EXCERPTS FROM “PRIDE AND PREJUDICE” – JANE AUSTEN

EXCERPT I

CHAPTER I

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a

good fortune, must be in want of a wife.

However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his
first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the
surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other
of their daughters.

"My dear Mr. Bennet," said his lady to him one day, "have you heard that
Netherfield Park is let at last?"

Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.

"But it is," returned she; "for 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."

This was invitation enough.

"Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by
a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came down on
Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted with it, that
he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before
Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by the end of next week."

"What is his name?"

"Bingley."

"Is he married or single?"

"Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or

five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!"

"How so? How can it affect 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, and therefore you must visit him as soon as he comes."

"I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send them
by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are as handsome as any of
them, Mr. Bingley may 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 extraordinary now. When a woman has five grown-up
daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty."

"In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of."

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

"It is more than I engage for, I assure you."

"But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would be

for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to go, merely on that
account, for in general, you know, they visit no newcomers. Indeed you must go, for
it will be impossible for us to visit him if you do not."

"You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very glad
to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my hearty consent to
his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls; though I must throw in a good word
for my little Lizzy."

"I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others;
and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good-humoured as
Lydia. But you are always giving her the preference."

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

"Mr. Bennet, how can you abuse your own children in such a way? You
take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for 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 mention them with consideration these last twenty
years at least."

"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 neighbourhood."

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

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

Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve,
and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been insufficient to
make his wife understand his character. _Her_ mind was less difficult to develop.
She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper.
When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was
to get her daughters married; its solace was visiting and news.
 Excerpt II

"Which do you mean?" and turning round he looked for a moment at

Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said: "She is
tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humour at present to give
consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to
your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting
your time with me."

Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth
remained with no very cordial feelings toward him. She told the story, however, with
great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively, playful disposition, which
delighted in anything ridiculous.

The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs.
Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield party. Mr.
Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been distinguished by his sisters.
Jane was as much gratified by this as her mother could be, though in a quieter way.
Elizabeth felt Jane's pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as
the most accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been
fortunate enough never to be without partners, which was all that they had yet learnt
to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good spirits to Longbourn, the
village where they lived, and of which they were the principal inhabitants. They
found Mr. Bennet still up. With a book he was regardless of time; and on the present
occasion he had a good deal of curiosity as to the events of an evening which had
raised such splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that his wife's views on the
stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found out that he had a different story to
hear.

"Oh! my dear Mr. Bennet," as she entered the room, "we have had a most
delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there. Jane was so
admired, nothing could be like it. Everybody said how well she looked; and Mr.
Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with her twice! Only think of that,
my dear; he actually danced with her twice! and she was the only creature in the room
that he asked a second time. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see
him stand up with her! But, however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody
can, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going down the
dance. So he inquired who she was, and got introduced, and asked her for the two
next. Then the two third he danced with Miss King, and the two fourth with Maria
Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane again, and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the
Boulanger--"

"If he had had any compassion for me," cried her husband impatiently, "he
would not have danced half so much! For God's sake, say no more of his partners. O
that he had sprained his ankle in the first place!"

"Oh! my dear, I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively

handsome! And his sisters are charming women. I never in my life saw anything
more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs. Hurst's gown--"
 Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any
description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch of the subject,
and related, with much bitterness of spirit and some exaggeration, the shocking
rudeness of Mr. Darcy.

"But I can assure you," she added, "that Lizzy does not lose much by not
suiting his fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing.
So high and so conceited that there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he
walked there, fancying himself so very great! Not handsome enough to dance with! I
wish you had been there, my dear, to have given him one of your set-downs. I quite
detest the man."
 Excerpt III

"In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed.
You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured,

doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement; and the
avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her, immediately followed. He spoke
well; but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed; and he was not
more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority--
of its being a degradation--of the family obstacles which had always opposed to
inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he
was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.

