Chapter 27
WITH no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and sometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of going thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the plan, and she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure as well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There was novelty in the scheme; and as, with such a mother and such uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would, moreover, give her a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have been very sorry for any delay. Everything, however, went on smoothly, and was finally settled according to Charlotte’s first sketch. She was to accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement of spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became as perfect as plan could be.
January and February passed with no greater events than these in the Longbourn family. Little else broke the routine beyond walks to Meryton, sometimes muddy and sometimes cold. March would take Elizabeth to Hunsford. At first, she had not thought very seriously about going. But she soon found that Charlotte was counting on the visit. Gradually, Elizabeth began to look forward to the trip with more pleasure and to feel more certain about going. Their separation had made her more eager to see Charlotte again and less disgusted with Mr. Collins. The plan offered something new. And with such a mother and sisters who offered so little companionship, home could hardly be perfect. So a little change was welcome for its own sake. The journey would also give her a brief visit with Jane. In short, as the time approached, she would have been very sorry about any delay. Everything went smoothly, however, and the arrangements were finally settled according to Charlotte’s original outline. Elizabeth would travel with Sir William and his second daughter. An overnight stay in London was later added, making the plan as perfect as any plan could be.
The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her, and who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he told her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter.
Her only pain was leaving her father, who would certainly miss her. When the time came, he was so reluctant to see her go that he asked her to write to him. He even almost promised to answer her letter.
The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on his side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that Elizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner of bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their opinion of her—their opinion of everybody—would always coincide, there was a solicitude, an interest, which she felt must ever attach her to him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced, that, whether married or single, he must always be her model of the amiable and pleasing.
Elizabeth and Mr. Wickham said goodbye on perfectly friendly terms, with even warmer feelings on his side. His current pursuit could not make him forget that Elizabeth had been the first to attract and deserve his attention. She had been the first to listen and sympathize, the first to be admired. As he said goodbye, he wished her every pleasure and reminded her what to expect from Lady Catherine de Bourgh. He hoped their opinions of Lady Catherine, and of everyone else, would always agree. His goodbye showed such care and interest that Elizabeth felt she must always regard him with sincere affection. She left him convinced that, whether married or single, he would always be her ideal of a kind, charming man.
Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a good-humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say that could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much delight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but she had known Sir William’s too long. He could tell her nothing new of the wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were worn out, like his information.
Her travelling companions the next day did nothing to make her think him any less pleasant. They were Sir William Lucas and his daughter Maria, a good-natured girl, but as empty-headed as her father. Neither had anything to say worth hearing. Listening to them was about as enjoyable as listening to the carriage rattle. Elizabeth enjoyed absurdity, but she had known Sir William’s particular absurdities too long. He could tell her nothing new about the wonders of his presentation at court and his knighthood. His polite remarks were as worn out as his information.
It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early as to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner’s door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival: when they entered the passage, she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth, looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls, whose eagerness for their cousin’s appearance would not allow them to wait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her for a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.
The journey was only twenty-four miles, and they set off early enough to reach Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove up to Mr. Gardiner’s door, Jane was watching for them from a living-room window. By the time they entered the hall, she was there to welcome them. Elizabeth looked closely at Jane’s face and was pleased to see her looking as healthy and lovely as ever. A crowd of little boys and girls stood on the stairs. They were too eager to see their cousin to wait in the living room. But they had not seen her for a year and were too shy to come farther down. Everyone was happy and welcoming. The day passed very pleasantly, with a busy morning of shopping and an evening at one of the theatres.
Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first subject was her sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to her minute inquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to hope that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the particulars also of Miss Bingley’s visit in Gracechurch Street, and repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the acquaintance.
Elizabeth then found a way to sit beside her aunt. They first talked about her sister. In answer to Elizabeth’s detailed questions, her aunt explained that Jane always tried to keep her spirits up. Even so, Jane had periods of sadness. Elizabeth was more saddened than surprised to hear this. Still, there was good reason to hope these low spirits would not last long. Mrs. Gardiner also gave her the details of Miss Bingley’s visit to Gracechurch Street. She repeated conversations she and Jane had had at different times. These conversations proved that Jane had truly given up her friendship with Miss Bingley.
Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham’s desertion, and complimented her on bearing it so well.
Mrs. Gardiner then teased her niece about Wickham abandoning her, and praised her for handling it so well.
“But, my dear Elizabeth,” she added, “what sort of girl is Miss King? I should be sorry to think our friend mercenary.”
“But, my dear Elizabeth,” she added, “what kind of girl is Miss King? I’d be sorry to think our friend was only interested in money.”
“Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end, and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me, because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is mercenary.”
“Tell me, my dear aunt, what is the difference between marrying for money and marrying for practical reasons? Where does good judgment end and greed begin? Last Christmas you were afraid he would marry me, because the marriage would be unwise. And now he is trying to marry a girl with only ten thousand pounds. Because of that, you want to decide he is marrying for money.”
“If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know what to think.”
“If you just tell me what kind of girl Miss King is, I’ll know what to think.”
“She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her.”
“She’s a very good girl, I believe. I don’t know anything bad about her.”
“But he paid her not the smallest attention till her grandfather’s death made her mistress of this fortune?”
“But he paid her no attention at all until her grandfather died and she inherited this fortune?”
“No—why should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain my affections, because I had no money, what occasion could there be for making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally poor?”
“No, why should he? If he wasn’t allowed to win my heart because I had no money, why court an equally poor girl? Especially one he didn’t care about?”
“But there seems indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her so soon after this event.”
“But it seems insensitive for him to show romantic interest in her so soon after this event.”
“A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant decorums which other people may observe. If she does not object to it, why should we?”
“A man in financial trouble has no time for all the polite formalities that other people may follow. If she does not object to it, why should we?”
“Her not objecting does not justify him. It only shows her being deficient in something herself—sense or feeling.”
“Her not objecting does not excuse him. Her lack of objection only shows that she herself lacks sense or feeling.”
“Well,” cried Elizabeth, “have it as you choose. He shall be mercenary, and she shall be foolish.”
“Well,” Elizabeth exclaimed, “have it your way. He will be money-hungry, and she will be foolish.”
“No, Lizzy, that is what I do not choose. I should be sorry, you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire.”
“No, Lizzy, that is not what I want. You know, I’d hate to think badly of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire.”
“Oh, if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has neither manners nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after all.”
“Oh, if that is all, I have a very low opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire. And their close friends who live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank heaven! Tomorrow I am going somewhere I will find a man without a single pleasant quality. He has neither good manners nor good sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after all.”
“Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment.”
“Be careful, Lizzy. What you just said sounds very much like disappointment.”
Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.
Before the play ended and they parted, she received an unexpected invitation that delighted her. Her uncle and aunt invited her to join them on a summer trip for pleasure.
“We have not quite determined how far it shall carry us,” said Mrs. Gardiner; “but perhaps, to the Lakes.”
“We haven’t quite decided how far we’ll go,” said Mrs. Gardiner. “But perhaps to the Lakes.”
No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. “My dear, dear aunt,” she rapturously cried, “what delight! what felicity! You give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are men to rocks and mountains? Oh, what hours of transport we shall spend! And when we do return, it shall not be like other travellers, without being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We will know where we have gone—we will recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains, and rivers, shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations; nor, when we attempt to describe any particular scene, will we begin quarrelling about its relative situation. Let our first effusions be less insupportable than those of the generality of travellers.”
No plan could have pleased Elizabeth more, and she accepted the invitation eagerly and gratefully. “My dear, dear aunt,” she cried with delight, “what joy! What happiness! You give me new life and energy. Goodbye to disappointment and bitterness. What are men compared to rocks and mountains? Oh, what wonderful hours we shall spend! And when we do return, we won’t be like other travellers, unable to give an accurate account of anything. We will know where we have been. We will remember what we have seen. Lakes, mountains, and rivers will not get mixed up in our minds. Nor will we start arguing about where a particular place was when we try to describe it. Let our first excited accounts be less unbearable than those of most travellers.”