Chapter 34

WHEN they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering. But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which had been used to characterize her style, and which, proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself, and kindly disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy’s shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict gave her a keener sense of her sister’s sufferings. It was some consolation to think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next, and a still greater that in less than a fortnight she should herself be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her spirits, by all that affection could do.

When they had gone, Elizabeth seemed determined to make herself as angry with Mr. Darcy as possible. She chose to examine all the letters Jane had written to her since Elizabeth had been in Kent. The letters contained no actual complaints, no return to past events, and no account of Jane’s present suffering. But all of them, in almost every line, lacked the cheerfulness that had once marked Jane’s writing. That cheerfulness came from a mind at peace with itself and full of goodwill toward everyone. It had hardly ever been clouded. Elizabeth now studied every sentence that suggested uneasiness, giving it more attention than she had on her first reading. Mr. Darcy’s shameful boast about the misery he had managed to cause made her feel her sister’s suffering more keenly. She took some comfort in knowing that his visit to Rosings would end the day after tomorrow. She took still greater comfort in knowing she would be with Jane again in less than two weeks. Then she could do everything affection could offer to help restore her sister’s spirits.

She could not think of Darcy’s leaving Kent without remembering that his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear that he had no intentions at all, and, agreeable as he was, she did not mean to be unhappy about him.

She could not think of Darcy leaving Kent without remembering that his cousin would be going with him. But Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear that he had no romantic intentions at all. And although he was pleasant company, she did not intend to be unhappy over him.

While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the door-bell; and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in the evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her. But this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In a hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then getting up walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her in an agitated manner, and thus began:—

As she was settling this question, the doorbell suddenly startled her. She felt a little flutter of excitement at the thought that it might be Colonel Fitzwilliam himself. He had once called late in the evening before, and might now be coming specifically to ask after her. But that thought soon vanished, and her feelings changed completely when, to her utter amazement, Mr. Darcy entered the room. He immediately asked about her health in a hurried manner. He said he had come because he hoped to hear she was feeling better. She answered him with cold politeness. He sat down for a few moments, then got up and walked around the room. Elizabeth was surprised but said nothing. After several minutes of silence, he approached her, visibly agitated, and began:

“In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you.”

“I’ve struggled in vain. I can’t go on like this. I can’t hold back my feelings. You must let me tell you how deeply I admire and love you.”

Elizabeth’s astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement, and the avowal of all that he felt and had long felt for her immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed, and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority, of its being a degradation, of the family obstacles which judgment had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.

Elizabeth was astonished beyond words. She stared, blushed, doubted, and said nothing. He took her silence as enough encouragement and immediately declared all that he felt and had long felt for her. He spoke well, but he had more than love to discuss. He spoke just as eloquently about his pride as about his affection. He dwelt on her lower social standing and how marrying her would lower his own. He also described the family obstacles that had always set his judgment against his desires. He spoke of these matters with a passion that seemed fitting for the self-importance he was wounding. But his words were very unlikely to make her welcome his proposal.

In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to the compliment of such a man’s affection, and though her intentions did not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to receive; till roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with representing to her the strength of that attachment which in spite of all his endeavours he had found impossible to conquer; and with expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand. As he said this she could easily see that he had no doubt of a favourable answer. He spoke of apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate farther; and when he ceased the colour rose into her cheeks and she said,—

Despite her deep dislike of him, she could not help feeling flattered by the love of such a man. Although her intentions never wavered for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain she would cause him. But his later words stirred her resentment, and anger drove out all her sympathy. Still, she tried to calm herself so she could answer him patiently when he had finished. He ended by describing the strength of his love, which he had been unable to overcome despite all his efforts. He expressed his hope that she would now reward his love by agreeing to marry him. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt she would accept. He spoke of fear and anxiety, but his face showed complete confidence. His certainty could only anger her further. When he stopped speaking, her cheeks flushed, and she said:

“In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot—I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which you tell me have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation.”

