Lessons of Advantage

by michael sand

  “It seems that my fears in regard to Miss Elizabeth Bennet were quite unnecessary, Mr Darcy,” she began. “It was not she, but her younger sister, Miss Lydia Bennet, who eloped with Mr Wickham from Brighton last month. Miss Stanhope writes, that the wedding notice in the Times read — ‘Lately, George Wickham to Lydia Bennet’ — which she says, in her witty way, means better lately than never! I am sure you will have no difficulty in recalling Miss Lydia Bennet — or Mrs Wickham, as I suppose we must now call her. The spectacle she made of herself (along with the rest of her family) at the Netherfield ball last winter, must remain green in your memory. I rejoice that Miss Eliza has been fortunate enough to escape having Mr Wickham for a husband, though having him for a brother may be considered scarcely better. How sorry I am for all their connections. Their low condition was a sufficient evil already — there is an uncle in trade in town, is there not? — without so disgraceful an addition!”

  Thinking she had thus safeguarded Mr Darcy from any danger of pollution, Miss Bingley was able to feel tolerably easy in her mind about the separation, and to look forward with a comfortable prospect of success to recommencing her campaign, when they should all be gathered in town that winter.

  Chapter Ten

  The departure of Lydia did not bring all the immediate satisfaction, in the restoration of tranquillity, which Elizabeth had promised herself. The house was quieter, but with such a hush as if some grave illness were in process of recuperating. That the narrow avoidance of family catastrophe should leave its members dispirited, need not be wondered at; nor that the recovering from so great a degree of turmoil must be a work of time. Even those who rejoiced at the reduction in the family party felt their spirits lowered; and Elizabeth, in order to shake off the dullness which had overcome her, was obliged to make an effort, and argue herself into a better frame of mind.

  “Have not we been fortunate?” she said in soliloquy. “Lydia is gone; and her family need no longer fear those outbreaks, which her carelessness made hourly possible. We have suffered no disgrace, and our credit is safe. Should not I give thanks? Should not I rejoice?”

  But how quickly do such causes of comfort lose their power when the comfort comprehends only the absence of evil. In spite of her best efforts, Elizabeth was ungrateful enough to want a more positive happiness — and to wish that the proper object of her gratitude had not refused to receive her thanks! She had resolved to think no more of the puzzles contained in Mrs Gardiner’s letter, or those of Mr Darcy’s behaviour. No purpose could be served by doing so. But this excellent resolve could not long stand out against the relentless pressure of curiosity. After some days of thrusting away thoughts that would return, Elizabeth went to her desk, and drew out pen and paper. She owed Mrs Gardiner a reply. Her aunt was the only person to whom she could communicate any part of the secrets which oppressed her — or apply for the information she sought. If Elizabeth had written all her secret thoughts at that moment, she would have been obliged to cross a great many pages. But after an hour, the paper was blank as it had begun. Though there was much she wished to convey, and even more she wanted to know, she could not unseal her reserve, or make her pen write what she would have had it express. Mrs Gardiner might have guessed some part of it already; but there was a great distance between what might be guessed at, and what could be acknowledged. In the event, Elizabeth found that she preferred the concealment of ambiguity to the glare of undisguised revelation.

  The prevalent lowness at Longbourn was also affecting Miss Bennet. Elizabeth observed her sister with concern. While the danger had lasted, great exertions had been required of Jane, in maintaining a shew of cheerfulness, and supporting her mother. Now that the danger was passed, she was suffering a depression. Such was Jane’s composure, however, that this only manifested in some absence of attention, and a greater degree of quiet. Where Jane accustomarily spread the comfort of her own serenity as her contribution to the smooth continuance of family union, Elizabeth’s office had always been to entertain. The Bennets were great novel-readers; and Elizabeth frequently read aloud from these effusions, turning her liveliness to great effect in the acting out of the several characters. There had been no readings since Lydia’s affairs had cast their pall. Elizabeth now resolved to exert herself, and do what she could to raise her family’s spirits — and her own. And so the next morning, when the sisters were sitting in the breakfast-room, and Kitty, wishing to draw, was fretting for want of a subject, Elizabeth offered herself. — “Her personal attributes, such as they were, were at Kitty’s disposal.” — And she should read aloud, to keep them all amused while Kitty worked. “You may take me with a book in my hand, Kitty, which you know, is the pose most habitual with me.” And when Kitty — who though gratified by the offer, could not be so disloyal to her crotchets as to forsake them without a struggle — complained “that she could never draw a likeness,” — “Then I shall sit turned away from you,” said Elizabeth, “and you need only capture the back of my head.”

