Into Hertfordshire (11 page)

Chapter Eleven

The remainder of the morning passed rather slowly. Darcy and Bingley forgave each other a mutual truancy in their study of the Netherfield books, and the ladies spent much of the day up stairs to aid with Miss Bennet’s convalescence. Later, after several long and largely silent hours within doors, the gentlemen decided to see if there was any sport to be had, and so took all the dogs and most of the fowling pieces out for a tramp. The most they got out of it was exercise and reddened cheeks, for the day was raw and windy, and game was scarce. Darcy was glad of a hot bath when they returned, and spent the time until dinner in front of a fine blazing fire, while he attended to a letter from his steward at Pemberley.

After dinner, when the men joined the ladies in the drawing-room, Darcy settled himself in to write to Georgiana as he had promised he would. Bingley was challenged by Hurst to piquet, whose lady sat with him for luck. Miss Bingley devoted herself, as best she could, to supporting Darcy in writing his letter. Elizabeth appeared somewhat later, reporting that her sister was resting well and continued to improve. She then took up some needlework and quietly attended to their conversation.

Miss Bingley’s efforts on Mr. Darcy’s behalf consisted of a constant barrage of questions and commendations, forcing Darcy to call on every ounce of his civility to prevent her interruptions from causing him to respond with a breach of manners. But he was satisfied on one point: he was able, by means of his collected and indifferent answers to Miss Bingley, to demonstrate to Elizabeth how little Miss Bingley’s attentions meant to him. His motives for so doing were not something to which he truly gave much reflection, but he did derive a decided satisfaction from letting Elizabeth see his general apathy towards Miss Bingley’s approbation.

His progress through his letter ran thus:

Netherfield Hall

November 14, —

Dearest Georgiana,

I hope you have had time to read and reflect on my letter of yesterday; as I think back on it I can find no part of it that I would amend. I trust you will forgive me for writing so openly and feelingly on such subjects, knowing as you do that I should never write so to another. But with you I have no reservations, nor do I fear that I might be misunderstood, as you will always honour me with the benefit of your trust and your good heart. But as I have no desire to lecture on these topics, I shall henceforth hold my thoughts on the subject in abeyance, until you have had an opportunity to reply.

Miss Bingley here asks that I convey to you her compliments, and her delight in the prospect of seeing you at Christmas. We are in the drawing-room after dinner; she sits near me as I write, and sanctions my efforts with her fullest approval and encouragement. If, therefore, my letter seems stilted or haphazard in its construction, or some tinge of exasperation creeps into it, I pray you will forgive me and attribute it to the appropriate cause.

While here at Netherfield I have encountered rare new levels of both sense and nonsense; here I have met with one whose nonsensical views and mental dishevelment surpasses any other in my experience. This is one Mrs. Bennet, who is mother to the two young ladies I told you of yesterday. She is a veritable caricature of unreason, unable to hold onto a single thought long enough to complete an intelligible sentence, and yet at the same time maintaining a complete assurance of the sagacity of her judgement and the rectitude of her opinions. I have been in her company now several times, and never once has she offered a comment worth the hearing. Her two eldest daughters, I am happy to say, the ones who are staying presently at Netherfield Hall, have escaped the misfortune of sharing their mother’s affliction. She has three other daughters, however, who are certainly infected with the disorder, although not to such an acute degree.

Notwithstanding, the second Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, is that very one whose sense and understanding is so superior to any other lady’s in my acquaintance. She has just joined us in the drawing-room after tending to her sister throughout the day, and most of the night prior. Save for you, she shows the greatest good sense and warmest regard for others I have ever seen combined in any of my fellow creatures.

At this point Miss Bingley ventured the observation that Miss Darcy would be delighted to receive such a letter. Darcy vouchsafed no reply.

“You write uncommonly fast,” said she, persisting in her attempts to draw his attentions to herself.

Unable to avoid her conversational sorties entirely, he replied as briefly as he might: “You are mistaken. I write rather slowly.”

“How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!”

“It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of to yours.”

“Pray tell your sister that I long to see her.”

“I have already told her so once, by your desire.”

“I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well.”

“Thank you—but I always mend my own.”

This ended Miss Bingley’s contributions for a time. Miss Elizabeth Bennet, he observed, had something of a smirk hovering about her lips; he was pleased by this evidence of her notice—and she obviously saw how hopeless were Miss Bingley’s attempts to secure his favour. He continued with good heart:

Between Miss Elizabeth Bennet and Miss Bingley there exists a great disparity of personality, and I have been afforded no small measure of entertainment by studying the difference between Country manners and Town manners. Miss Bingley is every inch the Society Miss, as you know, having lived almost exclusively in London, whereas Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s manners have nothing fashionable about them—she, as I believe, having been brought up largely here in Hertfordshire. It is interesting to contrast her character and Miss Bingley’s: she is sincere where Miss Bingley is witty, witty where Miss Bingley is affected, charming where Miss Bingley is smart, warm where Miss Bingley is well-mannered. And Miss Elizabeth Bennet is possessed of a singular intellect: I have seen her run verbal circles around a staunch military man, yet show such rare concern and compassion as to do so without giving him so much as a hint of what she was about, and taking no advantage of the poor man at all. Upon your brother she has turned her wit like unto a well-honed rapier, and yet has done so in the most charming manner imaginable. She is very amiable, and adores dancing (although, to say the truth, she has turned down my hand), and even though the society hereabouts offers little by comparison with her own talents, she remains thoroughly modest, unaffected by the awareness she could scarcely avoid of her own superior gifts.

