Pride and Prejudice - Vol 3, Chapters 15-16

When things get hard, how do you talk to yourself? I'm Robin Arsson, VP of Fitness Programming and Head Instructor at Peloton, and this week on my new podcast, Project Swagger, I'm sharing my strategies for how to build better self-talk. It's time to work on befriending yourself. Follow Project Swagger wherever you get your podcasts. Chapter 15. The discomposure of spirits, which this extraordinary visit threw Elizabeth into could not be easily overcome, nor could she for many hours learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine, it appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings for the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr. Darcy. It was a rational scheme, to be sure, but from what the report of their engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine. Till she recollected that his being the intimate friend of Bingley and her being the sister of Jane was enough at a time when the expectation of one wedding made everybody eager for another to supply the idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her sister must bring them more frequently together, and her neighbors at Lucas Lodge, therefore, through their communication with the Collinses, the report she concluded had reached Lady Catherine, had only set that down as almost certain and immediate, which she had looked forward to as possible at some future time. In revolving Lady Catherine's expressions, however, she could not help feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her persisting in this interference. From what she had said of her resolution to prevent their marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must mediate an application to her nephew, and how he might take a similar representation of the evils attached to a connection with her she dared not pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his aunt or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose that he thought much higher of her ladyship than she could do, and it was certain that in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with one whose immediate connections were so unequal to his own, his aunt would address him on his weakest side. With his notions of dignity, he would probably feel that the arguments, which to Elizabeth had appeared weak and ridiculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning. If he had been wavering before as to what he should do, which it often seemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a relation might settle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy as dignity unblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady Catherine might see him in her way through town, and his engagement to Bingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way. If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should come to his friend within a few days, she added, I shall know how to understand it. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of his constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me when he might have obtained my affections in hand, I shall soon cease to regret him at all. The surprise of the rest of the family on hearing who their visitor had been was very great, but they obligingly satisfied it with the same kind of supposition which had appeased Mrs. Bennet's curiosity, and Elizabeth was spared for much teasing on the subject. The next morning, as she was going downstairs, she was met by her father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand. "'Lizzy,' said he, "'I was going to look for you. Come into my room.' She followed him thither, and her curiosity to know what he had to tell her was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it might be from Lady Catherine, and she anticipated with dismay all the consequent explanations. She followed her father to the fireplace, and they both sat down. He then said, I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its contents. I did not know before that I had two daughters on the brink of matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a very important conquest. The color now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks and the instantaneous conviction of its being a letter from the nephew instead of the aunt, and she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained himself at all or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to herself, when her father continued, You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters as these, but I think I may defy even your sagacity to discover the name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins. From Mr. Collins? And what can he have to say? Something very much to the purpose, of course. He begins with congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of which it seems he has been told by some of the good-natured gossiping Lucases. I shall not sport with your impatience by reading what he says on that point. What relates to yourself is as follows. Having thus offered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on this happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another, of which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennett, after her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate may be reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages in this land. Can you possibly guess, Lizzie, who is meant by this? This young gentleman is blessed in a peculiar way with everything the heart of mortal can most desire, splendid, property, noble, kindred, and extensive patronage. Yet, in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin Elizabeth and yourself of what evils you may incur by a precipitate closure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be inclined to take immediate advantage of. Have you any idea Lizzie who this gentleman is But now it comes out My motive for cautioning you is as follows We have reason to imagine that his aunt Lady Catherine de Bourgh does not look on the match with a friendly eye Mr. Darcy, you see, is the man. Now, Lizzie, I think I have surprised you. Could he or the Lucases have pitched on any man within the circle of our acquaintance whose name would have given the lie more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at you in his life. It is admirable. Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so little agreeable to her. Are you not diverted? Oh, yes, pray read on. After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she felt on the occasion, when it became apparent that on the score of some family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned. Mr. Collins, moreover, adds, I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their living together before the marriage took place should be so generally known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain from declaring my amazement at hearing that you received the young couple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an encouragement of vice, and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them as a Christian, but never to admit them in your sight or allow their names to be mentioned in your hearing. That is his notion of Christian forgiveness. The rest of his letter is only about his dear Charlotte situation and his expectation of a young olive branch. But, Lizzie, you look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be miscious, I hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For what do we live but to make sport for our neighbors and laugh at them in our turn. Oh, cried Elizabeth, I am excessively diverted, but it is so strange. Yes, that is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man, it would have been nothing. But his perfect indifference and your point to dislike make it so delightfully absurd. Much as I abominate writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins's correspondence for any consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving him the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the imprudence and hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent? To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh, as it had been asked without the least suspicion that she was not distressed by his repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her by what he said of Mr. Darcy's indifference, and she could do nothing but wonder at such a want of penetration or fear that perhaps, instead of his seeing too little, she might have fancied too much. Chapter 16 Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do. He was able to bring Darcy with him to Longbourn, before many days had passed after Lady Catherine's visit. The gentlemen arrived early, and before Mrs. Bennet had time to tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the habit of walking. Mary could never spare time, but the remaining five set off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either. Kitty was too much afraid of him to talk. Elizabeth was secretly forming a desperate resolution, and perhaps he might be doing the same. They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon Mariah, And as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern, when Kitty left them, she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the moment for her resolution to be executed, and while her courage was high, she immediately said, Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature, and for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding yours. I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express. I am sorry, exceedingly sorry, replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise and emotion, that you have ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardner was so little to be trusted. You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter, and of course I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again in the name of all my family for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble and bear so many mortifications for the sake of discovering them. "'If you will thank me,' he replied, "'let it be for yourself alone. "'That the wish of giving happiness to you add force to the other inducements led me on I shall not attempt to deny But your family owe me nothing Much as I respect them I believe I thought only of you Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause, her companion added, You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. My affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on the subject forever. Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak, and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone so material a change since the period to which he alluded as to make her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The happiness which this reply produced was such as he had probably never felt before, and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him. But though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of feelings which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable. They walked on without knowing in what direction. There was too much to be thought, and felt and said for attention to any other objects. She soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him in her return through London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive and the substance of her conversation with Elizabeth, dwelling emphatically on every expression of the latter which, in her ladyship's apprehension, peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance in the belief that such a relation must assist her endeavors to obtain that promise from her nephew, which she had refused to give. But unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly counterwise. It taught me to hope, said he, as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain that, had you been absolutely irrevocably decided against me, you would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine frankly and openly. Elizabeth colored and laughed as she replied, Yes, you know enough of my frankness to believe me capable of that. After abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all your relations. What did you say of me that I did not deserve? For though your accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behavior to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence. We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed that evening. said Elizabeth. The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable. But since then we have both, I hope, improved in civility. I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof so well applied, I shall never forget. had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner. Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive how they have tortured me, though it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice. I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way. I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling. I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way that would induce you to accept me. Oh, do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do it all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it. Darcy mentioned his letter. Did it, said he, did it soon make you think better of me? "'Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?' "'She explained what its effect on her had been, "'and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed. "'I knew,' said he, "'that what I wrote must give you pain, "'but it was necessary. "'I hope you have destroyed the letter. "'There is one part especially, the opening of it, "'which I should dread your having the power of reading again. "'I can remember some expressions which might justly make you hate me. The letters shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the preservation of my regard. But though we have both reason to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies. When I wrote that letter, replied Darcy, I believed myself perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit. The letter perhaps began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The ado is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote and the person who received it are now so widely different from what they were then that every unpleasant circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure. I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. Your retrospections must be so totally void of reproach that the contentment arising from them is not a philosophy but what is much better of ignorance But with me it is not so Painful recollections will intrude which cannot which ought not to be repelled I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit, Unfortunately, an only son, for many years an only child, I was spoiled by my parents, who, though good themselves, my father particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable, allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond my own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. such as i was from eight to eight and twenty and such i might still have been but for you dearest loveliest elizabeth what do i not owe you you taught me a lesson hard indeed at first but most advantageous by you i was properly humbled i came to you without a doubt of my reception you showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased. Had you then persuaded yourself that I should? Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be wishing expecting my addresses. My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I assure you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits must often lead me wrong. How you must have hated me after that evening. Hate you? I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take a proper direction. I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me when we met at Pemberley. You blamed me for coming. No, indeed, I felt nothing but surprise. Your surprise could not be greater than mine in being noticed by you. My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I confess that I did not expect to receive more than my due. My object, then, replied Darcy, was to show you, by every civility in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past, and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion by letting you see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes introduce themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an hour after I had seen you. He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of her disappointment at its sudden interruption, which naturally, leading to the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of following her from Derbyshire, in quest of her sister, had been formed before he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness there had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must comprehend. She expressed her gratitude again, but it was far too painful a subject to each to be dwelt on farther. After walking several miles in a leisurely manner and too busy to know anything about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that it was time to be at home. What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane was a wonder which introduced the discussion of their affairs. Darcy was delighted with their engagement. His friend had given him the earliest information of it. I must ask whether you were surprised, said Elizabeth. Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen. That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much. and though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much the case. On the evening before my going to London, said he, I made a confession to him which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told him of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his affairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had the slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent to him, and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together. Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his friend. Did you speak from your own observation, said she, when you told him that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring? "'From the former. "'I had narrowly observed her during the two visits, "'which I had lately made her here, "'and I was convinced of her affection. "'And your assurance of it, I suppose, "'carried immediate conviction to him. "'It did. "'Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. "'His diffidence had prevented his depending "'on his own judgment in so anxious a case, "'but his reliance on mine made everything easy. I was obliged to confess one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months last winter, that I had known it and purposely kept it from him. He was angry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained in any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me now. Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful friend, so easily guided that his worth was invaluable. But she checked herself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laughed at, and it was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley, which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the conversation till they reached the house. In the hall, they parted. Thank you.