  There was then some contest over the choice of reading matter, for Mary objected on principal to novel-reading, and thought a sermon more improving. However, as any sermon of Mary’s choosing was unlikely to contribute to the elevation of spirits already subdued, — “More improving, to be sure,” Elizabeth replied, “but less useful in diverting Kitty while she applies.”

  She went off to get the volume of “Arabella,” then in family circulation, while Jane sat down to her work on the sofa, and Kitty set out paper and crayons. When Elizabeth had returned, and Kitty had seated her to best advantage, she opened the book to a place marked with a ribbon. “You will remember,” she began, “that in Arabella’s last letter, she informed her intimate correspondent, Laura, that she had received a proposal of marriage from Mr Falkland; but that in spite of his most pressing persistence, she had agreed only to consider it: — for, (pitching her voice to a tone of heightened sensibility) she would not, — could not — enter into so important an engagement without consulting the views of all her dear family. It is now a week later, and Arabella is writing to Laura once again:

  “My dearest confidante, such a shock as I have received today! So vast an overthrow of all I hold dear! I am only now recovered enough to convey the dismal intelligence to you. Know, then, that I was sitting alone in the breakfast room this morning when the housekeeper informed me that a gentleman had called, and was wishing to see me. ‘Falkland, without a doubt!’ I exclaimed to myself; but with an exertion I preserved my countenance, and only asked of Millar, ‘A young gentleman?’ ‘No miss,’ she replied, ‘an old one. Here is his card.’ I own I took up the bit of pasteboard with indifference. ‘What could this gentleman be wishing of me?’ I wondered, unaware of the terrible ordeal which was about to engulf me. And then I started up as I read the name — Lord Frederick Falkland — His father! With a monumental effort, I controlled my agitation, and in a voice the quietest in the world, told Millar to shew the gentleman in. And a moment later, the noble Earl of Falkland, descended of an ancient race which, though decayed in wealth, is unsubdued in pride, entered the room. I saw before me a figure of an elegance the greatest possible, tall and upright, with a handsome countenance, which, though ravaged by time, yet bore an air of lofty superiority. He stopped as he entered the room, and bowed with courtly grace. He then addressed me as follows.’”

  Here Elizabeth pressed her chin against her collarbone, to make her voice husky, —

  “‘Miss Conynham, I grieve to interrupt the tranquillity of your retirement. I am come hither on a matter of the greatest delicacy and consequence; to make a request, which, had I heard ought save the very highest praise of your noble and disinterested nature, I should consider impossible of success. But your virtuous steadiness, of which I have been informed, corresponds with my expectations even while it excites my respect. I must ask you whether what my son avers is true — that he is solemnly engaged to you.’ As you can readily understand, my dearest Laura, my astonishment at this was such
that I could hardly utter; but within a few minutes, I was able to disclose the provisional nature of my engagement with his son. What was then my shock when the noble lord continued, ‘Then I am obliged to beg you — I, who have never begged ought before — to release my unfortunate son from his ill-judged proposal. I know you for a young lady as virtuous as you are beautiful; and had the worth of your family only been to any degree the equal of your own merits, I should think my son the most fortunate of men! But for a scion of the ancient and honourable House of Falkland to connect himself with such a family as yours, would be the greatest possible degradation — it would mean his ruin! In his passionate adoration of you, he forgets what is owed to his family, his connections, and the honour of his house.’”

  It then appeared that Lord Falkland considered it Arabella’s duty to refuse his son — not because she was deficient in any regard — (what heroine of a three volume novel ever is?) — but on the count of her family’s lowly position.