“In cases like this, I believe it is customary to express gratitude for someone's declared feelings. That is expected even when those feelings are not equally returned. It is natural to feel grateful, and if I could feel gratitude, I would thank you now. But I cannot. I have never wanted your good opinion, and you have certainly given it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have caused anyone pain. But I did so without knowing it, and I hope the pain will not last long. You say your feelings long kept you from admitting your love. After this explanation, those same feelings should have little difficulty overcoming your love.”

Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantel-piece with his eyes fixed on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the appearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he believed himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth’s feelings dreadful. At length, in a voice of forced calmness, he said,—

Mr. Darcy leaned against the mantelpiece, his eyes fixed on her face. He seemed to take in her words with as much resentment as surprise. His face turned pale with anger, and every feature showed his distress. He struggled to appear calm and would not speak until he believed he had managed to look composed. Elizabeth found the silence dreadful. At last, in a voice of forced calm, he said:

“And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance.”

“And this is all the reply I can expect to be honored with! I might, perhaps, want to know why you reject me with so little effort to be polite. But it matters little.”

“I might as well inquire,” replied she, “why, with so evident a design of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I was uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I have. Had not my own feelings decided against you, had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?”

“I could just as well ask,” she replied, “why you spoke with such an obvious intention to offend and insult me. Why tell me you liked me against your will, against your judgment, and even against your character? Didn’t your words give me some excuse for being rude, if I was rude? But I have other reasons to be angry. You know I have. Even if my own feelings hadn’t turned me against you, what if I had felt indifferent, or even liked you? Do you think anything could tempt me to accept the man responsible for ruining my dear sister’s happiness, perhaps forever?”

As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she continued,—

As she said these words, Mr. Darcy’s face changed color. But his emotion quickly passed, and he listened without trying to interrupt her as she continued:

“I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there. You dare not, you cannot deny that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other, of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind.”

“I have every reason in the world to think badly of you. No motive can excuse your unfair and unkind actions there. You dare not deny it, and you cannot. You were chiefly responsible, if not entirely responsible, for separating them. You exposed one to the world’s criticism for being fickle and inconsistent. You exposed the other to its mockery for having hopes that came to nothing. And you caused them both the deepest misery.”

She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse. He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.

She paused and saw, with considerable anger, that his manner as he listened showed he felt no remorse at all. He even looked at her with a smile of pretended disbelief.

“Can you deny that you have done it?” she repeated.

“Can you deny that you did it?” she repeated.

With assumed tranquillity he then replied, “I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself.”

Pretending to be calm, he then replied, “I won’t deny that I did everything I could to separate my friend from your sister. Nor will I deny that I’m delighted I succeeded. I have been kinder to him than to myself.”

Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection, but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.

Elizabeth refused to show she had noticed this polite remark. But she understood its meaning, and it was unlikely to soften her feelings.

“But it is not merely this affair,” she continued, “on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place, my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself? or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?”

“But this affair is not the only reason I dislike you,” she continued. “Long before it happened, I had made up my mind about you. Mr. Wickham revealed your character to me in his account many months ago. What can you say about that? What imaginary act of friendship can you claim in your defense here? Or what false version of events can you use to deceive others?”

“You take an eager interest in that gentleman’s concerns,” said Darcy, in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.

“You take a keen interest in that gentleman’s affairs,” Darcy said, sounding less calm. His face had grown redder.

“Who that knows what his misfortunes have been can help feeling an interest in him?”

“Who could know what he has suffered and not feel concern for him?”

“His misfortunes!” repeated Darcy, contemptuously,—“yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed.”

“His misfortunes!” Darcy repeated scornfully. “Yes, his misfortunes have been very great indeed.”

“And of your infliction,” cried Elizabeth, with energy; “You have reduced him to his present state of poverty—comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortunes with contempt and ridicule.”

