by Austen, Jane
“Two offences of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge.18 The first mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister,—and the other, that I had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity, and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. —Wilfully and wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other dependence19 than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect its exertion,20 would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could bear no comparison.21—But from the severity ofthat blame which was last night so liberally bestowed,22 respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in future secured, when the following account of my actions and their motives has been read.—If, in the explanation of them which is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive to your's, I can only say that I am sorry.—The necessity must be obeyed—and farther apology would
be absurd.23—had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley prefened your eldest sister, to any other young woman in the country.—But it was not till the evening of the dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious attachment.—I had often seen him in love before.24—At that ball, while I had the honour of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas's accidental information,25 that Bingley s attentions to your sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could be undecided.26 From that moment I observed my friend's behaviour attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also watched. —Her look and manners were open, cheerful and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard,27 and I remained convinced from the evening's scrutiny, that though she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of sentiment28—if you have not been mistaken here, I must have been in an error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable. —If it be so, if I have been misled by such error, to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple29 to assert, that the serenity of your sister's countenance and air was such, as might have given the most acute observer, a conviction that, however amiable her temper,30 her heart was not likely to be easily touched.31—That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is certain,—but I will venture to say that my investigations and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears.—I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it;—I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason.—My objections to the marriage were not merely those, which I last night acknowledged to have required the utmost force of passion to put aside, in my own case; the want of connection32 could not be so great an evi33 to my friend as to me.34—But there were other causes of repugnance;—causes which, though still existing, and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to forget, because they were
not immediately before me35—These causes must be stated, though briefly.—The situation36 of your mother's family,37 though objectionable, was nothing in comparison of that total wanfi38 of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father.—Pardon me.—It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that, to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure, is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your eldest sister, than it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both. —I will only say farther, that from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every inducement heightened, which could have led me before, to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection.39—He left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning. —The part which I acted, is now to be explained.—His sisters' uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence40 of feeling was soon discovered; and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in London.—We accordingly went—and there I readily engaged in the office41 of pointing out to my friend, the certain evils of such a choice.—I described, and enforced42 them earnestly.—But, however this remonstrance might have staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by the assurance which I hesitated not in giving, of your sister's indifference.43 He had before believed her to return his affection with sincere, if not with equal regard.—But Bingley has great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgment than on his own.—To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a moment.—I cannot blame myself for having done thus much. There is but one pan of my conduct in the whole affair, on which I do not reflect with satisfaction;
it is that I condescended to adopt the measures of art44 so far as to conceal from him your sister's being in town. I knew it myself as it was known to Miss Bingley, but her brother is even yet ignorant of it.—That they might have met without ill consequence, is perhaps probable;—but his regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. —Perhaps this concealment, this disguise, was beneath me.—It is done, however, and it was done for the best.—On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister's feelings, it was unknowingly done; and though the motives which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn them.45—With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has particularly accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity. Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates;46 and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust,47 naturally inclined my father to be of service to him, and on George Wickham, who was his god-son, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed.48 My father supported him at school, and afterwards at Cambridge;49—most important assistance, as his own father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife,50 would have been unable to give him a gentleman's education.51 My father was not only fond of this young man's society, whose manners were always engaging; he had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. The vicious52 propensities—the want of principle which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend,53 could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have. Here again I shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham
has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character. It adds even another motive.54 My excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his profession might allow, and if he took orders,55 desired that a valuable family living56 might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was al
so a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment,57 by which he could not be benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying the law,58 and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than believed him to be sincere; but at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman. The business was therefore soon settled. He resigned all claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds59 All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him, to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For about three years I heard little of him;60 but on the decease of the incumbent61 of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter for the presentation.62 His circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in question—of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or
for resisting every repetition of it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others, as in his reproaches to myself. After this period, every appearance of acquaintance was dropt. How he lived I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice. I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment63 formed for her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate;64 and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs. Younge,65 in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and to consent to an elopement.66 She was then but fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit67 and feelings prevented any public exposure, but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds;68 but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me, was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed. This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr. Wick-ham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he has imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered at, ignorant as you previously were of every thing concerning either. Detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination. You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night. But I was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed.69 For the truth of every thing here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and still more as one of the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of me should make my assertions valueless,70 you cannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only add, God bless you.
