Chapter 36

ELIZABETH, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of its contents. But such as they were, it may be well supposed how eagerly she went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited. Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did she first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power; and steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong prejudice against everything he might say, she began his account of what had happened at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness which hardly left her power of comprehension; and from impatience of knowing what the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister’s insensibility she instantly resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and insolence.

When Mr. Darcy gave Elizabeth the letter, she did not expect him to propose again. She had no expectations at all about its contents. But given what he wrote, it is easy to imagine how eagerly she read it, and her conflicting emotions. Her feelings as she read were almost impossible to describe. At first, she was amazed that he believed he could offer any defense of his conduct. She firmly believed he could have no explanation that a proper sense of shame would not keep him from giving. Strongly prejudiced against anything he might say, she began his account of what had happened at Netherfield. She read so eagerly that she could hardly understand what she read. Her impatience to discover the next sentence kept her from taking in the sentence before her eyes. She immediately decided that his belief in her sister’s lack of affection was false. His account of the real and most serious objections to the marriage made her too angry to consider him fairly. He expressed no regret for his actions that satisfied her. His tone was not apologetic, but arrogant. It was all pride and insolence.

But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham—when she read, with somewhat clearer attention, a relation of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself—her feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition. Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, “This must be false! This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!”—and when she had gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not regard it, that she would never look in it again.

But when he moved on to his account of Mr. Wickham, she read with somewhat clearer attention. If true, these events would overturn every cherished belief she held about Mr. Wickham’s character. They also bore an alarming resemblance to Mr. Wickham’s own account of his life. As she read, her feelings became even more painful and harder to describe. Astonishment, fear, and even horror overwhelmed her. She wanted to reject the account entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, “This must be false! This cannot be! This must be a complete lie!” When she finished the letter, she had barely taken in anything from the last page or two. She hastily put the letter away, insisting that she would pay no attention to it and never read it again.

In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing, she walked on; but it would not do: in half a minute the letter was unfolded again; and collecting herself as well as she could, she again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence. The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own words. So far each recital confirmed the other; but when she came to the will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living was fresh in her memory; and as she recalled his very words, it was impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the other, and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did not err. But when she read and re-read, with the closest attention, the particulars immediately following of Wickham’s resigning all pretensions to the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be impartiality—deliberated on the probability of each statement—but with little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read on. But every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to render Mr. Darcy’s conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.

She walked on in distress, unable to settle her thoughts on anything. But walking did not help. Within half a minute, she had unfolded the letter again. Gathering herself as best she could, she began another painful reading of everything about Wickham. She made herself examine the meaning of every sentence. The account of his connection with the Pemberley family matched exactly what Wickham himself had told her. The late Mr. Darcy’s kindness also agreed with Wickham’s own words, though she had not known its full extent. So far, the two accounts confirmed each other. But when she reached the will, the difference was great. She clearly remembered what Wickham had said about the living, the paid position as a parish clergyman. As she recalled his exact words, she could not deny that one side or the other had been deeply deceitful. For a few moments, she let herself believe that the account she wanted to trust was true. But she read and reread the details that followed with the closest attention. Wickham had given up all claims to the living and received the considerable sum of three thousand pounds instead. Once again, she was forced to hesitate. She lowered the letter and weighed every circumstance with what she intended to be fairness. She considered how likely each account was to be true, but made little progress. On both sides, there were only claims. Again she read on. She had believed that no clever explanation could make Mr. Darcy’s conduct in the affair seem anything less than disgraceful. But every line showed more clearly that the affair could be understood in a way that left him entirely blameless throughout.