In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to the

compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did not vary for an
instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to receive; till, roused to resentment
by his subsequent language, she lost all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to
compose herself to answer him with patience, when he should have done. He
concluded with representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite of
all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with expressing his hope
that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand. As he said this, she
could easily see that he had no doubt of a favourable answer. He spoke of
apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real security. Such a
circumstance could only exasperate farther, and, when he ceased, the colour rose into
her cheeks, and she said:

"In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense
of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It
is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now
thank you. But I cannot—I have never desired your good opinion, and you have
certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone.
It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration.
The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of your
regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation."

Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed on
her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than surprise. His
complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of his mind was visible in
every feature. He was struggling for the appearance of composure, and would not
open his lips till he believed himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's
feelings dreadful. At length, with a voice of forced calmness, he said:

"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I
might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little endeavour at civility, I am
thus rejected. But it is of small importance."

"I might as well inquire," replied she, "why with so evident a desire of
offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will,
against your reason, and even against your character? Was not this some excuse for
incivility, if I was uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I have. Had not
my feelings decided against you--had they been indifferent, or had they even been
favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man
who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most beloved
sister?"

As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion
was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she continued:

"I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can excuse
the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there.You dare not, you cannot deny, that
you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other—
of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, and the other to
its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest
kind."

She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening with an
air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse. He even looked at
her with a smile of affected incredulity.

"Can you deny that you have done it?" she repeated.

With assumed tranquillity he then replied: "I have no wish of denying that I
did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in
my success. Towards him I have been kinder than towards myself."

Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection, but its
meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.

"But it is not merely this affair," she continued, "on which my dislike is
founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was decided. Your
character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr.
Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of
friendship can you here defend yourself? or under what misrepresentation can you
here impose upon others?"

"You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns," said Darcy, in a

less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.

"Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an
interest in him?"

"His misfortunes!" repeated Darcy contemptuously; "yes, his misfortunes

have been great indeed."

"And of your infliction," cried Elizabeth with energy. "You have reduced
him to his present state of poverty—comparative poverty. You have withheld the
advantages which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived
the best years of his life of that independence which was no less his due than his
desert. You have done all this! and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune
with contempt and ridicule."

"And this," cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room, "is
your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for
explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But
perhaps," added he, stopping in his walk, and turning towards her, "these offenses
might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of
the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter
accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater policy, concealed my
struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified,
unalloyed inclination; by reason, by reflection, by everything. But disguise of every
sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural
and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections?—to
congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly
beneath my own?"

Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to the
utmost to speak with composure when she said:

"You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your
declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared the concern which I might
have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner."

She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued:

"You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that
would have tempted me to accept it."

Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an

expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on:

"From the very beginning--from the first moment, I may almost say--of my
acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your
arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such
as to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built
so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were
the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."
 Excerpt IV

Chapter 43

Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of

Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned in at the
lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.

The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They
entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a beautiful
wood stretching over a wide extent.

Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired
every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for half-a-mile,
and then found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood
ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the
opposite side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a
large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge
of high woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled
into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal nor
falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which
nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an
awkward taste. They were all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment
she felt that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!

They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and,
while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of meeting its
owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying
to see the place, they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the
housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her being where she was.

The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly woman, much less

fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They followed her into
the dining-parlour. It was a large, well proportioned room, handsomely fitted up.
Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill,
crowned with wood, which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from
the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and
she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks and the
winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into
other rooms these objects were taking different positions; but from every window
there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their
furniture suitable to the fortune of its proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of
his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendour, and more
real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.

"And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With these
rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a
stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors
my uncle and aunt. But no,"- recollecting herself--"that could never be; my uncle and
aunt would have been lost to me; I should not have been allowed to invite them."

This was a lucky recollection--it saved her from something very like regret.

She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master was really
absent, but had not the courage for it. At length however, the question was asked by
her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied that he was,
adding, "But we expect him to morrow, with a large party of friends." How rejoiced
was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!

Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and saw the
likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the
mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came
forward, and told them it was a picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late
master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expense. "He is now
gone into the army," she added; "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild."