Chapter 16

No one objected to the young people's plan with their aunt. Mr. Collins kept feeling uneasy about leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet alone for even one evening of his visit, but everyone urged him steadily not to worry. When the right time came, the carriage carried him and his five young cousins to Meryton. The moment the young ladies stepped into the drawing room, they heard welcome news: Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle's invitation and was now in the house.

Once everyone had taken in this news and found their seats, Mr. Collins had leisure to look around and admire. He was deeply struck by the size of the room and its furniture. He declared that he could have believed himself in the small summer breakfast parlor at Rosings. At first, this comparison did not sound very pleasing. But it was different once Mrs. Philips heard what kind of place Rosings was, and who its owner was. After he described just one of Lady Catherine's drawing rooms, she learned that a single chimney-piece there had cost eight hundred pounds. Only then did she feel the full weight of the compliment. Now she would hardly have minded even if he had compared her room to the housekeeper's room.

Mr. Collins talked about Lady Catherine and all the grandeur of her house. Now and then he wandered off into praising his own humble home and the improvements he was making there. He passed the time very pleasantly this way until the gentlemen joined them. Mrs. Philips listened very attentively. The more she listened, the more she came to think Mr. Collins a very great man. She resolved to repeat every word of it to her neighbors at the first opportunity. To the young ladies, who could not bear to listen to their cousin at all, the wait felt very long. There was nothing to do but wish for a musical instrument, or look over their own clumsy copies of the china figures on the mantelpiece. But at last the wait ended. The gentlemen really did arrive. When Mr. Wickham walked into the room, Elizabeth felt that neither the day before, nor since, had she ever admired him so much as to lose her good sense. The officers of the militia were, on the whole, fine, gentlemanlike men, and the best of them were at the party that day. But Mr. Wickham's looks, face, figure, and walk were far above them all, just as they themselves were far above the heavy, wide-faced uncle Philips, who smelled of wine and followed them into the room.

Nearly every woman's eyes turned to Mr. Wickham. And the lucky woman he finally sat down beside was Elizabeth. He began by speaking of the rainy evening and the chance that the wet weather might continue. It was an ordinary subject, but he soon led the conversation pleasantly along. Hearing his agreeable way of talking, Elizabeth felt that even the most common and dull subject could grow interesting, depending on the speaker's skill.

With Mr. Wickham and the officers competing for the ladies' attention, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into nothing. To the young ladies, at least, he had become no one at all. Still, he sometimes had the kind listener of Mrs. Philips left to him, and thanks to her careful attention, he received a very generous share of coffee and muffins too.

When the card tables were set out, he had the chance to sit down to a game of Whist and return her kindness.

"At present I know very little of this game, but I shall gladly improve. A man in my position—" Mrs. Philips was very grateful that he had agreed to play, but she could not wait to hear his reason.

Mr. Wickham did not play Whist. So when he took a seat at another table, between Elizabeth and Lydia, everyone welcomed him readily and with pleasure. At first it seemed there was a danger that Lydia would keep him entirely to herself, for she was a person who never gave anyone else a chance to speak. But she was also extremely fond of the game of lottery tickets, and soon became far too absorbed in it. Between growing excited over the bets and crying out every time she won a prize, she could not give her attention to any one person in particular. So except when the game forced a break, Mr. Wickham had leisure to talk with Elizabeth. And Elizabeth wanted very much to hear him. But she could not hope that he would tell her the one thing she most wanted to hear — how he had come to know Mr. Darcy. She did not even dare to mention that gentleman's name. Then, unexpectedly, her curiosity was soon satisfied, for Mr. Wickham himself brought up the subject. He asked how far Netherfield was from Meryton, and when he had her answer, asked, as though hesitating, how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.

"About a month," said Elizabeth. Not wanting the subject to drop, she added, "I hear he has a very large property in Derbyshire."

"Yes," Wickham replied. "His estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand pounds a year. You could not have met with a person more able to give you certain information on that point than myself, for I have been connected with his family in a particular way from my earliest years."

Elizabeth could not hide her surprise.

"You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might, how coldly we met yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?"

"As much as I ever wish to be," Elizabeth cried warmly. "I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable."

"I have no right to give my opinion as to his being agreeable or otherwise," said Wickham. "I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for me to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish people, and perhaps you would not express it so strongly anywhere else. Here you are among your own family."

