“My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry; I must find other people charming--one other person at least.”
—There are the yellow
curtains that Miss Nash admires so much.”
“I do not often walk this way _now_,” said Emma, as they proceeded,
“but _then_ there will be an inducement, and I shall gradually get
intimately acquainted with all the hedges, gates, pools and pollards of
this part of Highbury.”
Harriet, she found, had never in her life been inside the Vicarage, and
her curiosity to see it was so extreme, that, considering exteriors and
probabilities, Emma could only class it, as a proof of love, with Mr.
Elton’s seeing ready wit in her.
“I wish we could contrive it,” said she; “but I cannot think of any
tolerable pretence for going in;—no servant that I want to inquire
about of his housekeeper—no message from my father.”
She pondered, but could think of nothing. After a mutual silence of
some minutes, Harriet thus began again—
“I do so wonder, Miss Woodhouse, that you should not be married, or
going to be married! so charming as you are!”—
Emma laughed, and replied,
“My being charming, Harriet, is not quite enough to induce me to marry;
I must find other people charming—one other person at least. And I am
not only, not going to be married, at present, but have very little
intention of ever marrying at all.”
“Ah!—so you say; but I cannot believe it.”
“I must see somebody very superior to any one I have seen yet, to be
tempted; Mr. Elton, you know, (recollecting herself,) is out of the
question: and I do _not_ wish to see any such person. I would rather
not be tempted. I cannot really change for the better. If I were to
marry, I must expect to repent it.”
“Dear me!—it is so odd to hear a woman talk so!”—
“I have none of the usual inducements of women to marry. Were I to fall
in love, indeed, it would be a different thing! but I never have been
in love; it is not my way, or my nature; and I do not think I ever
shall. And, without love, I am sure I should be a fool to change such a
situation as mine. Fortune I do not want; employment I do not want;
consequence I do not want: I believe few married women are half as much
mistress of their husband’s house as I am of Hartfield; and never,
never could I expect to be so truly beloved and important; so always
first and always right in any man’s eyes as I am in my father’s.
“On his two younger sisters he then bestowed an equal portion of his fraternal tenderness, for he asked each of them how they did, and observed that they both looked very ugly.”
”
“I have never read it.”
“You had no loss, I assure you; it is the horridest nonsense you can
imagine; there is nothing in the world in it but an old man’s playing
at see-saw and learning Latin; upon my soul there is not.”
This critique, the justness of which was unfortunately lost on poor
Catherine, brought them to the door of Mrs. Thorpe’s lodgings, and the
feelings of the discerning and unprejudiced reader of Camilla gave way
to the feelings of the dutiful and affectionate son, as they met Mrs.
Thorpe, who had descried them from above, in the passage. “Ah, Mother!
How do you do?” said he, giving her a hearty shake of the hand. “Where
did you get that quiz of a hat? It makes you look like an old witch.
Here is Morland and I come to stay a few days with you, so you must
look out for a couple of good beds somewhere near.” And this address
seemed to satisfy all the fondest wishes of the mother’s heart, for she
received him with the most delighted and exulting affection. On his two
younger sisters he then bestowed an equal portion of his fraternal
tenderness, for he asked each of them how they did, and observed that
they both looked very ugly.
These manners did not please Catherine; but he was James’s friend and
Isabella’s brother; and her judgment was further bought off by
Isabella’s assuring her, when they withdrew to see the new hat, that
John thought her the most charming girl in the world, and by John’s
engaging her before they parted to dance with him that evening. Had she
been older or vainer, such attacks might have done little; but, where
youth and diffidence are united, it requires uncommon steadiness of
reason to resist the attraction of being called the most charming girl
in the world, and of being so very early engaged as a partner; and the
consequence was that, when the two Morlands, after sitting an hour with
the Thorpes, set off to walk together to Mr. Allen’s, and James, as the
door was closed on them, said, “Well, Catherine, how do you like my
friend Thorpe?” instead of answering, as she probably would have done,
had there been no friendship and no flattery in the case, “I do not
like him at all,” she directly replied, “I like him very much; he seems
very agreeable.
“I think it was very impertinent of him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false friends. Why could not he keep on quarrelling with you, as his father did before him?”
Collins, who,
when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he
pleases.”
“Oh, my dear,” cried his wife, “I cannot bear to hear that mentioned.
Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing
in the world, that your estate should be entailed away from your own
children; and I am sure, if I had been you, I should have tried long ago
to do something or other about it.”