  “Can you conceive, friend of my inmost thoughts, how great was my horror as I apprehended the magnitude of the sacrifice being demanded of me? — How I raved at first! — ‘Will you drive me to distraction?’ I cried. ‘Is the dagger with which you have transfixed my heart sunk deep enough to appease you?’ ‘Oh!’ cried my noble tormentor, ‘If I could draw it out, and leave no stain of ignominy! But if the prospect of disclaiming my son affects you thus, think how much greater will be your remorse for involving him in such disgrace.’”

  Several exceedingly fine speeches followed, in which Arabella first rebutted the charge of inferiority, — her father, though poor, was a gentleman and the descendant of gentlemen; then oppugned Lord Falkland’s right to separate spirits intended for each other by all the suitability of nature and regard. After which, she concluded in a fine manner by capitulating entirely to his demand.

  “Terrible as was my suffering then, dear friend, I could not subject my beloved Falkland to the unhappiness of his family’s disapproval! ‘Look at me with less abhorrence,’ I told the noble earl, ‘for I mean to resign myself to your will. Take him all to yourself, and let him see me no more. I will not have the misery of involving him in repentance, nor of incurring the reproaches of a father he so greatly reveres.’”

  Here Elizabeth flung the book down with an expression of disgust. “Is such a thing to be believed?” she exclaimed. “The hero’s father has the effrontery to tell the heroine that she ought to reject her lover’s proposal — because her family is not grand enough, even though she is every thing that is charming! (And how any woman could bear to hear so much inflated, nothing-meaning flattery heaped upon her, is more than I can imagine!) — And this ninny of a girl agrees to it! Indeed, I do not know who might be considered the greatest ninny — Lord Falkland for making so impudent a request, Arabella for accepting it, or Miss ——, the eminent authoress, for thinking such behaviour credible.”

  Kitty looked up from her drawing. “But Lizzy, do not you think that Arabella is acting in the most excessively chivalrous manner in sacrificing herself?”

  “‘Excessive’ is the precise word I should employ!”

  “But we must allow,” said Jane, in a quiet voice, “that it was only sensible of Falkland’s family to want to save themselves from the inconvenience of an unsuitable connection.”

  “No doubt I am much less noble, and a great deal more impertinent, than any heroine to be encountered in a novel,” Elizabeth replied, with a compassionate look towards her sister. “But I should not let my future happiness be set aside by the arrogant expectations of the connections of a man who had honourably proposed to me, no matter how lofty their claim to nobility. I should not care if his father, or his mother, or his uncle or his aunt, came to petition me to such a folly of renunciation. If he were content to be connecting himself with my family — if he felt it no disgrace — why should I object? And if his connections, with all their opportunities for influencing his ideas, cannot convince him to desist, why must I perform that office for them? No! If I were in Arabella’s place, I should act in such a manner as would conduce to my own happiness, without regard to anyone so completely unconnected with myself as Lord Falkland — and I do not believe that any woman of sense would act otherwise. It is only in novels that such foolish behaviour is held up as an example of disinterested virtue.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mary, with some triumph, “you may now agree, that novels are a waste of time, which is better spent on sermons.”

  “By no means,” returned Elizabeth. “Novels which reproduce life faithfully may be as edifying as sermons. — They are my greatest pleasure. But I also find pleasure in those others, in which absurdity abounds. There is a delight to be had in the unwitting silliness which can portray motives, which are never to be seen in the world, and actions which no sensible person would ever perform. I should like to write a novel which consisted in nothing but those ridiculous situations, all couched in the most high-flown and elegant language.” And when Mary expressed incredulity that any sister of hers should be able to write a novel,

  “Nothing easier in the world,” Elizabeth replied. “My heroine shall be a young lady who frees herself from the shackles of parental authority, and displays the superior delicacy of her mind, by marrying a man who has not sixpence in the world. She considers it her positive duty to disobey her parents! ‘What support shall I want that I cannot receive from my dearest Adolphus?’ she will say. And when her parents suggest — only the minor ones of food and shelter, — she will be shocked by their worldliness. ‘Can not your mundane minds conceive that it is possible to exist on love?’ she will ask.”