“And you caused his suffering!” Elizabeth cried fiercely. “You have reduced him to his present poverty, at least compared with what he should have had. You have held back the benefits you must know were intended for him. You have robbed him of financial independence during the best years of his life. He was entitled to that independence, and he deserved it just as much. You have done all this! And yet you can respond with contempt and mockery when his misfortunes are mentioned.”

“And this,” cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room, “is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But, perhaps,” added he, stopping in his walk, and turning towards her, “these offences might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections?—to congratulate myself on the hope of relations whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?”

“And this,” cried Darcy, pacing quickly across the room, “is your opinion of me! This is how you judge me! Thank you for explaining it so fully. By your account, my faults are very serious indeed! But perhaps,” he added, stopping and turning toward her, “you might have overlooked these offenses if my honest confession had not hurt your pride. I told you about the doubts that had long kept me from seriously considering marriage. You might have held back these bitter accusations if I had been more calculating and hidden my struggles. I could have flattered you into believing that my feelings, my reason, and all my thoughts favored marrying you without reservation. But I hate every kind of deception. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I described. Those feelings were natural and justified. Could you expect me to be delighted that your family and connections are beneath me in social standing? Could you expect me to congratulate myself on gaining relatives whose position in life is so clearly below my own?”

Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to the utmost to speak with composure when she said,—

Elizabeth felt angrier with every moment. Still, she tried as hard as she could to speak calmly as she said:

“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.”

“You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you think the way you proposed affected me in any other way. Your manner only spared me the regret I might have felt about refusing you. I might have felt that regret if you had behaved more like a gentleman.”

She saw him start at this; but he said nothing, and she continued,—

She saw him flinch at this, but he said nothing, and she continued:

“You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.”

“No matter how you had proposed, you could not have tempted me to accept.”

Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on,—

Again, his shock was obvious. He looked at her with a mix of disbelief and humiliation. She went on:

“From the very beginning, from the first moment, I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that groundwork of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry.”

“From the very beginning of our acquaintance, almost from the first moment, your manners left me in no doubt. You were arrogant, full of yourself, and selfishly dismissive of other people's feelings. That was the basis of my disapproval, and later events turned it into an unshakable dislike. Before I had known you a month, I felt you were the last man I could ever be persuaded to marry.”

“You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness.”

“You have said quite enough, madam. I understand your feelings perfectly, and now I can only feel ashamed of my own. Forgive me for taking up so much of your time. I wish you the best of health and happiness.”

And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him the next moment open the front door and quit the house. The tumult of her mind was now painfully great. She knew not how to support herself, and, from actual weakness, sat down and cried for half an hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of marriage from Mr. Darcy! that he should have been in love with her for so many months! so much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all the objections which had made him prevent his friend’s marrying her sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his own case, was almost incredible! it was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride, his shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane, his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it, and the unfeeling manner which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his attachment had for a moment excited.

With these words, he hurried out of the room. A moment later, Elizabeth heard him open the front door and leave the house. Her thoughts and feelings were now in painful turmoil. She did not know how to hold herself up. Physically weak, she sat down and cried for half an hour. The more she thought about what had happened, the more astonished she became. Mr. Darcy had proposed to her! He had been in love with her for so many months! He loved her enough to want to marry her despite all his objections. Those same objections had led him to prevent his friend from marrying her sister. They must carry at least as much weight in his own case. It was almost unbelievable! She was pleased to have inspired such strong love without knowing it. But then she thought of his pride, his dreadful pride. He had shamelessly admitted what he had done to Jane. He had acknowledged his actions with unforgivable confidence, though he could not justify them. And he had spoken so coldly of Mr. Wickham, without attempting to deny his cruelty toward him. All this soon overcame the pity his love had briefly made her feel.

She continued in very agitating reflections till the sound of Lady Catherine’s carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter Charlotte’s observation, and hurried her away to her room.

Her troubled thoughts continued until she heard Lady Catherine’s carriage. The sound made her realize she could not bear Charlotte’s scrutiny, so she hurried to her room.