Jane and Elizabeth attempted to explain to her the nature of an entail.
They had often attempted it before: but it was a subject on which Mrs.
Bennet was beyond the reach of reason; and she continued to rail
bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of
five daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.
“It certainly is a most iniquitous affair,” said Mr. Bennet; “and
nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn.
But if you will listen to his letter, you may, perhaps, be a little
softened by his manner of expressing himself.”
“No, that I am sure I shall not: and I think it was very impertinent of
him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false
friends. Why could not he keep on quarrelling with you, as his father
did before him?”
“Why, indeed, he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that
head, as you will hear.”
/* RIGHT “Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, _15th October_. */
“Dear Sir,
“The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured
father always gave me much uneasiness; and, since I have had the
misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal the
breach: but, for some time, I was kept back by my own doubts,
fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be
on good terms with anyone with whom it had always pleased him to be
at variance.”--‘There, Mrs. Bennet.’--“My mind, however, is now
made up on the subject; for, having received ordination at Easter,
I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of
the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis
de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the
valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest
endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her
Ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies
which are instituted by the Church of England.
“If you observe, people always live for ever when there is an annuity to be paid them.”
”
“To be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no
addition at all. They will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst
them. If they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do
not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten
thousand pounds.”
“That is very true, and, therefore, I do not know whether, upon the
whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother
while she lives, rather than for them—something of the annuity kind I
mean.—My sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself.
A hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable.”
His wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this
plan.
“To be sure,” said she, “it is better than parting with fifteen hundred
pounds at once. But, then, if Mrs. Dashwood should live fifteen years
we shall be completely taken in.”
“Fifteen years! my dear Fanny; her life cannot be worth half that
purchase.”
“Certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when
there is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and healthy,
and hardly forty. An annuity is a very serious business; it comes over
and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it. You are not
aware of what you are doing. I have known a great deal of the trouble
of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment of three to
old superannuated servants by my father’s will, and it is amazing how
disagreeable she found it. Twice every year these annuities were to be
paid; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them; and then
one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be
no such thing. My mother was quite sick of it. Her income was not her
own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was the more
unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been
entirely at my mother’s disposal, without any restriction whatever. It
has given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that I am sure I would
not pin myself down to the payment of one for all the world.
“There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort.”
They will have their barouche-landau, of course, which holds
four perfectly; and therefore, without saying any thing of _our_
carriage, we should be able to explore the different beauties extremely
well. They would hardly come in their chaise, I think, at that season
of the year. Indeed, when the time draws on, I shall decidedly
recommend their bringing the barouche-landau; it will be so very much
preferable. When people come into a beautiful country of this sort, you
know, Miss Woodhouse, one naturally wishes them to see as much as
possible; and Mr. Suckling is extremely fond of exploring. We explored
to King’s-Weston twice last summer, in that way, most delightfully,
just after their first having the barouche-landau. You have many
parties of that kind here, I suppose, Miss Woodhouse, every summer?”
“No; not immediately here. We are rather out of distance of the very
striking beauties which attract the sort of parties you speak of; and
we are a very quiet set of people, I believe; more disposed to stay at
home than engage in schemes of pleasure.”
“Ah! there is nothing like staying at home for real comfort. Nobody can
be more devoted to home than I am. I was quite a proverb for it at
Maple Grove. Many a time has Selina said, when she has been going to
Bristol, ‘I really cannot get this girl to move from the house. I
absolutely must go in by myself, though I hate being stuck up in the
barouche-landau without a companion; but Augusta, I believe, with her
own good-will, would never stir beyond the park paling.’ Many a time
has she said so; and yet I am no advocate for entire seclusion. I
think, on the contrary, when people shut themselves up entirely from
society, it is a very bad thing; and that it is much more advisable to
mix in the world in a proper degree, without living in it either too
much or too little. I perfectly understand your situation, however,
Miss Woodhouse—(looking towards Mr. Woodhouse), Your father’s state of
health must be a great drawback. Why does not he try Bath?—Indeed he
should. Let me recommend Bath to you. I assure you I have no doubt of
its doing Mr.
“It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife”
368
“But perhaps you would like to read it” 370
“The spiteful old ladies” 377
“With an affectionate smile” 385
“I am sure she did not listen” 393
“Mr. Darcy with him” 404
“Jane happened to look round” 415
“Mrs. Long and her nieces” 420
“Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak to you” 422
Heading to Chapter LVI. 431
“After a short survey” 434
“But now it comes out” 442
“The efforts of his aunt” 448
“Unable to utter a syllable” 457
“The obsequious civility” 466
Heading to Chapter LXI. 472
The End 476
[Illustration: ·PRIDE AND PREJUDICE·
Chapter I.]
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 as 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 not you want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife, impatiently.
“_You_ want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”
[Illustration:
“He came down to see the place”
[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]
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.
“Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and then.”
I am not ashamed of having been
mistaken--or, at least, it is slight, it is nothing in comparison of
what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it
in the best light, in the light in which it may be understood.”
Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley’s
name was scarcely ever mentioned between them.
Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no
more; and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account
for it clearly, there seemed little chance of her ever considering it
with less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of what
she did not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely
the effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw
her no more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at
the time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet’s best
comfort was, that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.
Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. “So, Lizzy,” said he, one
day, “your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next
to being married, a girl likes to be crossed in love a little now and
then. It is something to think of, and gives her a sort of distinction
among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to
be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough at
Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham
be your man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably.”
“Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not
all expect Jane’s good fortune.”
“True,” said Mr. Bennet; “but it is a comfort to think that, whatever of
that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will
always make the most of it.”
Mr. Wickham’s society was of material service in dispelling the gloom
which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn
family. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now
added that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already
heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him,
was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was
pleased to think how much they had always disliked Mr.
“If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it more.”
—“Emma, that I fear is a word—No,
I have no wish—Stay, yes, why should I hesitate?—I have gone too far
already for concealment.—Emma, I accept your offer—Extraordinary as it
may seem, I accept it, and refer myself to you as a friend.—Tell me,
then, have I no chance of ever succeeding?”
He stopped in his earnestness to look the question, and the expression
of his eyes overpowered her.
“My dearest Emma,” said he, “for dearest you will always be, whatever
the event of this hour’s conversation, my dearest, most beloved
Emma—tell me at once. Say ‘No,’ if it is to be said.”—She could really
say nothing.—“You are silent,” he cried, with great animation;
“absolutely silent! at present I ask no more.”
Emma was almost ready to sink under the agitation of this moment. The
dread of being awakened from the happiest dream, was perhaps the most
prominent feeling.
“I cannot make speeches, Emma:” he soon resumed; and in a tone of such
sincere, decided, intelligible tenderness as was tolerably
convincing.—“If I loved you less, I might be able to talk about it
more. But you know what I am.—You hear nothing but truth from me.—I
have blamed you, and lectured you, and you have borne it as no other
woman in England would have borne it.—Bear with the truths I would tell
you now, dearest Emma, as well as you have borne with them. The manner,
perhaps, may have as little to recommend them. God knows, I have been a
very indifferent lover.—But you understand me.—Yes, you see, you
understand my feelings—and will return them if you can. At present, I
ask only to hear, once to hear your voice.”
While he spoke, Emma’s mind was most busy, and, with all the wonderful
velocity of thought, had been able—and yet without losing a word—to
catch and comprehend the exact truth of the whole; to see that
Harriet’s hopes had been entirely groundless, a mistake, a delusion, as
complete a delusion as any of her own—that Harriet was nothing; that
she was every thing herself; that what she had been saying relative to
Harriet had been all taken as the language of her own feelings; and
that her agitation, her doubts, her reluctance, her discouragement, had
been all received as discouragement from herself.
“What dreadful hot weather we have! It keeps me in a continual state of inelegance”
on Friday, and hoped to receive an answer from her
this morning, which would have rendered everything smooth and easy, and
would have enabled us to leave this place to-morrow, as Frank, on first
receiving his appointment, intended to do. He remains till Wednesday
merely to accommodate me. I have written to her again to-day, and
desired her to answer it by return of post. On Tuesday, therefore, I
shall positively know whether they can receive me on Wednesday. If they
cannot, Edward has been so good as to promise to take me to Greenwich on
the Monday following, which was the day before fixed on, if that suits
them better. If I have no answer at all on Tuesday, I must suppose Mary
is not at home, and must wait till I do hear, as after having invited
her to go to Steventon with me, it will not quite do to go home and say
no more about it.
