennets were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been
formerly in trade in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable
fortune, and risen to the honour of knighthood by an address to
the king during his mayoralty. The distinction had perhaps been
felt too strongly. It had given him a disgust to his business,
and to his residence in a small market town; and, in quitting
them both, he had removed with his family to a house about a mile
from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge, where he
could think with pleasure of his own importance, and, unshackled
by business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all the
world. For, though elated by his rank, it did not render him
supercilious; on the contrary, he was all attention to everybody.
By nature inoffensive, friendly, and obliging, his presentation
at St. James’s had made him courteous.
Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a
valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The
eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about
twenty-seven, was Elizabeth’s intimate friend.
That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk
over a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the
assembly brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to
communicate.
“_You_ began the evening well, Charlotte,” said Mrs. Bennet with
civil self-command to Miss Lucas. “_You_ were Mr. Bingley’s first
choice.”
“Yes; but he seemed to like his second better.”
“Oh! you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice.
To be sure that _did_ seem as if he admired her—indeed I rather
believe he _did_—I heard something about it—but I hardly know
what—something about Mr. Robinson.”
“Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson;
did not I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson’s asking him how he
liked our Meryton assemblies, and whether he did not think there
were a great many pretty women in the room, and _which_ he
thought the prettiest? and his answering immediately to the last
question: ‘Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet, beyond a doubt; there
cannot be two opinions on that point.’”
“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_.”
“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.”
“Miss Bingley told me,” said Jane, “that he never speaks much,
unless among his intimate acquaintances. With _them_ he is
remarkably agreeable.”
“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.”
“Another time, Lizzy,” said her mother, “I would not dance with
_him_, if I were you.”
“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.”
“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.
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 characteristic, 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 to-morrow, 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; he had looked at
her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he
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.
He began to wish to know more of her, 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.
“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.”
“You are severe on us.”
“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.”
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; and 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 partner?”
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.”
“I should imagine not.”
“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.”
He listened to her with perfect indifference while she chose to
entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced
her that all was safe, her wit flowed long.
Mr. Bennet’s property consisted almost entirely in an estate of
two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was
entailed, in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and
their mother’s fortune, though ample for her situation in life,
could but ill supply the deficiency of his. Her father had been
an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds.
She had a sister married to a Mr. Phillips, who had been a clerk
to their father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother
settled in London in a respectable line of trade.
The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most
convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually
tempted thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to
their aunt and to a milliner’s shop just over the way. The two
youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly
frequent in these attentions; their minds were more vacant than
their sisters’, and when nothing better offered, a walk to
Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish
conversation for the evening; and however bare of news the
country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some
from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both
with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia
regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter,
and Meryton was the headquarters.
Their visits to Mrs. Phillips were now productive of the most
interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their
knowledge of the officers’ names and connections. Their lodgings
were not long a secret, and at length they began to know the
officers themselves. Mr. Phillips visited them all, and this
opened to his nieces a store of felicity unknown before. They
could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. Bingley’s large
fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was
worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an
ensign.
After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject,
Mr. Bennet coolly observed:
“From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must
be two of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it
some time, but I am now convinced.”
Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with
perfect indifference, continued to express her admiration of
Captain Carter, and her hope of seeing him in the course of the
day, as he was going the next morning to London.
“I am astonished, my dear,” said Mrs. Bennet, “that you should be
so ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think
slightingly of anybody’s children, it should not be of my own,
however.”
“If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of
it.”
“Yes—but as it happens, they are all of them very clever.”
“This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not