  “And what of the hero?” Jane asked, glancing up from her work.

  “He will be a foundling, raised to hardship among low, rustic people. but able nonetheless to converse in the accent and speech of the highest circle of society. For of course, he is the grandson and heir of a duke, deprived of his place, and degraded through the villainy of some covetous uncle. After plunging into a vortex of dissipation, from despair of ever gaining his rights, — (one is obliged to include the vortex, you know; I have never read one of those novels where there was not a vortex of dissipation plunged into!) — he shall, in the great scene, rescue his grandfather — whom he will immediately recognize, though he has never seen him before in his life, by instinctive sympathy — from an attack by highwaymen upon his carriage. ‘Know, then, reverend grandsire,’ he shall say, ‘that I am Adolphus — the son of that very Adolphus, whom you thought lost at sea, but who is actually alive, and dwelling as an anchorite not a quarter mile from the very spot on which we stand.’”

  Elizabeth had then the reward of seeing Jane smile; and her — “This is too absurd!” — along with the shake of the head that accompanied it, gave indication of a heart lightened, if only for a moment. But Kitty thought it the best story she had ever heard: she was half in love with the heroine already. — Lizzy ought to set to work immediately; she would be sure to make her fortune just by putting down what ever came into her head.

  “Oh, I shall write for fame alone,” said Elizabeth. “Pecuniary reward holds no charms for me.”

  The volume of “Arabella” was returned to its shelf; but its heroine’s ill-judging behaviour had reminded Elizabeth painfully of behaviour of her own she considered equally ill-judged. “Who am I to speak of ninnies? To have acted as I did towards Mr Darcy, revelling in my dislike, bordering constantly on rudeness, — and believing myself authorized to do so! Did I not comport myself like the greatest ninny, thinking to expose villainy, when I was only exposing my own ignorant delusion?”

  At that moment, Elizabeth was happily rescued from regretful thoughts by Kitty, coming forward to shew her the completed sketch. “A capital performance,” she said, inspecting it. “You have caught the curve of my neck to perfection. Any one who knows me, seeing this, would say, ‘Is not that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, sitting with her back to us so rudely?’”

  The following afternoon, Jane and El
izabeth walked into Meryton, having business at Bell’s, the milliner’s shop. While Jane compared fabrics and colours, and Elizabeth amused herself inspecting gloves, Mrs Nicholls, the Netherfield housekeeper, entered, and informed Mrs Bell, with vast satisfaction, that the house was to be opened at last — Mr Bingley was expected the very next day! Jane turning away at that moment to hold her samples up to the light, Elizabeth was unable to see her sister’s reaction.

  “And are his sisters to keep house for him again?” Mrs Bell inquired.

  No, the ladies were not coming. Only a small party was expected at first, — the master and perhaps one other gentleman; — but the company was sure to expand: Mrs Nicholls believed that they might expect a great many more gentlemen in the course of a few weeks, come for the shooting. The housekeeper rejoiced at the prospect, for her consequence in Meryton had been much diminished by Netherfield’s being shut up for so long.

  Jane was ready to leave, though she had not matched her sample. “There was no urgency,” she told Mrs Bell. “She would come again.” When the sisters had quit the shop, they walked for some time in silence, while Elizabeth, who really wished to know what Jane might be feeling, tried to catch sight of her sister’s face without Jane’s seeing her do it. Such opposed purposes could not both be accomplishing, and after a few moments, Jane said, in a quiet voice, “I saw you observing me in the shop, Lizzy. Do not think I am feeling any thing particular. — One cannot be continually guarded — and to hear unexpectedly of a person one knows — If I started, it was only that. It would be the same for any other acquaintance, who had gone away, and was come back. Do not think otherwise.” And after a short pause, “I am only glad that his sisters do not come. Perhaps then he will remain quietly shooting, and not visit in the neighbourhood. His coming to Netherfield need not disturb us.”