My father will be so good as to fetch home his prodigal daughter from
town, I hope, unless he wishes me to walk the hospitals, enter at the
Temple, or mount guard at St. James'. It will hardly be in Frank's power
to take me home,--nay, it certainly will not. I shall write again as
soon as I get to Greenwich.
What dreadful hot weather we have! It keeps one in a continual state of
inelegance.
If Miss Pearson should return with me, pray be careful not to expect too
much beauty. I will not pretend to say that on a first view she quite
answered the opinion I had formed of her. My mother, I am sure, will be
disappointed if she does not take great care. From what I remember of
her picture, it is no great resemblance.
I am very glad that the idea of returning with Frank occurred to me; for
as to Henry's coming into Kent again, the time of its taking place is so
very uncertain that I should be waiting for dead men's shoes. I had once
determined to go with Frank to-morrow and take my chance, etc., but they
dissuaded me from so rash a step as I really think on consideration it
would have been; for if the Pearsons were not at home, I should
inevitably fall a sacrifice to the arts of some fat woman who would make
me drunk with small beer.
Mary is brought to bed of a boy,--both doing very well. I shall leave
you to guess what Mary I mean. Adieu, with best love to all your
agreeable inmates.
“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.”
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 every 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.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]
CHAPTER VI.
[Illustration]
The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit
was returned in due form. Miss Bennet’s pleasing manners grew on the
good-will 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.
“Where so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am right, is there not some reason to fear I may be wrong?”
”
The event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on
injustice and error; for Colonel Brandon _did_ come in; and Elinor, who
was convinced that solicitude for Marianne brought him thither, and who
saw _that_ solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his
anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister
for esteeming him so lightly.
“I met Mrs. Jennings in Bond Street,” said he, after the first
salutation, “and she encouraged me to come on; and I was the more
easily encouraged, because I thought it probable that I might find you
alone, which I was very desirous of doing. My object—my wish—my sole
wish in desiring it—I hope, I believe it is—is to be a means of giving
comfort;—no, I must not say comfort—not present comfort—but conviction,
lasting conviction to your sister’s mind. My regard for her, for
yourself, for your mother—will you allow me to prove it, by relating
some circumstances which nothing but a _very_ sincere regard—nothing
but an earnest desire of being useful—I think I am justified—though
where so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that I am
right, is there not some reason to fear I may be wrong?” He stopped.
“I understand you,” said Elinor. “You have something to tell me of Mr.
Willoughby, that will open his character farther. Your telling it will
be the greatest act of friendship that can be shown Marianne. _My_
gratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to
that end, and _hers_ must be gained by it in time. Pray, pray let me
hear it.”
“You shall; and, to be brief, when I quitted Barton last October,—but
this will give you no idea—I must go farther back. You will find me a
very awkward narrator, Miss Dashwood; I hardly know where to begin. A
short account of myself, I believe, will be necessary, and it _shall_
be a short one. On such a subject,” sighing heavily, “can I have little
temptation to be diffuse.”
He stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went
on.
“You have probably entirely forgotten a conversation—(it is not to be
supposed that it could make any impression on you)—a conversation
between us one evening at Barton Park—it was the evening of a dance—in
which I alluded to a lady I had once known, as resembling, in some
measure, your sister Marianne.
“It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy;-- it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.”
“He intends to send his groom into Somersetshire immediately for it,”
she added, “and when it arrives we will ride every day. You shall share
its use with me. Imagine to yourself, my dear Elinor, the delight of a
gallop on some of these downs.”
Most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to
comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for
some time she refused to submit to them. As to an additional servant,
the expense would be a trifle; Mama she was sure would never object to
it; and any horse would do for _him;_ he might always get one at the
park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient. Elinor then
ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a
man so little, or at least so lately known to her. This was too much.
“You are mistaken, Elinor,” said she warmly, “in supposing I know very
little of Willoughby. I have not known him long indeed, but I am much
better acquainted with him, than I am with any other creature in the
world, except yourself and mama. It is not time or opportunity that is
to determine intimacy;—it is disposition alone. Seven years would be
insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven
days are more than enough for others. I should hold myself guilty of
greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from
Willoughby. Of John I know very little, though we have lived together
for years; but of Willoughby my judgment has long been formed.”
Elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more. She knew her
sister’s temper. Opposition on so tender a subject would only attach
her the more to her own opinion. But by an appeal to her affection for
her mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent
mother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she
consented to this increase of establishment, Marianne was shortly
subdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent
kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell Willoughby when she saw
him next, that it must be declined.
