On the ride home, we naturally spoke of the evening’s outcome, and Mama was the most excited. She could not stop talking of Jane’s success with Mr. Bingley, his sisters, and the evils of his aristocratic friend, Mr. Darcy.
“What is amazing is the striking contradiction that the evening brought from beginning to end,” Elizabeth noted, in the one minute that Mama had exhausted all her words.
“What do you mean?” Jane asked.
“The change from the fall of dark to darker, rests in the rise and fall of the estimation between both men. Here’s how the evening began:
Mr. Bingley was wealthy, good-looking, and gentlemanlike.
But he was nothing to Mr. Darcy, who was taller, had a finer countenance, handsomer features, a noble mien, and the greater wealth among the two. The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration at first.
And then the truth came out that changed everyone’s minds. Mr. Darcy’s manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity, for he was discovered to be proud, to be above his company, and above being pleased. By the end of the evening, not all his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared with his friend.”
“I can very well believe that,” I added, “the glare that man has. It is as if he was born to frighten everyone away from him.”
“What is the point of having so much money if you can’t enjoy it?” Lydia cried. “What a fool of a man. If I had that sort of money, I would be having balls and parties every day.”
“And find yourself in debtor’s prison before you turned thirty,” Mary said. “The saving of money is an admirable thing.”
“Not if it can’t buy you a friend or a smile.”
“Mr. Bingley met as many people as he could,” Jane continued, “he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance—”
“And did you hear?” I added, “I overheard him saying that he was angry that the ball closed so early and talked of giving one himself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for themselves.”
“If I see him again, I shall remind him of it,” Lydia declared.
Mama laughed, but Elizabeth overrode her.
“Lydia, you must not. It is not correct to press someone to hold an event.”
“But he already said that he would give the ball, Lizzy,” I stressed. “Lydia is not being intrusive.”
“Precisely. I am merely here to remind him.”
“You both have been warned,” Elizabeth noted. “Either way, what a contrast between Mr. Bingley and his friend.”
“If you are dwelling on his vicious words about you, Lizzy,” Mama demanded, “I tell you that you should ignore him altogether. Such a horrid man is not worth caring for.”
She was referencing something that I was not familiar with.
“What?” I asked, “Eliza, what happened?”
“It was nonsense,” Mama said, “there is no point in repeating it…” She looked out of the window. “Lizzy, tell Kitty, Mary and Lydia what happened.”
Elizabeth smiled in a tired way, and it was evident that she was exhausted, but she had to retell an anecdote that occurred earlier.
“If Mr. Darcy meant to offend me, he was successful,” Elizabeth began. “Kitty and Lydia, you both were dancing at the time, and Mary, you were sitting down and talking with Maria. I was seated separately, and Mr. Darcy had been standing near me. I doubt he even noted my existence, for I think his eyes are refusing to see anyone so utterly beneath his pride to know. But I could hear everything that he said, and his words were much to the purpose at showing his true character. Mr. Bingley had come up to him, insisting on him dancing. He was vexed at seeing his friend standing about in such a stupid manner. Mr. Darcy adamantly refused, saying it was insupportable for him to dance with anyone else but Mr. Bingley’s sisters. Mr. Bingley offered to get Jane to introduce Mr. Darcy to me, thinking that I was a worthy partner for him. But Mr. Darcy had other ideas. He turned, looked at me, caught my eye, and then he quickly looked away from me. He said, ‘she is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me. I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men’. Seeing that his friend was immovable, Mr. Bingley left him.”
We all were quick to express our sympathies to Elizabeth, and offered her solace by berating Mr. Darcy, how we detested him, and how we wished that he had never come to Hertfordshire.
While expressing my anger passionately, I was actually very happy inside. Elizabeth and I were in the same position. Mr. Darcy did not like either of us. In such cases, misery does indeed love company, and I didn’t want to be alone.
When we arrived home and we entered the house, I was all the happier, because I got to say something to Elizabeth in particular.
“You are not alone, Eliza,” I said to her, in confidence, “while he didn’t disparage me with evil words, he did so with a severe expression. When Lydia and I were talking, he listened in on our conversation and gave me an evil eye. He hated me from the first. I refuse to be ashamed.”
“And you shouldn’t be, Kitty,” Elizabeth told me, “He is a man so disagreeable, that his contempt for us only signifies that we are the ones in the right.”
“Yes,” I agreed, happy, “yes, we are.”
Lydia grabbed my hand and pulled me into the house. My heart was light again. Elizabeth naturally clung to Jane, for they were close confidantes, but to see that she and I had the same predicament, I flattered myself that there was some link between us now. At least enough to hate the same man with equal intention.
I spent most of the night unable to sleep. Mr. Bingley’s face kept springing to my thoughts. And then I thought of Jane, and I had to accept that he liked her, but he didn’t like me. And how could he? He was never given the chance to know me, and I was never given the chance to know him.
It wasn’t fair. It just wasn’t fair!
* * *
I managed to sleep just enough not to wake up with a headache in the morning, and that was good enough for me. Now, in the light of the new dawn, I was able to see a new day casting brand new thoughts and revelations, as a new day can often do.
