Lessons of Advantage

by michael sand

  “Impossible!” protested Elizabeth. “Mrs Gardiner to speak in such a way to you!”

  Mr Darcy admitted that he might not be rendering Mrs Gardiner’s exact words, but he was certainly conveying the substance of her advice; and if he had not received it very gratefully at first, he had soon changed his opinion, perceiving in Mrs Gardiner the same quality of frankness which he valued in herself.

  “You may call it frankness if you like,” Elizabeth replied, with a shake of the head, “but most people would call it plain impertinence — and they would be right. Oh! you need not exclaim: henceforth, I leave the task of defending all my bad character entirely in your hands. I fear that my trying to rein in my impertinence in future, will be made more difficult by the great happiness I owe to it; — for I am sure it was my impertinence alone which succeeded in winning your heart; — and I shall have to be continually checking myself from the belief that all my other misconduct will likewise come to good. Perhaps with time I shall learn to separate the wheat of my proper feelings from — I was going to say, from my chaff. There! you see how little able I am to resist the temptation to wit.”

  “(Smiling) I am not sure that you ever should resist it.”

  They went on to discuss the events of that day at Hunsford: the many mistaken things they had then said, and how much anger had been provoking. It was anger that had dissolved their reserve, and caused them to abandon formality along with civility; and though they had said much that was not true, they had spoken from their hearts. (Let people but speak from the heart, and truth must emerge in time.) From the meeting at Hunsford, they naturally went on to Mr Darcy’s letter, which had followed it. Now that he need not have the slightest unease on the subject, Mr Darcy seemed to entertain the most exaggerated fears as to the effect his letter might be producing in Elizabeth. “He had made use of some expressions — ” Elizabeth assured him that the letter had made none but good effects. Its lessons had been hard; but once absorbed, and the justice of its objections acknowledged, by admitting her family’s faults and her own failures in judgement, it had become a source of the greatest comfort to her. She had treasured it, had often reread its pages in order to keep alive what she had earnestly wished to preserve — her connection with the writer.

  “When I began that letter,” Darcy said, with a serious smile, “I was full of my wrongs, eager to justify myself and rebut your accusations.” But as he continued to write, one factor had increasingly argued her excuse: how easily she might be imposed upon by Wickham, whose plausibility he had good cause to apprehend. Before he had finished, her sins had nearly all dropt away from her, though it was some time before he perceived how thoroughly he had acquitted her. He had then thought it impossible that he should continue in love: had been sure that he must strive to conquer what he considered a weakness. At first, indeed, he had felt ashamed of having loved an object so faulty in judgement as to abuse him as she had done. Fortunately, however, his unalterable opinions had proved alterable; and very soon she had become the subject of a renewed and deeper veneration.

  “The part of your reproof founded on mistaken premises soon fell away, but the deeper truths remained. My anger found its proper direction. I had behaved abominably, confounding pride with vanity, superiority with arrogance. I ought to have known better — I did know better; but I had allowed myself to forget the better principles I had been taught. You reminded me.”

  He would never forget the shock of her refusal, — had thereafter only to think of her countenance as she had uttered that fatal word, ungentleman-like, in order to recall his humility, and his wish of conquering his pride. His feelings had not changed, he loved her still; but the nature of that love had changed. He had loved her before for her beauty, her lively manner, quickness of wit, and apt expression; he loved her now for the strength of her understanding; her proper feeling; her good principles, value for affection, disdain of presumption and arrogance, — of all affectation and false sentiment. In short, her frankness: — let no one call it impertinence in his hearing!

  Elizabeth knew this praise more than she deserved, but this was not the time to refute such erroneous — and pleasing — opinions.

  Their meeting at Pemberley must necessarily be spoken of next. She had been mortified at his discovering her there; he had thought it a piece of good fortune, a sign that providence was favouring his hopes. “I wanted only to shew you that I had been endeavouring to act on your reproofs; but I was pleased that our meeting should give me the opportunity to pay those respectful attentions to your connections, by which I hoped to make amends for my former censures.”

  Elizabeth was to the last degree touched and flattered that he should have been taking her views so seriously. “And considering how wrong she had been in almost every thing she had said, that he had been able to put her recriminations to so good a use — (much better they had warranted) — she thought a proof of his nobility, not her judgement.”

  “You were not wrong in all your accusations. Were not you right to censure my interfering between Bingley and your sister? I was the cause of pain to both of them.”

  “Ah! but you repaired the harm, did not you? Or (with a sudden accession of gay spirits) am I wrong in thinking that you gave Mr Bingley leave to address her?”

  “Leave was not mine to give,” Darcy replied gravely. Then, after a slight pause, “But I did confess, what I should have told him sooner, that in my impertinent endeavour to separate them, I had kept him from knowing of your sister’s presence in London last winter. Bingley was naturally angry — angrier than I have ever seen him. The pain I had then occasioned Miss Bennet, by giving her reason to think him indifferent, was what he chiefly resented. However, I was fortunate enough to be able to earn his forgiveness by convincing him that your sister was not indifferent towards him.”

