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- pride-and-prejudice
- text
- 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.”
“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 gentlemanlike manner.’ Those were your words. You know not, you can
scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me; 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 countenance I shall never
forget, as you said that I could not have addressed 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 effects 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 expressions which might justly
make you hate me.”
“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.”
“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.”
“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. 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. As a
child I was taught what was _right_, but I was not taught to correct my
temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride
and conceit. Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only _child_),
I was spoiled 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 meanly of all the rest of the world, to
_wish_ at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with
my own. Such I was, from eight to eight-and-twenty; and such I might
still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! 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 showed 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 spirits might often lead me
wrong. How 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.”
“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.”
“My object _then_,” replied Darcy, “was to show you, by every civility
in my power, that I was not so mean 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.”
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 of that 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.
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
anything about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that
it was time to be at home.
“What could have 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 at 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. 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 everything easy.