"Upon my word, I say no more here than I might say in any house in the neighborhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Everyone is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favorably spoken of by anyone."

"I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short pause, "that he, or that any man, should not receive more esteem than he deserves. But with him I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen."

"I, who have hardly known him at all, think him a very bad-tempered man."

Wickham only shook his head.

When he had the chance to speak again, he said, "I wonder whether he means to stay in this part of the country long."

"I do not at all know. But I heard nothing of his leaving when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favor of the militia will not be affected by his being in the neighborhood."

"Oh, no. I am not going to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If he wishes to avoid seeing me, he must go himself. We are not on friendly terms, and it is always painful to meet him, but I have no reason to avoid him that I need be ashamed to tell the whole world. It is only the bitter feeling of having been very badly used, and the painful regret that he has become what he is now. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever lived, and the truest friend I ever had. I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender memories. His behavior to me has been shameful. But I do sincerely believe I could forgive him anything, and everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes of his father and disgracing his memory."

Elizabeth found this subject more and more interesting, and listened with all her heart, but the delicacy of it kept her from asking anything more.

Mr. Wickham turned to more general subjects, Meryton, the neighborhood, the people there, seeming very much pleased with all he had seen so far, and speaking especially of the people with gentle but very pointed praise.

"The hope of continuing to be around people — good people — was my main reason for joining the militia," he added. "I knew it was a very respectable and pleasant regiment. My friend Denny told me about their quarters here, and about the warm welcome and the good company the officers had found in Meryton. That made the idea even more appealing to me. To be honest, I truly need to be around people. I have been disappointed in life, and I cannot bear to be alone. I must have work to do and people to be with. A soldier's life was never the path I meant to take. But under the circumstances, it has become the right choice for me. The church should have been my profession. I was raised and educated to become a clergyman. If it had pleased the gentleman we were just speaking of, I would by now hold a very valuable living."

"Indeed?"

"Yes. The late Mr. Darcy left it in his will that I should be given the best living in his gift, as soon as it became vacant. He was my godfather, and he was extremely fond of me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done so. But when the living fell vacant, it was given to someone else."

"Good heavens!" cried Elizabeth. "How could that happen? How could his will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?"

"There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest that gave me no hope from the law. A man of honor could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it, or to treat it as merely a conditional recommendation, and to claim that I had forfeited all right to it by extravagance and imprudence — in short, anything or nothing. What is certain is that the living became vacant exactly two years ago, precisely when I was old enough to hold it, and it was given to someone else. And it is equally certain that I cannot accuse myself of having done anything to deserve losing it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may perhaps have spoken my opinion of him, or even to him, too freely. I can recall nothing worse than that. The truth is, we are very different sorts of men, and he hates me."

"This is truly shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced."

"Some time or other he will be, but it shall not be by me. Until I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose him."

Elizabeth honored him for feelings like this, and thought him more handsome than ever as he spoke.

"But," said Elizabeth after a pause, "what could have been his motive? What could have provoked him to behave so cruelly?"

"A thorough, determined dislike of me — a dislike which I cannot but attribute, in some measure, to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better. But I believe his father's uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I think, from very early days. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition we were in, the sort of preference which was often given me."

"I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this. I have never liked him, but I did not think so very ill of him. I had supposed him to be despising his fellow creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this!"

Yet after a few minutes' reflection, Elizabeth spoke again. "I do remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the unrelenting bitterness of his resentments, of his having a temper that could never forgive. His disposition must be dreadful."

"I will not trust myself on that subject," Wickham replied. "I can hardly be just to him."

Elizabeth fell into deep thought again, and after a while exclaimed, "To treat in such a way the godson, the friend, the favorite of his father!" She might have added, "A young man too, like yourself, whose very countenance may vouch for your being amiable" — but she satisfied herself with saying, "And one, too, who had probably been his own companion from childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner."

"We were born in the same parish, within the same estate, and we spent most of our childhood together. We lived in one house, played the same games, and were cared for like children by the same person. At first my father worked in the law, in the same profession that your uncle, Mr. Philips, seems to have done so well in. But he left that work behind to help the late Mr. Darcy, and spent all his time managing the Pemberley estate instead. Mr. Darcy thought extremely highly of my father, and treated him as his closest and most trusted friend. He often said he owed a great deal to my father's active management of the estate. Just before my father died, Mr. Darcy freely promised to take care of me, and I am sure he did this out of affection for me as much as out of a debt he felt he owed my father."