I must digress again, as Miss Bingley, having earlier commended the speed and evenness of my writing, now wishes me to convey to you her “raptures” over the design for a table you made last summer, to express how delighted she is to hear of your improvement in music (forgive me; I must confess that I often boast about you), and diverse other expressions of esteem. In truth, Dearest, I am not certain whether all this is meant for you, or even me; I suspect that it may have to do with Miss Bingley’s quest for ascendancy over Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Her expressions of approbation may be nothing more than a means of display; making mention of such things as an indication of the superior society in which she travels, and to which Miss Elizabeth Bennet could have no access at all.

All this gives me to feel how fortunate you and I have been to be raised in Derbyshire, and yet to have had frequent access to Town; for the Country holds England’s heart, while London is the seat of its intellect and initiative. We therefore have the best of both worlds: the heart to know what is good and right, and the head to seek and to savour it.

Miss Bingley interrupted Darcy yet again, this time to praise the length of Darcy’s letter and to assert that any one capable of writing such long letters with ease could not write ill. Her brother, who could no longer sit through her excessive exhibition of regard and approval in silence, broke in with: “That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline, because he does
not
write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables. —Do not you, Darcy?”

“My style of writing is very different from yours,” replied he. He stole a cautious look at Elizabeth to observe her reaction to Bingley’s attack on him; it was unkind of Bingley to accuse him thus in company—surely he never did as much to Bingley in her sister’s presence! Elizabeth did raise her eyes from her needlework, but nothing other than amused interest showed in them.

“Oh!” cried Miss Bingley, “Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest.”

“My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them,” said Bingley lightly, “by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents.”

“Your humility, Mr. Bingley,” said Elizabeth, taking his side against his sister’s disparagement, “must disarm reproof.”

“Nothing is more deceitful,” Darcy struck back at Bingley, cocking an eyebrow in his direction, “than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast.”

Bingley, while knowing he stood little chance of besting his friend in such discourse as this, nonetheless countered with: “And which of the two do you call
my
little recent piece of modesty?”

“The indirect boast—for you are really proud of your defects in writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of thought and carelessness of execution, which if not estimable, you think at least highly interesting. The power of doing anything with quickness is always much prized by the possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs. Bennet this morning that if you ever resolved on quitting Netherfield you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of compliment to yourself—and yet what is there so very laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or any one else?”

“Nay,” Bingley protested, “this is too much, to remember at night all the foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I believed what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless precipitance merely to show off before the ladies.”

“I dare say you believed it,” allowed Darcy. “But I am by no means convinced that you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as dependant on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, ‘Bingley, you had better stay till next week,’ you would probably do it, you would probably not go—and, at another word, might stay a month.”

“You have only proved by this,” Elizabeth said, again coming to Bingley’s defence, “that Mr. Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much more than he did himself.” Darcy was delighted to have her enter the fray. He knew his other antagonist was already reeling, and would soon offer up his sword.

“I am exceedingly gratified,” Bingley thanked her, “by your converting what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means intend; for he would certainly think the better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I could.”

“Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intention as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?” Superbly done! thought Darcy; she takes the offensive with an admirable twist.

“Upon my word I cannot exactly explain the matter,” said Bingley, somewhat at a loss in his attempt to follow the rapidity of Elizabeth’s thought and turn it to advantage. “Darcy must speak for himself.”

And Bingley falls out of the hunt, Darcy observed to himself in triumph—his advocate has passed him by in two sentences. “You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call mine,” he said, addressing himself to Elizabeth, “but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to stand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet, that the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and the delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering one argument in favour of its propriety.”

“To yield readily—easily—to the
persuasion
of a friend is no merit with you?” she asked, fixing him with a stern eye, like a school mistress admonishing a young pupil. Darcy could not help noticing that she reserved this most playful side of her personality almost exclusively to himself. He was deeply gratified—touched and warmed, really—by her choosing to share with him this kind of intellectual intimacy. To her argument he replied: “To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either.”

She made a circuit around his chair before facing him directly. Looking down on him, although perhaps not from as great a height as she might have wished, she took him to task: “You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make one readily yield to a request without waiting for arguments to reason one into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the circumstance occurs, before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend, where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?”