She was faithful to her word; and when Willoughby called at the
cottage, the same day, Elinor heard her express her disappointment to
him in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his
present.
“Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast or too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch.”
half a mile,” was his sturdy answer; for he was not yet so much in
love as to measure distance, or reckon time, with feminine lawlessness.
“Oh! you do not consider how much we have wound about. We have taken
such a very serpentine course, and the wood itself must be half a mile
long in a straight line, for we have never seen the end of it yet since
we left the first great path.”
“But if you remember, before we left that first great path, we saw
directly to the end of it. We looked down the whole vista, and saw it
closed by iron gates, and it could not have been more than a furlong in
length.”
“Oh! I know nothing of your furlongs, but I am sure it is a very long
wood, and that we have been winding in and out ever since we came into
it; and therefore, when I say that we have walked a mile in it, I must
speak within compass.”
“We have been exactly a quarter of an hour here,” said Edmund, taking
out his watch. “Do you think we are walking four miles an hour?”
“Oh! do not attack me with your watch. A watch is always too fast or
too slow. I cannot be dictated to by a watch.”
A few steps farther brought them out at the bottom of the very walk
they had been talking of; and standing back, well shaded and sheltered,
and looking over a ha-ha into the park, was a comfortable-sized bench,
on which they all sat down.
“I am afraid you are very tired, Fanny,” said Edmund, observing her;
“why would not you speak sooner? This will be a bad day’s amusement for
you if you are to be knocked up. Every sort of exercise fatigues her so
soon, Miss Crawford, except riding.”
“How abominable in you, then, to let me engross her horse as I did all
last week! I am ashamed of you and of myself, but it shall never happen
again.”
“_Your_ attentiveness and consideration makes me more sensible of my
own neglect. Fanny’s interest seems in safer hands with you than with
me.”
“That she should be tired now, however, gives me no surprise; for there
is nothing in the course of one’s duties so fatiguing as what we have
been doing this morning: seeing a great house, dawdling from one room
to another, straining one’s eyes and one’s attention, hearing what one
does not understand, admiring what one does not care for.
“There will be little rubs and disappointments everywhere, and we are all apt to expect too much; but then, if one scheme of happiness fails, human nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a second better: we find comfort somewhere . . .”
Grant, there is not one
in a hundred of either sex who is not taken in when they marry. Look
where I will, I see that it _is_ so; and I feel that it _must_ be so,
when I consider that it is, of all transactions, the one in which
people expect most from others, and are least honest themselves.”
“Ah! You have been in a bad school for matrimony, in Hill Street.”
“My poor aunt had certainly little cause to love the state; but,
however, speaking from my own observation, it is a manoeuvring
business. I know so many who have married in the full expectation and
confidence of some one particular advantage in the connexion, or
accomplishment, or good quality in the person, who have found
themselves entirely deceived, and been obliged to put up with exactly
the reverse. What is this but a take in?”
“My dear child, there must be a little imagination here. I beg your
pardon, but I cannot quite believe you. Depend upon it, you see but
half. You see the evil, but you do not see the consolation. There will
be little rubs and disappointments everywhere, and we are all apt to
expect too much; but then, if one scheme of happiness fails, human
nature turns to another; if the first calculation is wrong, we make a
second better: we find comfort somewhere—and those evil-minded
observers, dearest Mary, who make much of a little, are more taken in
and deceived than the parties themselves.”
“Well done, sister! I honour your _esprit_ _du_ _corps_. When I am a
wife, I mean to be just as staunch myself; and I wish my friends in
general would be so too. It would save me many a heartache.”
“You are as bad as your brother, Mary; but we will cure you both.
Mansfield shall cure you both, and without any taking in. Stay with us,
and we will cure you.”
The Crawfords, without wanting to be cured, were very willing to stay.
Mary was satisfied with the Parsonage as a present home, and Henry
equally ready to lengthen his visit. He had come, intending to spend
only a few days with them; but Mansfield promised well, and there was
nothing to call him elsewhere. It delighted Mrs. Grant to keep them
both with her, and Dr. Grant was exceedingly well contented to have it
so: a talking pretty young woman like Miss Crawford is always pleasant
society to an indolent, stay-at-home man; and Mr.
“If the heroine of one novel be not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect protection and regard?”
