Chapter 1

It is a truth that everyone accepts: a single man with a good fortune must be in need of a wife.

When such a man moves into a new neighborhood, nobody knows what he thinks or feels. Even so, this truth sits so firmly in the minds of the neighboring families that they see him as the rightful property of one or another of their daughters.

"My dear Mr. Bennet," said Mrs. Bennet to her husband one day, "have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?"

Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.

"But it is," she said. "Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it."

Mr. Bennet made no answer.

"Do you not want to know who has taken it?" cried his wife impatiently.

"You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it."

That invitation was enough.

"Why, my dear, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a very rich young man from the north of England. He came down on Monday in a carriage with four horses to see the place. He liked it so much that he agreed with Mr. Morris at once. He is to move in before Michaelmas, a festival in late September, and some of his servants will be in the house by the end of next week."

"What is his name?"

"Bingley."

"Is he married or single?"

"Oh, single, my dear, of course! A single man of large fortune — four or five thousand pounds a year. What a fine thing for our girls!"

"How so? What does it have to do with them?"

"My dear Mr. Bennet," replied his wife, "how can you be so tiresome? You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them."

"Is that his design in settling here?"

"Design? Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he may fall in love with one of them. Therefore you must visit him as soon as he comes."

"I see no reason for that. You may go with the girls, or you may send them by themselves. That might be even better. You are as handsome as any of them, and Mr. Bingley might like you the best of the party."

"My dear, you flatter me. I certainly have had my share of beauty, but I do not pretend to be anything special now. When a woman has five grown-up daughters, she ought to stop thinking of her own beauty."

"In such cases, a woman does not often have much beauty left to think of."

"But, my dear, you really must go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into the neighborhood."

"It is more than I can promise, I assure you."

"But think of your daughters. Only think what a match it would be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas have decided to go, only on that account. You know they never visit newcomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for us to visit him if you do not."

"You are too careful about the rules, my dear. I am sure Mr. Bingley will be very glad to see you. I will send a few lines with you, giving my hearty consent to his marrying whichever of my girls he chooses. Though I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy."

"I beg you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others. She is not half so beautiful as Jane, nor half so good-humored as Lydia. But you are always giving her the preference."

"None of them have much to recommend them," he replied. "They are all silly and ignorant, like other girls. But Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters."

"Mr. Bennet, how can you speak so of your own children? You take delight in vexing me. You have no pity on my poor nerves."

"You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you speak of them with great attention these twenty years."

"Ah, you do not know what I suffer!"

"But I hope you will get over it, and live to see many young men of four thousand a year come into the neighborhood."

"It will be no use to us, if twenty such men should come, since you will not visit them."

"Depend upon it, my dear. When there are twenty, I will visit them all."

Mr. Bennet was such an odd mixture of quick wit, sharp humor, silence, and whim, that twenty-three years of marriage had not been enough for his wife to understand his character. Her mind was easier to read. She was a woman of little understanding, little knowledge, and uncertain temper. When she was unhappy, she believed her nerves were suffering. The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its comfort was visiting and news.