  Elizabeth (who would not have smiled for all the world) considered this very fortunate, indeed. “And how did you persuade him? Did you base your opinion on the intelligence I had supplied you?”

  “Partly, but more on my own observation. I had taken an early opportunity of speaking with Miss Bennet, and of bringing the subject round to Bingley. — You may remember the day we met at the library in Meryton. In observing your sister, as I spoke of the old friendship persisting between myself and Bingley, I saw reason to believe that her attachment still prospered. Subsequent meetings confirmed the impression. I merely took the occasion of confiding it in Bingley.”

  Elizabeth thanked him, mindful of the happiness that had accrued to Jane as a result; but he would not be thanked. A man should not be thanked for doing his duty; the correction of faults was enjoined upon them by every principle of right. His generous confidence spurred Elizabeth to make equal confession: “He had not been the only one with faults to correct.”

  “You have nothing to reproach yourself with.”

  “Do not I?” she cried. “I was the dupe — No! that gives neither credit nor discredit where it is due. — I allowed myself to be duped into believing what was not true, and my malicious wish of thinking the worst of you was midwife to that belief. My guilt might not have reached to vice, but to folly it certainly did. Vanity overpowered my judgement. I put faith in a person who was unworthy of it, — because my vanity had been flattered. — On what was my prejudice against you based, except that my vanity had been wounded the first time we met?”

  Darcy coloured. “I am deeply ashamed when I remember what my conduct was that night. That I should have behaved in a way so arrogant, so wrong! — ”

  The contest as to who might deserve the greater portion of blame, was by this time beginning to give rise to laughter in Elizabeth — though in all seriousness, she thought there was blame enough to go round. “We must endeavour to forget past mistakes,” she said. “We were both in error at that time; but I hope we have learned our lesson since then. We have forgiven one another, and we must forgive ourselves.”

  Both had suffered a beneficial humiliation, chastened by lear
ning that the qualities in which they had taken pride as unqualified strengths, might, unchecked, prove weaknesses as well, and must have their due proportions and limits. They might consider themselves fortunate to have received such advantageous lessons. If they had been unhappy, their unhappiness had been to some purpose. “I see,” said Elizabeth, “that a little less security in my judgement, — and a little more observation and deliberation before forming it, — would do my conduct a world of good. I might then have less frequent cause to blush for myself.”

  Darcy had been paying the most serious attention to her words. Now he nodded his agreement. In making it an object that his feelings should not be easily swayed, he had been blind to the danger that never to be moved might prove worse than being moved too easily. And while it was good to avoid, (as he had striven to do,) “the sort of weakness which might expose a strong understanding to ridicule,” was it not necessary to avoid the inflexibility which might expose a strong understanding to self-deception?

  “And to think that it required an impertinent female to teach you these invaluable lessons!” Elizabeth cried gaily. For two long months, she had been suffering under a notable depression of spirits. Now she was herself again, and her recovered spirits bounded with all the ebullience of her lively, playful nature.

  “Impertinent females need henceforth fear no severity from me,” replied Darcy, giving her a look of the greatest complacency, “as my own happiness has been so entirely derived from one.”

  “Ah! (with an irresistible flush of pleasure,) that is all very well, Sir; but when, I should like to know, would you have spoken if I had not spoken first, — if I had not prodded you into speech by expressing my gratitude for your behaviour towards Lydia. (Shaking her head,) What becomes of the moral if we owe our happiness to the betrayal of a confidence? Only consider what a quantity of impropriety has brought us together. Of the misconduct of our aunts, sufficient mention has been made; but what of your cousin, Colonel Fitzwilliam? I might not have rejected you so uncivilly if the Colonel’s incautious betrayal of your role in separating Jane and Bingley, had not led me to express my resentment with an equal absence of caution. — Even Mr Wickham has been of use, in causing us to lose our tempers with such a decided lack of reserve. — Even Lydia, whose fall from grace spurred you to knight-errantry. You see, Mr Darcy, how good comes of evil!”

  “Must you call me ‘Mr Darcy?’ (smiling.) It sounds so formal, and I would do away all formality between us.”

  “And I should like to call you something other than Mr Darcy; but I fear I am not equal to ‘Fitzwilliam’.”

  “My sister calls me Harry, from the praenomen I share with my father: — he was Henry Percival Darcy, I am Henry Fitzwilliam.”

  “Harry. — Yes! it suits you! ‘God for Harry, England, — ’”

  She left the rest unsaid. She would not willingly revive the name of George, even if that George were a saint.

  After continuing some minutes in comfortable, quiet enjoyment, Elizabeth, looking round, realized with suddenness that she did not recognize her surroundings, — had never walked so far in her life; — in fact, that they had lost themselves more completely than ever Jane and Bingley had contrived to do! They must turn about, therefore, in the hope of retracing their tracks. A glance at their watches, moreover, told them that they must be late for dinner unless they hurried. Thereafter, they walked rapidly, and after traversing several fields, succeeded in coming back within their knowledge. They walked for the most part in silence; but once, Elizabeth could not help breaking into laughter. Upon Mr Darcy’s inquiring as to the cause of her merriment, she only shook her head. Much as he professed to value her impertinence, she would not try him too high as yet; he must be given time to accustom himself to the habit of informality; for what had made her laugh was a recollection of Mr Collins’s stated dictum, of its being the usual practice of elegant females to reject, at first, the addresses of the man they ultimately intended to accept. — Had not Mr Collins been proved triumphantly correct!