"How strange!" cried Elizabeth. "How abominable! I am surprised that the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you. If from no better motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest — for dishonesty I must call it."

"It is wonderful," replied Wickham, "for almost all his actions may be traced to pride, and pride has often been his best friend. It has connected him nearer with virtue than any other feeling. But no one is consistent, and in his conduct toward me there were stronger impulses even than pride."

"Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him any good?"

"Yes, it has. That pride has often led him to act with a generous and open hand. He gives money freely, treats guests well, helps his tenant farmers, and gives aid to the poor. He feels pride in his family, and pride as a son — he is extremely proud of what kind of man his father was. These feelings are what drive him to do such things. He does not want to be seen as someone who has brought shame on his family, and he is determined not to lose the good qualities people liked in his family, or the influence of the house of Pemberley. He also feels pride as a brother. Combined with a certain amount of brotherly love, that feeling makes him a very kind and careful guardian to his sister. Most people would praise him as the most attentive, the best of brothers."

"What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?"

Wickham shook his head. "I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill of anyone of the Darcy name, but she is too much like her brother — very, very proud. As a child she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me, and I have devoted hours and hours to amuse her. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and I understand highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her and has charge of her education."

After many pauses and many attempts at other subjects, Elizabeth could not help returning once more to the first.

"I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley. How can Mr. Bingley, who seems the very picture of good humor, and who I really believe to be truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? Do you know Mr. Bingley?"

"Not at all."

"He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He surely cannot know what Mr. Darcy is."

"Probably not. But Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not lack ability. He can be a lively companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are his equals in rank, he is a very different man from what he is to the less fortunate. His pride never leaves him, but with the rich he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honorable, and perhaps agreeable, allowing something for fortune and appearance too."

Before long, the game of Whist came to an end. The players gathered around the other table. Mr. Collins took his seat between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Philips. Mrs. Philips asked, as usual, how he had done. He had not done very well. He had lost every point. But when Mrs. Philips began to express her concern, he assured her, with great seriousness and solemnity, that it was not of the least importance. He begged her not to be troubled, for the money was a mere trifle.

"I am very well aware, madam, that when persons sit down to a card table, they must take their chance of these things. Happily, I am not in such circumstances as to think five shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far enough from having to trouble myself over such trifles."

Mr. Wickham took notice of this. After looking at Mr. Collins for a moment, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation was very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh.

"Lady Catherine de Bourgh has very lately given him a living," Elizabeth replied. "I hardly know how Mr. Collins first came to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long."

"You know, of course, that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters, so that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy."

"No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's connections. I never heard of her existence until the day before yesterday."

"Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will inherit a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates."

Hearing this, Elizabeth smiled, thinking of poor Miss Bingley. Vain indeed was all her attention, vain and useless was her affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he was already destined for another.

"Mr. Collins," said Elizabeth, "speaks highly of both Lady Catherine and her daughter, but from some things he has told me about the lady herself, I suspect his gratitude has led him astray. Patroness or not, I think she must be an arrogant, conceited woman."

"I believe her to be very much both," replied Wickham. "I have not seen her for many years, but I remember well that I never liked her, and that her manner was dictatorial and insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever, but I rather believe some of her abilities arise from her rank and fortune, some from her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride of her nephew, who chooses that everyone connected with him should have a first-rate understanding."

Elizabeth agreed that this was a very reasonable explanation. The two of them went on talking, and both enjoyed it. Then supper time came, the card games ended, and the other ladies finally got their share of Mr. Wickham's attention, so their conversation stopped. In the noise of Mrs. Philips's supper, real conversation was impossible. But Wickham's manners won everyone's heart. Whatever he said, he said well, and whatever he did, he did with grace. Elizabeth left with her mind completely full of him. The whole way home, she could think of nothing but Mr. Wickham and the story he had told her. But during the ride, she had no chance even to say his name. That was because neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins stopped talking for a moment. Lydia chattered endlessly about the lottery-ticket game and the fish-shaped counters she had won or lost. Mr. Collins talked about the kindness of Mr. and Mrs. Philips. He declared that he did not mind at all the money he had lost at Whist. He listed every single dish that had been served at supper. He also kept worrying that he was crowding his young cousins. He had so much to say that he could not finish it all before the carriage stopped in front of Longbourn House.