The progress of the friendship between Catherine and Isabella was quick
as its beginning had been warm, and they passed so rapidly through
every gradation of increasing tenderness that there was shortly no
fresh proof of it to be given to their friends or themselves. They
called each other by their Christian name, were always arm in arm when
they walked, pinned up each other’s train for the dance, and were not
to be divided in the set; and if a rainy morning deprived them of other
enjoyments, they were still resolute in meeting in defiance of wet and
dirt, and shut themselves up, to read novels together. Yes, novels; for
I will not adopt that ungenerous and impolitic custom so common with
novel-writers, of degrading by their contemptuous censure the very
performances, to the number of which they are themselves adding—joining
with their greatest enemies in bestowing the harshest epithets on such
works, and scarcely ever permitting them to be read by their own
heroine, who, if she accidentally take up a novel, is sure to turn over
its insipid pages with disgust. Alas! if the heroine of one novel be
not patronized by the heroine of another, from whom can she expect
protection and regard? I cannot approve of it. Let us leave it to the
reviewers to abuse such effusions of fancy at their leisure, and over
every new novel to talk in threadbare strains of the trash with which
the press now groans. Let us not desert one another; we are an injured
body. Although our productions have afforded more extensive and
unaffected pleasure than those of any other literary corporation in the
world, no species of composition has been so much decried. From pride,
ignorance, or fashion, our foes are almost as many as our readers. And
while the abilities of the nine-hundredth abridger of the History of
England, or of the man who collects and publishes in a volume some
dozen lines of Milton, Pope, and Prior, with a paper from the
Spectator, and a chapter from Sterne, are eulogized by a thousand
pens—there seems almost a general wish of decrying the capacity and
undervaluing the labour of the novelist, and of slighting the
performances which have only genius, wit, and taste to recommend them.
“The gentleness, modesty, and sweetness of her character were warmly expatiated on; that sweetness which makes so essential a part of every womans worth in the judgment of man, that though he sometimes loves where it is not, he can never believe it absent.”
very little more than opportunity. Mary, she is not like her
cousins; but I think I shall not ask in vain.”
“Oh no! you cannot. Were you even less pleasing—supposing her not to
love you already (of which, however, I can have little doubt)—you would
be safe. The gentleness and gratitude of her disposition would secure
her all your own immediately. From my soul I do not think she would
marry you _without_ love; that is, if there is a girl in the world
capable of being uninfluenced by ambition, I can suppose it her; but
ask her to love you, and she will never have the heart to refuse.”
As soon as her eagerness could rest in silence, he was as happy to tell
as she could be to listen; and a conversation followed almost as deeply
interesting to her as to himself, though he had in fact nothing to
relate but his own sensations, nothing to dwell on but Fanny’s charms.
Fanny’s beauty of face and figure, Fanny’s graces of manner and
goodness of heart, were the exhaustless theme. The gentleness, modesty,
and sweetness of her character were warmly expatiated on; that
sweetness which makes so essential a part of every woman’s worth in the
judgment of man, that though he sometimes loves where it is not, he can
never believe it absent. Her temper he had good reason to depend on and
to praise. He had often seen it tried. Was there one of the family,
excepting Edmund, who had not in some way or other continually
exercised her patience and forbearance? Her affections were evidently
strong. To see her with her brother! What could more delightfully prove
that the warmth of her heart was equal to its gentleness? What could be
more encouraging to a man who had her love in view? Then, her
understanding was beyond every suspicion, quick and clear; and her
manners were the mirror of her own modest and elegant mind. Nor was
this all. Henry Crawford had too much sense not to feel the worth of
good principles in a wife, though he was too little accustomed to
serious reflection to know them by their proper name; but when he
talked of her having such a steadiness and regularity of conduct, such
a high notion of honour, and such an observance of decorum as might
warrant any man in the fullest dependence on her faith and integrity,
he expressed what was inspired by the knowledge of her being well
principled and religious.
“For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn?”
I thought it my
duty to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she
and her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run
hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned.’ Mr.
Collins, moreover, adds, ‘I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia’s sad
business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their
living together before the marriage took place should be so generally
known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain
from declaring my amazement, at hearing that you received the young
couple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an
encouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should
very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them as
a Christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their
names to be mentioned in your hearing.’ _That_ is his notion of
Christian forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear
Charlotte’s situation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But,
Lizzy, you look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be
_missish_, I hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For
what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them
in our turn?”
“Oh,” cried Elizabeth, “I am exceedingly diverted. But it is so
strange!”