  Chapter Twelve

  “What could be come of Lizzy and Mr Darcy?”

  Jane was putting this question, and the party at Longbourn were on the point of going in to dinner, when Elizabeth and Darcy entered the drawing-room. “Well, here you are, at last,” said Mrs Bennet, — an assertion which Elizabeth had neither power nor wish to dispute. The calm manner with which every body greeted them, was cause of the greatest amazement in her. — That they should have no knowledge of the wonderful events which had been taking place since she and Darcy left the house! They had gone away uncertain, in doubt of their future. They returned with the future settled, and all doubts happily resolved. The difference between what her spirits were now and what they had been then, could hardly be exaggerated. She was now in such an exquisite flutter that it was impossible to be collected. As the human mind can never do without some source of solicitude, Elizabeth was obliged to find an alloy in fearing that it was all only a dream; but her anxiety was no more than a superstitious warding off of envious fate. In truth, she knew her happiness was of so substantial a nature that it would continue after the fears and flutters had subsided.

  In the rush of making their way home, she and Mr Darcy had had scant opportunity to consult. There had been but time to agree that Darcy should return the following day, and seek an interview with Mr Bennet. Though Darcy displayed his usual outward composure at dinner, he too was in a flutter of happy feelings; but where he wished for some quiet hours in which to contemplate his felicity alone, Elizabeth felt that she must share hers with some other human being immediately. — And who so proper as Jane? — Elizabeth wanted not only to confide in her sister, but to call upon her powers to assist in breaking the news to the rest of her family. She knew how strong was their dislike of Mr Darcy. They would none of them receive the news with joy! Jane’s giving the union her approval would go far towards convincing the others that it must happen, and would be no bad thing. However, when the evening afforded her a chance to speak with her sister, Elizabeth found the communication difficult, even to Jane. She had said so little (almost nothing) of the events which had effected so great a change in her feelings towards Mr Darcy, that the intelligence of her being to marry him, — coming seemingly out of the blue, — could at first purchase no credulity with Miss Bennet. “How could this be believed? Had Mr Darcy truly won her heart? She ventured to hope, (with some hesitation,) that Lizzy had accepted him from no interested motives. It would be a very great match of course, but Jane was sure that her dearest sister could never be happy where the sentiments were not equal.”

  It required some exertion on Elizabeth’s part to convince Jane that she was in no danger of feeling too little; and it was necessary to confide a part of the painful vexations which had been her lot ever since the wretched disclosure of Lydia’s elopement. Conviction came at last, and brought some gentle sorrow for Miss Bennet, — from understanding how much her sister had suffered in silence, and from that silence having extended even to herself. But Jane remembered how little given to confiding she had once been, on the subject of Bingley, and soon forgave her sister.

  “But you have been very sly,” she said. “I should have known nothing of the events of this summer if I had had to rely solely upon you. When Bingley told me that he had encountered you in Derbyshire, I could scarcely believe him.”

  “Perhaps I ought to have confided in you,” said Elizabeth. “But I could not mention Pemberley without mentioning Mr Bingley — and this I hesitated to do. My observation had given me hopes in that quarter, but I had no right to repeat them. Nor could I tell you how my own feelings had changed towards Mr Darcy. Even to mention such feelings must have made them appear irrational and absurd — and I could not bear to expose what I thought must perish from the exposure. I preferred to suffer in silence, if it allowed me to preserve my absurdity, rather than have the comfort of even your consolation.”

  Jane felt saddened again, remembering the sympathy she
had received from Elizabeth, to which she had made no return; but Elizabeth waved away her regret. “I had not your good fortune,” she said, “of being able to suffer openly; but I do not think I should have borne myself with your patient self-command, if I had. Well, at least our sufferings were not in vain. It has all come to good, and here shall be two unions to shew the world what married happiness may be. Mr Bingley and I are both fortunate in having gained our objects’ forgiveness, but I consider myself doubly fortunate since I was the greatest sinner of the two. Mr Bingley was only modest when he should have been bold, whereas I was bold when I should have been modest. Oh! yes — Bingley must be content to walk in my shade.”

  “I have always thought well of Mr Darcy,” Jane said, meditatively. “His occasional formality of manner could not conceal the goodness of his heart and opinions.”

  “From you, perhaps,” returned Elizabeth. “But you saw deeper into him than did I! — I, who was prepared to think meanly of his heart, and take impertinent liberties with his opinions.”

  The candour of Jane, was now the subject of Elizabeth’s renewed admiration: from being blind to the sort of petty behaviour which destroys people’s complacency with one another, she was able to see into their hearts with uncommon clearness and charity. She was not one whose views were always being prejudiced by wounded self-importance!