Into Hertfordshire (21 page)

In addition, it was borne in upon me to-day that Miss Bingley might harbour some feelings of jealousy with regard to myself; and towards Miss Elizabeth Bennet, of all people. I freely admit that I admire Miss Bennet’s wit and humour, but there can never be more than that between us, obviously. The pain afforded to Miss Bingley by this jealousy would count for little, as it is of her own making, but she is disobliging and ill-mannered to Miss Bennet as well, which, to my mind, shows an unconscionable lack of good breeding. The manner in which ladies contest with their tongues I find most vexatious; although I will say that Miss Bennet never stoops to any such sign of ill-breeding—at least, she has never done so in my presence, and Miss Bingley has offered her numerous opportunities for such a display of pique. But perhaps I am too severe on my fellow creatures. Men are more formally civil than women in their dealings with one another, I believe, for among men harsh or disobliging words lead to anger and swift blows: the matter is either settled directly, or it may, in extreme cases, be necessary to resort to a challenge. But women, having no such ready release for their antipathies, must find other means of contestation. Or, looking at the same phenomenon from an entirely different viewpoint, perhaps we men are simply more easily offended than women, and in our contumacious natures we have no restraints to keep us from violence, so we practise civility the more diligently simply to keep ourselves from each other’s throats. It is an interesting question, and I am sure it would take a wiser man than I to resolve it. What I do know with certainty is that if any man had behaved towards me the way Miss Bingley has towards Miss Elizabeth Bennet, I should have no alternative but to call him out.

The weather here has been seasonable and there has been some sport, but much of our time has been spent within doors. I am beginning to believe it is time that I thought of returning to London, and thence home to escort you to Grosvenor Square for the winter Season. Bingley contemplates giving a ball within a fortnight, so I have that much more reason to absent myself from Hertfordshire.

Well, I have, I believe, bored you with my small affairs long enough, and so I shall close, Dearest. Know that you are always in my thoughts, and that I remain,

Your loving brother,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

*For reply, see Georgiana, November 17.

*****

Netherfield Hall

Saturday, November 16, —

My dearest Georgiana,

To-day was rather uneventful here in Hertfordshire; we have heard that the Bennet sisters are to leave us to-morrow. Bingley has tried on several occasion to persuade Miss Bennet that her health is not yet sufficiently recovered to risk the journey of three miles back to her father’s estate, but he has failed to convince her; she is right, of course: it is merely that Bingley is loath to give up her company. I have never seen any one who could fall in love so easily as my friend, yet he never seems to leave behind any ill-feelings when the sentiment fades. The ladies he has distinguished with his short-lived regard, and their relations as well, all seem perfectly happy to continue his acquaintance: the worst I have seen is a degree of wistfulness in their treatment of him. Yet I would never think him a shallow person: I do believe his feelings are deep enough; his regard for Miss Bennet most certainly is, to judge by his attentiveness to her during her illness, and in his sincere attempts to keep her here with us. It is not depth his attractions lack: it is permanence. Perhaps this is the nature of love from the heart: as it can appear suddenly, it can be gone just as quickly. The love that has survived the test of one’s higher powers must surely withstand the test of time, as well.

As I said, little has happened here to-day, and I have begun to turn my thoughts towards the holidays, and away from Hertfordshire. Indeed, I have already done so to the degree that I spoke hardly a word to-day to Miss Elizabeth Bennet, or to her sister either, that I recall. I have written to the Colonel to confirm our holiday plans, so I believe we may expect our relations on the 19
th
, as planned; I am very much looking forward to seeing them—not excepting even Cousin George, although I could hardly tell you why; but there it is: I am actually looking forward to a visit from the Viscount Saint Stephens.

I am much more earnestly looking forward to seeing you, Dearest, and hearing all about the plans you have been making. I have had a note from Goodwin hinting that we shall have a very full calendar leading up to Christmas, but—on your orders, it appears! —he declines to give me any details. I intend to arrive at Pemberley on the 11
th
to escort you to Town, at which time I trust you will allow me into your confidence, you sly thing! Suborning my own servants, and from the other end of the kingdom, no less! I had no idea you were that devious. But I will say that I have made no fixed engagements, meaning to keep my schedule open to accommodate your plans, whatever they might be.

And so, Dearest, that exhausts my information, I believe, so I shall bring this to an end. I remain,

Your loving brother,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

*****

*Netherfield

Sunday, November 17, —

Dearest Georgiana,

I am rather fatigued, as the time to-day seemed to drag on interminably, so this will be shorter than I might wish. The Misses Bennet left us to-day after Morning Services, and the effort to maintain a decent level of conversation in their absence has been painfully great. Bingley was, of course, much saddened by Miss Bennet’s departure, which left his spirits low. Miss Bingley, on the other hand, was in very high spirits indeed after they left, but her conversation I found to be monotonous, as she never wavered from heaping scorn and abuse on her two erstwhile guests.

Will it surprise you, Dearest, if I tell you that I found myself on the verge of an attraction for Miss Elizabeth Bennet? It is true. But be assured; I may have loosed the reins, but I did not fall off. I was most careful to shield Miss Bennet from any knowledge of my feelings; I never even took her hand for a dance—no, that is not entirely accurate: rather, I would have to admit that she never accepted my hand for a dance—but perhaps I might have mentioned that before. In any event, she is gone, and I am reasonably well assured that she has no idea of having ever excited my interest.

I must say, though, now that she is no longer before me, that it has occurred to me to wonder at the fact that after so many Seasons in London the only woman ever to have captured my attention should be so impossibly distant from me in standing. Why, of the literally hundreds of women to whom I have been introduced, should the only one whose acquaintance is worth the having—for me, personally, that is—be so little esteemed in the eyes of Society? It puzzles me; upon my honour, it does puzzle me.