“Yes, _that_ is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man
it would have been nothing; but _his_ perfect indifference and _your_
pointed dislike make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate
writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins’s correspondence for any
consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving
him the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and
hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine
about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?”
To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had
been asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by his
repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her
feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh when she
would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her by
what he said of Mr.
“Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery.”
Nature resisted it for a while. It would have been a vast
deal pleasanter to have had her more disinterested in her attachment;
but his vanity was not of a strength to fight long against reason. He
submitted to believe that Tom’s illness had influenced her, only
reserving for himself this consoling thought, that considering the many
counteractions of opposing habits, she had certainly been _more_
attached to him than could have been expected, and for his sake been
more near doing right. Fanny thought exactly the same; and they were
also quite agreed in their opinion of the lasting effect, the indelible
impression, which such a disappointment must make on his mind. Time
would undoubtedly abate somewhat of his sufferings, but still it was a
sort of thing which he never could get entirely the better of; and as
to his ever meeting with any other woman who could—it was too
impossible to be named but with indignation. Fanny’s friendship was all
that he had to cling to.
CHAPTER XLVIII
Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery. I quit such odious subjects
as soon as I can, impatient to restore everybody, not greatly in fault
themselves, to tolerable comfort, and to have done with all the rest.
My Fanny, indeed, at this very time, I have the satisfaction of
knowing, must have been happy in spite of everything. She must have
been a happy creature in spite of all that she felt, or thought she
felt, for the distress of those around her. She had sources of delight
that must force their way. She was returned to Mansfield Park, she was
useful, she was beloved; she was safe from Mr. Crawford; and when Sir
Thomas came back she had every proof that could be given in his then
melancholy state of spirits, of his perfect approbation and increased
regard; and happy as all this must make her, she would still have been
happy without any of it, for Edmund was no longer the dupe of Miss
Crawford.
It is true that Edmund was very far from happy himself. He was
suffering from disappointment and regret, grieving over what was, and
wishing for what could never be.
“To look almost pretty is an acquisition of higher delight to a girl who has been looking plain for the first fifteen years of her life than a beauty from her cradle can ever receive.”
—for with all these symptoms of profligacy at
ten years old, she had neither a bad heart nor a bad temper, was seldom
stubborn, scarcely ever quarrelsome, and very kind to the little ones,
with few interruptions of tyranny; she was moreover noisy and wild,
hated confinement and cleanliness, and loved nothing so well in the
world as rolling down the green slope at the back of the house.
Such was Catherine Morland at ten. At fifteen, appearances were
mending; she began to curl her hair and long for balls; her complexion
improved, her features were softened by plumpness and colour, her eyes
gained more animation, and her figure more consequence. Her love of
dirt gave way to an inclination for finery, and she grew clean as she
grew smart; she had now the pleasure of sometimes hearing her father
and mother remark on her personal improvement. “Catherine grows quite a
good-looking girl—she is almost pretty to-day,” were words which caught
her ears now and then; and how welcome were the sounds! to look
_almost_ pretty is an acquisition of higher delight to a girl who has
been looking plain the first fifteen years of her life than a beauty
from her cradle can ever receive.
Mrs. Morland was a very good woman, and wished to see her children
everything they ought to be; but her time was so much occupied in
lying-in and teaching the little ones, that her elder daughters were
inevitably left to shift for themselves; and it was not very wonderful
that Catherine, who had by nature nothing heroic about her, should
prefer cricket, baseball, riding on horseback, and running about the
country at the age of fourteen, to books—or at least books of
information—for, provided that nothing like useful knowledge could be
gained from them, provided they were all story and no reflection, she
had never any objection to books at all. But from fifteen to seventeen
she was in training for a heroine; she read all such works as heroines
must read to supply their memories with those quotations which are so
serviceable and so soothing in the vicissitudes of their eventful
lives.
From Pope, she learnt to censure those who
“bear about the mockery of woe.”
From Gray, that
“Many a flower is born to blush unseen,
“And waste its fragrance on the desert air.
“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 twenty years at least.”
Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to go,
merely on that account; for in general, you know, they visit no new
comers. 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 on 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 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 develope. 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.
[Illustration: M^{r.} & M^{rs.} Bennet
[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]
[Illustration:
“I hope Mr. Bingley will like it”
[_Copyright 1894 by George Allen._]]
CHAPTER II.
