Chapter - 32 | Pride and Prejudice

When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as
much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the exami-
nation of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her being in
Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any revival of past
occurrences, or any communication of present suffering. But in all, and in
almost every line of each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which had
been used to characterise her style, and which, proceeding from the serenity
of a mind at ease with itself and kindly disposed towards everyone, had
been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth noticed every sentence conveying the
idea of uneasiness, with an attention which it had hardly received on the
ﬁrst perusal. Mr. Darcy's shameful boast of what misery he had been able to
inﬂict, gave her a keener sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some conso-
lation to think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next
—and, a still greater, that in less than a fortnight she should herself be with
Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her spirits, by all
that affection could do.
She could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent without remembering that
his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear
that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not mean to
be unhappy about him.
While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the
door-bell, and her spirits were a little ﬂuttered by the idea of its being
Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in the
evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her. But this idea
was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently affected, when, to
her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In an hurried

manner he immediately began an inquiry after her health, imputing his visit
to a wish of hearing that she were better. She answered him with cold civili-
ty. He sat down for a few moments, and then getting up, walked about the
room. Elizabeth was surprised, but said not a word. After a silence of sever-
al minutes, he came towards her in an agitated manner, and thus began:
"In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be re-
pressed. 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 fol-
lowed. 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 appre-
hension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real security. Such a cir-
cumstance 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 de-
sired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwill-
ingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most un-
consciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feel-

ings 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 sur-
prise. 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 at-
tained 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 littleendeavour 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 wasuncivil? But I have other provoca-
tions. 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 emo-
tion 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 ex-
cuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted there. You dare not, you can-
not 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 in-
terest 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 with-
held 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 pre-
vented 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 dec-
laration 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 ex-
pression 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 feel-
ings 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."
"You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feel-
ings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive
me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes
for your health and happiness."
And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him
the next moment open the front door and quit the house.
The tumult of her mind, was now painfully great. She knew not how to
support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for half-an-
hour. Her astonishment, as she reﬂected on what had passed, was increased
by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of marriage from Mr.
Darcy! That he should have been in love with her for so many months! So
much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all the objections which had
made him prevent his friend's marrying her sister, and which must appear at
least with equal force in his own case—was almost incredible! It was grati-
fying to have inspired unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride,
his abominable pride—his shameless avowal of what he had done with re-
spect to Jane—his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he
could not justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned
Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon
overcame the pity which the consideration of his attachment had for a mo-
ment excited. She continued in very agitated reﬂections till the sound of