I have put any feelings I might have harboured for her behind me, of course. I could not in honour, in civility, in faith, distinguish her at all—there could be no hope of an alliance, and such feelings as I may have had for her served no purpose other than to bring discomfort to the bearer of them. I own, however, that it has long appeared to me that the impish sports of Fate seem peculiarly to conspire against the wishes of men, giving us glimpses only of what felicity might be, then arranging the world so that no such happy lot can ever be ours. But come, I must not be self-pitying: I doubt not that there are very few in the whole of England who would feel that Darcy of Pemberley was in need of sympathy; one must always keep one’s perspective.

Bingley, as I mentioned, was downcast (for him, that is) by the departure of Miss Bennet, but he has cheered himself up with thoughts of the ball he plans this Tuesday week. With this diversion to occupy him, and with the expectation of dancing a set—or might we suspect that he intends to dance even more than one?—with the beguiling Miss Bennet, he will have no trouble supporting his spirits. I have not yet spoken to him, but I do not intend to stay to it; there would be no purpose and I would just as soon begin my journey to Pemberley. My current plans are to leave this Saturday for Town, then set off for home next Tuesday week, as I mentioned before. I am counting the days until I shall be with you again.

Your loving—and homeward turning—brother,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

*For reply, see Georgiana, November 20.

*****

Netherfield

Monday, November 18, —

My dearest Georgiana,

I have received your letter of the 15
th
. Do not concern yourself about your performance as a correspondent; such replies as you are moved to make are ample reward for my efforts—I have no need of daily communication from your side. And, forgive me for contradicting you, but you are by no means undeserving; rather it is I who am blest with so good and so caring a sister.

It is, Dearest, very difficult indeed to know who is good and who is false in this life. I believe that one of the most important functions of family is to preserve one another from those pernicious influences to be found in the world, and to help each other recover from our encounters with them. Be not disturbed, then, by any thought of imposition arising from my attentions to your needs. There can be no imposition or obligation in having those close to your heart be concerned on your behalf; and if God grants us both time enough, I assure you that there will come a time when I shall want your help on my behalf. I believe, as you have come to do, that one’s family is, or ought to be, the strong fortress and the safe haven against the world’s evils, and I thank Heaven that ours is as it is, and can serve us well in that capacity.

I am very pleased that you found my thoughts useful. But whether one follows the dictates of logic or not, one must not let one’s apprehensions cloud the mind, nor yet the heart. Not all the world is bad, no more than every dog is vicious or every blaze on the hearth is a conflagration in the making. With most of Nature’s dangers, however, we can see them for what they are; it is only our own ill-wrought and unnatural species that is capable of dissemblance, and it is therefore our lot to face the necessity of distinguishing the good from the bad. I do most firmly believe that the intent to lie is at the heart of every sin Man has ever committed, and my abhorrence of guile and mendacity in all its aspects rests on that conviction. But I am mindful, Dearest, that for every deceitful man, we find also a Bingley, who is every bit as true as your betrayer is false, as honourable as he is depraved, and as open-hearted as he is selfish.

As you will have found by the time this reaches you, I have already written at greater length about the Misses Bennet. They left Netherfield yesterday, and, while the loss of their conversation took with it most of the substance of our evening conversations, all in all it is just as well that they are gone; well, perhaps not the elder Miss Bennet, as the sweetness of her disposition made a welcome amendment to the sometimes acerbic nature of Bingley’s sisters.

Miss Elizabeth Bennet is, indeed, a singular young woman; but, as I wrote to you on Sunday, I enjoyed her company more than was good for either of us. The differences in our circumstances make it impossible that we should be more than acquaintances, and I have no wish to cause pain either to her or myself by imagining that it might be otherwise. It was therefore necessary and…well, not desirable, precisely—but certainly best for all, that our association end.

I have written to the Colonel to confirm our plans for the holiday season, and I am sure you will be glad to see our Aunt and Uncle again, as will I. When last I heard it was uncertain whether Lord Saint Stephen would accompany them, as it was thought his affairs in Town might be too pressing for him to attend more than an evening or two. That exhausts my present information, and so, dear Sister, I shall bid you adieu.

Your loving brother,

Fitzwilliam Darcy

*****

Netherfield

Tuesday, November 19, —

Dearest Georgiana,

I have just read yours of the 16
th
, and where you question how contentment is to be found, when the heart is so little to be trusted, is one of my own great quandaries of the last year and more. You know my dedication to logic and the intellect: as I have touched on before, to be able to love and esteem with the mind is, I believe, much more difficult than to love with the heart, as the heart requires no proofs of worthiness to love. The heart can accept an object of love with as little as one look at that object, if we are to believe the romantic version of love that abounds in literature; but the mind must take longer: it must be convinced again and again, and belief must wait on many proofs in many guises, before it can be admitted. How then can one expect to love with both the heart and the mind; the two work within such different periods of time, how can they ever harmonise? Yet one without the other is only half a love, surely. But I regret that I have no answer for you, and I would have left the topic alone entirely, except that I wished to let you know that you were not alone in your dilemma.

I agree with you that it is, indeed, a shame that Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s relations are what they are; her mother stands alone in my memory for her ill-founded assurance and ill-bred impropriety. And speaking of impropriety, I must say Miss Bingley’s disobliging behaviour to Miss Bennet is nonsensical to me. I cannot say why she feels the need to compete with her: in the first place, I will never make my addresses to Miss Bingley; in the second, it is obvious that there can be no alliance between Miss Bennet and myself, so Miss Bingley’s jealousy is completely misplaced.