Chapter 40

ELIZABETH’S impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could no longer be overcome; and at length resolving to suppress every particular in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised, she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr. Darcy and herself.

Elizabeth could no longer resist her urge to tell Jane what had happened. She finally decided to leave out every detail that concerned her sister. The next morning, after warning Jane to expect a surprise, she described most of her encounter with Mr. Darcy.

Miss Bennet’s astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so little suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the unhappiness which her sister’s refusal must have given him.

Miss Bennet’s surprise soon faded because her strong love for her sister made any admiration of Elizabeth seem perfectly natural. Before long, other feelings replaced all her surprise. She was sorry that Mr. Darcy had expressed his feelings in a way so unlikely to win Elizabeth over. But she was even more saddened by the unhappiness her sister’s refusal must have caused him.

“His being so sure of succeeding was wrong,” said she, “and certainly ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his disappointment.”

“He was wrong to be so sure he would succeed,” she said. “He certainly should not have shown such confidence. But think how much more disappointed he must be because he was so sure.”

“Indeed,” replied Elizabeth, “I am heartily sorry for him; but he has other feelings which will probably soon drive away his regard for me. You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?”

“Yes,” Elizabeth replied, “I feel very sorry for him. But he has other feelings that will probably soon overcome his affection for me. Still, you don’t blame me for turning him down?”

“Blame you! Oh, no.”

“Blame you? Oh, no.”

“But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?”

“But you blame me for speaking so highly of Wickham?”

“No—I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did.”

“No, I’m not sure you were wrong to say what you did.”

“But you will know it, when I have told you what happened the very next day.”

“But you will know it when I tell you what happened the very next day.”

She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane, who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind as was here collected in one individual! Nor was Darcy’s vindication, though grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery. Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and seek to clear one, without involving the other.

She then spoke about the letter, repeating everything in it that concerned George Wickham. What a blow this was for poor Jane! She would gladly have gone through life without believing that all humanity contained as much wickedness as this one man. Although she was pleased to learn that Darcy was innocent, that could not console her for discovering Wickham’s wickedness. She tried her hardest to show that there was probably some mistake. She wanted to clear one man without blaming the other.

“This will not do,” said Elizabeth; “you never will be able to make both of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just enough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting about pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Mr. Darcy’s, but you shall do as you choose.”

“That won’t do,” said Elizabeth. “You’ll never manage to make both of them out to be good men. Take your pick, but you must be satisfied with just one. Between them, they have only enough good qualities to make one decent man. And lately, those qualities have been shifting back and forth quite a bit. For my part, I’m inclined to believe they all belong to Mr. Darcy, but you can choose as you please.”

It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane.

Still, it took some time to coax a smile from Jane.

“I do not know when I have been more shocked,” said she. “Wickham so very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! dear Lizzy, only consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the knowledge of your ill opinion too! and having to relate such a thing of his sister! It is really too distressing, I am sure you must feel it so.”

“I can’t remember when I’ve been more shocked,” she said. “Wickham, so wicked! It’s almost impossible to believe. And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear Lizzy, just think how much he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! And knowing how badly you thought of him, too! And having to tell you something like that about his sister! It really is too upsetting. I’m sure you must find it upsetting too.”

“Oh no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so full of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion makes me saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will be as light as a feather.”

“Oh no, seeing you so full of regret and sympathy has wiped out all of mine. I know you’ll give him all the sympathy he deserves, so I’m growing less concerned and more indifferent every moment. You’re so generous with your sympathy that I can afford to be stingy with mine. And if you grieve over him much longer, my heart will be as light as a feather.”

“Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner.”

“Poor Wickham! His face has such a kind expression! His manner is so open and gentle.”

“There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it.”

“Something certainly went badly wrong in the way those two young men were brought up. One has all the goodness, and the other has only the appearance of goodness.”

“I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the appearance of it as you used to do.”

“I never thought Mr. Darcy lacked the appearance of it as much as you used to think.”

“And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one’s genius, such an opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually abusive without saying anything just; but one cannot be always laughing at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty.”

“And yet I meant to be especially clever by disliking him so strongly for no reason. That kind of dislike really sparks your imagination and gives you so many chances to be witty. You may keep insulting someone without saying anything fair. But you cannot keep laughing at a man without stumbling on something witty now and then.”

“Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat the matter as you do now.”

“Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I’m sure you couldn’t react to the matter as you do now.”

“Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I was very uncomfortable—I may say unhappy. And with no one to speak to of what I felt, no Jane to comfort me, and say that I had not been so very weak, and vain, and nonsensical, as I knew I had! Oh, how I wanted you!”

“Really, I couldn’t. I was uncomfortable enough, very uncomfortable. I might even say unhappy. And I had no one to talk to about how I felt. There was no Jane to comfort me. You could have told me I hadn’t been as weak, vain, and foolish as I knew I had been! Oh, how I needed you!”

“How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they do appear wholly undeserved.”

“How unfortunate that you used such strong language about Wickham when speaking to Mr. Darcy. Those words now do seem completely undeserved.”

“Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintance in general understand Wickham’s character.”

“Certainly. But unfortunately, speaking bitterly is a very natural result of the prejudices I had been encouraging in myself. There is one thing I want your advice on. Should I tell the people we know what Wickham is really like, or not?”

Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, “Surely there can be no occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your own opinion?”

Miss Bennet paused briefly, then replied, “Surely there’s no need to expose him so terribly. What do you think?”

“That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorized me to make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in Meryton, to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham will soon be gone; and, therefore, it will not signify to anybody here what he really is. Some time hence it will be all found out, and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present I will say nothing about it.”

“That we should not try. Mr. Darcy has not given me permission to make what he told me public. On the contrary, I was meant to keep every detail about his sister as much to myself as possible. And if I try to correct people’s mistaken ideas about the rest of his behavior, who will believe me? People are so strongly prejudiced against Mr. Darcy that seeing him favorably would kill half the good people in Meryton. I am not up to the task. Wickham will soon be gone, so nobody here will care what he is really like. In time, everything will come out. Then we may laugh at their stupidity for not realizing it sooner. For now, I will say nothing about it.”

“You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate.”

“You are quite right. Making his mistakes public might ruin him forever. Perhaps he now regrets what he has done and is eager to rebuild his reputation. We must not make him desperate.”

The tumult of Elizabeth’s mind was allayed by this conversation. She had got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish to talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind, of which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not relate the other half of Mr. Darcy’s letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she had been valued by his friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off this last encumbrance of mystery. “And then,” said she, “if that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!”

The conversation calmed Elizabeth’s troubled mind. She had shared two secrets that had weighed on her for two weeks. She knew Jane would gladly listen whenever she wanted to talk about either again. But another secret remained, and caution kept her from revealing it. She dared not share the other half of Mr. Darcy’s letter. Nor could she explain to her sister how sincerely his friend had loved her. She could share this knowledge with no one. Only a complete understanding between Jane and Bingley could justify freeing herself from the burden of this last secret. “And then,” she said, “if that very unlikely event ever happens, I shall only be able to tell Jane what Bingley himself could tell her far more pleasantly. I cannot be free to tell her until telling her has lost all its value!”

She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real state of her sister’s spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than first attachments often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own health and their tranquillity.

Now settled at home, she had time to notice how her sister was really feeling. Jane was not happy. She still felt a deep tenderness for Bingley. She had never even imagined herself in love before, so her feelings had all the warmth of first love. Her age and temperament also made her love steadier than first love often is. She cared so deeply about being remembered by him and preferred him so strongly to every other man. Because of this, she needed all her good sense and all her concern for her friends’ feelings to restrain her sorrow. Giving way to her regrets would have harmed her own health and her friends’ peace of mind.

“Well, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet, one day, “what is your opinion now of this sad business of Jane’s? For my part, I am determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I told my sister Philips so the other day. But I cannot find out that Jane saw anything of him in London. Well, he is a very undeserving young man—and I do not suppose there is the least chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired of everybody, too, who is likely to know.”

“Well, Lizzy,” said Mrs. Bennet one day, “what do you think now about this sad business with Jane? For my part, I’m determined never to talk about it again to anyone. I told my sister Philips that the other day. But I haven’t been able to find out whether Jane saw him at all in London. Well, he is a very undeserving young man. And I don’t suppose there’s the slightest chance in the world of her ever marrying him now. There’s no talk of him coming back to Netherfield this summer. And I’ve asked everyone who is likely to know, too.”

“I do not believe that he will ever live at Netherfield any more.”

“I don’t believe he’ll ever live at Netherfield again.”

“Oh, well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come; though I shall always say that he used my daughter extremely ill; and, if I was her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Jane will die of a broken heart, and then he will be sorry for what he has done.”

“Oh, well! He can do as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come, though I’ll always say he treated my daughter terribly. And if I were her, I wouldn’t have put up with his behavior. Well, my comfort is that I’m sure Jane will die of a broken heart. Then he’ll be sorry for what he’s done.”

But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation she made no answer.

But Elizabeth could find no comfort in any such expectation, so she said nothing.

“Well, Lizzy,” continued her mother, soon afterwards, “and so the Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her mother, she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in their housekeeping, I dare say.”

“Well, Lizzy,” her mother continued soon afterwards, “so the Collinses live very comfortably, do they? Well, well, I only hope that comfort will last. And what sort of meals do they serve? Charlotte is an excellent household manager, I dare say. If she is half as shrewd as her mother, she must be saving plenty. There is nothing extravagant about their household spending, I dare say.”

“No, nothing at all.”

“No, nothing at all.”

“A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. They will take care not to outrun their income. They will never be distressed for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it quite as their own, I dare say, whenever that happens.”

“A great deal of careful money management, you can be sure. Yes, yes. They will make sure not to spend more than they earn. They will never be short of money. Well, I hope it does them plenty of good! And so, I suppose, they often talk about getting Longbourn when your father dies. I dare say they think of Longbourn as entirely their own whenever that happens.”

“It was a subject which they could not mention before me.”

“It was a subject they could not mention in front of me.”

“No; it would have been strange if they had. But I make no doubt they often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. I should be ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me.”

“No, it would have been strange if they had. But I have no doubt they often talk about it between themselves. Well, if they can feel comfortable with an estate that isn't rightfully theirs, so much the better. I would be ashamed to have an estate that was only mine because of an entail.”