Fitzwilliam Darcy71
1. This chapter begins the second half of the book, whose principal subject is the gradual reconciliation of Elizabeth and Darcy.
2. indulge herself in: give herself the pleasure of. “Indulge” generally had no pejorative connotations then.
3. paling: fence or fencing.
4. ground: area of the park.
5. By this point it is almost the end of April; see chronology, p. 716.
6. This look corresponds to the proud, but also controlled, tone in which the letter is written.
7. It was considered improper for a man to correspond with an unmarried woman, unless he was engaged to her or they had a family connection. Hence Darcy cannot send a letter to Elizabeth and must deliver it by hand. Even then the letter borders on impropriety, though it could be justified in this case by the importance of the communication.
8. plantation: a grouping of planted items, particularly a wood of planted trees. It is almost certainly the same as the grove mentioned by Darcy, for the two words could be used interchangeably.
9. This letter constitutes one of the most dramatic developments in the novel. Some have questioned its plausibility—specifically, that a man as proud and reserved as Darcy would write on such intimate matters as he does to someone who has no connection to him. Obviously such a letter is needed for the purposes of the plot, since it changes much of Elizabeth's opinion of Darcy. Yet a basis for the letter has been established in Darcy's character. While reserved, he has also been consistently outspoken and opinionated when provoked, as he surely has been by Elizabeth's condemnation of him. Second, his pride has made him consistently hate to be wrong, or even to be thought in the wrong, so he strongly wishes to vindicate his behavior to someone whose opinion he respects.
10. written quite through: completely covered with writing.
11. a close hand: compressed handwriting.
12. The envelope was a sheet of paper folded around the other sheets (what are now called envelopes were not widely used until the 1830s). In this case, it is also full of writing. Darcy has thus crammed his long letter into three total sheets of paper. Such economy of paper was common then, even among the wealthy, for paper was costly and postage, which was based on the weight of the letter, had become extremely high during this period. This made many strive for the close hand Darcy uses: Jane Austen laments in several letters her own inability to write in a close hand (for a sample of her writing, see p. 221).
13. Madam: the standard way to address a woman in a letter or in formal conversation, if one did not know her well enough to address her by name.
14. disgusting: distasteful. The word then had a milder meaning than now.
15. formation: writing, composition.
16. character: reputation.
17. In other words, though you will not wish to read this, your sense of fairness obliges you to do so.
18. Actually Elizabeth, in addition to the two points mentioned by Darcy here, accused him of general arrogance and selfishness. Darcy, however, is still not willing at this point to confront those charges; he prefers sticking to specific charges that he can more easily refute or explain.
19. dependence: resourc
e, thing to be relied upon.
20. That is, to expect that the family patronage would be used on his behalf.
21. In describing the two cases Darcy almost exaggerates the accusation regarding Wickham, a sign of how unjust he thinks the accusation is; meanwhile he minimizes the significance of his actions regarding Bingley and Jane, a sign that he still does not take that issue very seriously.
22. liberally bestowed: freely and fully bestowed. Here, as in his opening words, Darcy shows his continuing resentment and bitterness. His wording also implies a criticism of Elizabeth for seeming to rate the two offenses as roughly equal, even though he considers one to be far worse than the other.
23. These words suggest how difficult the proud Darcy finds any apology.
24. A confirmation of Colonel Fitzwilliam's earlier words about Bingley's character.
25. That is, by the fortuitous or chance circumstance of being informed by Sir William Lucas.
26. Meaning that only when the event would occur was not certain.
27. peculiar regard: particular regard for Bingley.
28. participation of sentiment: similar or shared feelings. In other words, she did not share the love that Bingley felt. These lines provide a particularly strong confirmation of Bingley's earlier description of Darcy's writing as being carefully studied and full of long words, for Darcy's style is very formal, with many elaborate sentences and difficult words and phrases. In these respects it bears some resemblance to Mr. Collins's efforts. But while the latter's formal and long-winded phrases are merely verbal padding or the repetition of empty cliches, Darcy's complex phrases exist to convey complex thoughts, ones that display his intelligence, just as his careful wording displays the deliberation and scrupulousness that mark his character generally.
29. scruple: hesitate.
30. temper: disposition, temperament.