The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay to Mr. Wickham’s charge exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his entrance into the ——shire militia, in which he had engaged at the persuasion of the young man, who, on meeting him accidentally in town, had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life, nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told

He accused Mr. Wickham without hesitation of reckless spending and generally immoral behavior, which shocked her deeply. She was even more shocked because she had no evidence to prove the accusations unfair. She had never heard of him before he joined the ____shire militia. He had joined at the urging of the young man, who had met him by chance in town. The two had known each other slightly, and that meeting had renewed their acquaintance. In Hertfordshire, nothing was known about his earlier life except what he told

himself. As to his real character, had information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner, had established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those casual errors, under which she would endeavour to class what Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years’ continuance. But no such recollection befriended her. She could see him instantly before her, in every charm of air and address, but she could remember no more substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued to read. But, alas! the story which followed, of his designs on Miss Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam himself—from whom she had previously received the information of his near concern in all his cousin’s affairs and whose character she had no reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his cousin’s corroboration.

himself. As for his true character, she had never wanted to investigate, even if information had been available to her. His face, voice, and manner had immediately convinced her that he possessed every virtue. She tried to remember some act of goodness, some striking example of honesty or kindness, to defend him against Mr. Darcy’s accusations. Or at least, his virtues might outweigh and make up for his occasional mistakes. That was how she would try to classify what Mr. Darcy had described as years of idleness and vice. But no such memory came to her aid. She could instantly picture all the charm of his appearance and manner. But she could remember no more substantial evidence of goodness than the neighbourhood’s general approval. There was also the affection his social skills had earned him among his fellow officers. After considering this for quite some time, she began reading again. But alas! The account that followed, describing his plans for Miss Darcy, found some support in her conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam just the previous morning. Finally, the letter referred her to Colonel Fitzwilliam himself to confirm every detail. He had already told her how closely involved he was in all his cousin’s affairs. And she had no reason to doubt his character. For a moment, she almost decided to ask him. But the awkwardness of making such a request held her back. Finally, she abandoned the idea entirely, convinced that Mr. Darcy would never have risked suggesting it without good reason. He must have been certain his cousin would confirm his account.

She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation between Wickham and herself in their first evening at Mr. Philips’s. Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was now struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear of seeing Mr. Darcy—that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that he should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very next week. She remembered, also, that till the Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but herself; but that after their removal, it had been everywhere discussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy’s character, though he had assured her that respect for the father would always prevent his exposing the son.

She remembered perfectly everything she and Wickham had discussed on their first evening at Mr. Philips’s. Many of his words were still fresh in her memory. She now realized how improper it was to share such things with a stranger. She wondered why she had not noticed before. She saw how tactless he had been in drawing attention to himself, and how his actions contradicted his claims. She remembered his boast that he was not afraid to see Mr. Darcy. Mr. Darcy might leave the area, but he would stand his ground. Yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very next week. She also remembered that, until the Netherfield family left the area, he had told his story only to her. But after they left, the story had been discussed everywhere. He had then held nothing back and shown no hesitation in damaging Mr. Darcy’s reputation. Yet he had assured her that respect for the father would always keep him from exposing the son.

How differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned! His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything. His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive: he had either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter and fainter; and in further justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not but allow that Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the affair;—that, proud and repulsive as were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their acquaintance—an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much together, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways—seen anything that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust—anything that spoke him of irreligious or immoral habits;—that among his own connections he was esteemed and valued;—that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a brother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his sister as to prove him capable of some amiable feeling;—that had his actions been what Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of everything right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and that friendship between a person capable of it and such an amiable man as Mr. Bingley was incomprehensible.

How different everything involving him now seemed! His attentions to Miss King now seemed driven solely by a hateful greed for money. Her modest fortune no longer showed that his wishes were moderate, but that he eagerly grasped at anything. His behavior toward herself could now have had no acceptable motive. Either he had been misled about her fortune, or he had been feeding his vanity by encouraging her affection. She believed she had shown that affection far too carelessly. Every lingering effort to think well of him grew weaker and weaker. And she had to admit several things that further supported Mr. Darcy. Long ago, when Jane questioned Mr. Bingley, he had insisted that Mr. Darcy was blameless in the affair. Although Mr. Darcy's manners were proud and unpleasant, she had never seen any sign that he lacked principles or fairness. Nor had she seen any sign of irreligious or immoral habits throughout their acquaintance. Lately, they had spent much time together, giving her some familiarity with his ways. Among his own friends and relations, he was respected and valued. Even Wickham had admitted that he was a good brother. She had often heard Mr. Darcy speak so affectionately of his sister that he clearly had some capacity for warmth. If he had acted as Wickham claimed, such a flagrant disregard for everything right could hardly have remained hidden. And she could not understand how someone capable of such conduct could be friends with so kind a man as Mr. Bingley.

She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham could she think, without feeling that she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd.

She became deeply ashamed of herself. She couldn't think of either Darcy or Wickham without feeling how blind, biased, prejudiced, and foolish she had been.

“How despicably have I acted!” she cried. “I, who have prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blameless distrust. How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind. But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away where either were concerned. Till this moment, I never knew myself.”

“How terribly I have behaved!” she cried. “I, who have been so proud of my judgment! I, who have thought so highly of my abilities! I have often looked down on my sister’s generous willingness to believe the best of people. And I have fed my vanity with pointless suspicions, or suspicions of people who deserved no blame. How humiliating this discovery is! Yet how much I deserve this humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not have been more miserably blind. But vanity, not love, has been my foolish mistake. From the very beginning, I was pleased by one man’s preference for me and offended by the other’s neglect. So I welcomed prejudice and ignorance, and shut out reason whenever either man was concerned. Until this moment, I never knew myself.”

From herself to Jane, from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy’s explanation there had appeared very insufficient; and she read it again. Widely different was the effect of a second perusal. How could she deny that credit to his assertions, in one instance, which she had been obliged to give in the other? He declared himself to have been totally unsuspicious of her sister’s attachment; and she could not help remembering what Charlotte’s opinion had always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his description of Jane. She felt that Jane’s feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in her air and manner, not often united with great sensibility.

Her thoughts moved from herself to Jane, then from Jane to Bingley. She soon remembered that Mr. Darcy’s explanation there had seemed very inadequate, and she read it again. Reading it a second time had a very different effect. How could she refuse to believe his claims in one case when she had been forced to believe the other? He declared that he had never suspected her sister’s feelings for Bingley. And she could not help remembering what Charlotte had always thought. Nor could she deny that his description of Jane was fair. She knew that Jane’s feelings, though strong, rarely showed. Jane also had a consistently calm, contented manner, something not often found in people who felt deeply.

When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were mentioned, in tones of such mortifying, yet merited, reproach, her sense of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly for denial; and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded, as having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind than on hers.

When she reached the part of the letter about her family, she felt deeply ashamed. His criticism was humiliating, yet deserved. She saw too clearly how fair his accusations were to deny them. He pointed particularly to events at the Netherfield ball that had confirmed all his initial disapproval. Those events could not have made a stronger impression on him than they had on her.

The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed, but it could not console her for the contempt which had been thus self-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she considered that Jane’s disappointment had, in fact, been the work of her nearest relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she had ever known before.

She appreciated the compliment to herself and her sister. It eased her feelings, but could not comfort her over the contempt the rest of her family had brought on themselves. She considered how her closest relatives had, in fact, caused Jane’s disappointment. She also reflected on how seriously their improper behavior must damage both her own reputation and Jane’s. These thoughts left her more depressed than she had ever been before.

After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every variety of thought, reconsidering events, determining probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and so important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made her at length return home; and she entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such reflections as must make her unfit for conversation.

She wandered along the lane for two hours, letting her thoughts range freely, reviewing events, and weighing what was likely. She tried, as best she could, to accept so sudden and important a change. At last, tired and remembering how long she had been away, she returned home. She entered the house hoping to seem as cheerful as usual. She was determined to put aside any thoughts that would leave her unable to take part in conversation.

She was immediately told, that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes, to take leave, but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her till she could be found. Elizabeth could but just affect concern in missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an object. She could think only of her letter.

She was immediately told that both gentlemen from Rosings had visited while she was away. Mr. Darcy had stayed only a few minutes to say goodbye. But Colonel Fitzwilliam had sat with them for at least an hour, hoping she would return. He had almost decided to go out looking for her. Elizabeth could barely pretend to be sorry she had missed him. She was actually delighted to have missed him. Colonel Fitzwilliam no longer interested her. She could think only of her letter.