Also, this was the morning after a ball, and that meant that we were sure to have visitors who would wish to discuss the previous evening.
If my assumptions would be correct, then we would receive a visit from our neighbors of Lucas Lodge. That was the seat of Sir William Lucas, Lady Lucas, and their children, which included Liam, Charlotte, and Maria. They lived within a short walk from Longbourn, and I was happy to see them when they arrived. I liked Sir William more than his wife, but that was because Sir William was the precise kind of ‘cordiality’ that I liked: he was friendly, inoffensive, and harmless. I like harmless people; they are the sort who you can trust will not ruin your life for flimsy reasons. Lady Lucas was a kind woman, but her furtive and unspoken competition with Mama to get her daughters married off made it impossible for me to ever be fully comfortable around her. Even I, the fourth daughter, was competition to Charlotte and Maria. But she was nice enough, and that was something.
Charlotte was the oldest, at twenty-seven. Her close friendship with Lizzy had gone back for years.
“I knew it,” I said when we received a knock on the door, “I bet that is the Lucases.”
“Our Kitty believes herself to be Delphic,” Father said, taking that as the cue to leave the room.
“What does Delphic mean?” Lydia asked. “Father, is that a word that you made up?”
Father looked shocked by her ignorance.
“I shall not even dignify that with a response, Lydia.”
I laughed at Lydia, who stuck her tongue out at me.
Father left, and not a moment too soon, because in the next minute, Charlotte Lucas, Maria, and some of their other siblings came to call on us.
“Oh, this is what I could not wait for,” I cried, relieved, “for what are balls if not to be discussed? What are young men if not to be talked over?”
“And the morning after is the best time for it,” Charlotte said, removing her bonnet, “discuss the matter when the subject is still fresh in our minds.”
“Charlotte, this is the country,” Elizabeth replied, “talk of a dance will stay fresh for a month.”
The Lucases laughed, and Maria accidentally snorted.
“I am mortified,” Maria said, collapsing onto my shoulder.
“Don’t worry,” I said, “you are among friends.”
* * *
After tea was brought out, we stopped standing on ceremony. We had been so close as neighbors that we all could begin sewing or doing something frivolous while talking.
“You began the evening well, Charlotte,” Mama said—but we all knew that she was a little vexed about that. “You were Mr. Bingley’s first choice.”
“Yes,” Charlotte answered, ambivalent, “but he seemed to like his second better.”
I closed my eyes. Now I was to hear about Jane’s triumph over me. But I knew this moment was going to come, so I had fortified myself against it, and no pangs of jealousy would ever come across my features.
“Oh!” Mama replied, her tone lighter now that she could speak of Jane’s fortune, “you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice. To be sure that did seem as if he admired her—indeed I rather believe he did—I heard something about it—but I hardly know what—something about Mr. Robinson.”
I looked at Charlotte’s face and read her expression. She knew what Mama was referring to and was resigned to the fact that she was a woman who could boast of her daughter’s conquest.
“Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson,” Charlotte assisted, “did not I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson’s asking him how he liked our Meryton assemblies, and whether he did not think there were a great many pretty women in the room, and which he thought the prettiest? And his answering immediately to the last question: ‘Oh! The eldest Miss Bennet, beyond a doubt. There cannot be two opinions on that point.’”
Mama gasped, satisfied.
“Upon my word! Well, that is very decided indeed—that does seem as if—but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know.”
I could tell that Mama wished for someone to immediately argue her last point, so that she could then agree, but Charlotte was done with Mr. Bingley’s praises. Instead, she directed her attention to Elizabeth, to not neglect her.
“My overhearings were more to the purpose than yours, Eliza,” Charlotte coaxed. “Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend, is he? Poor Eliza! To be only just tolerable.”
I suppose that Charlotte meant to be sympathetic, but the way she said it was not in the best manner. If I didn’t know that she only wanted to show that she didn’t forget Mr. Darcy’s mistreatment of her dearest friend, and that she knew that Elizabeth did actually want to talk about it, I would say that she was trying to remind everyone about it, coldly. Mama had the same thought, I saw.
“I beg you would not put it into Lizzy’s head to be vexed by his ill-treatment,” Mama expressed, “for he is such a disagreeable man, that it would be quite a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night that he sat close to her for half-an-hour without once opening his lips.”
“Are you quite sure, ma’am?” Jane asked. “Is not there a little mistake? I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her.”
“Aye—because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he could not help answering her. But she said he seemed quite angry at being spoke to.”
“Miss Bingley told me that he never speaks much, unless among his intimate acquaintances. With them he is remarkably agreeable.”
We all released a cascade of ‘Oh, Jane, nonsense!’ in different variations.
“I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it was. Everybody says that he is eat up with pride, and I daresay he had heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage and had come to the ball in a hack chaise.”
“I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long,” Charlotte added, “but I wish he had danced with Eliza.”
“Agreed,” Jane said. “His bashfulness could be forgiven, if he only exerted himself in Lizzy’s case.”
“But he didn’t,” Mama responded, passionately, “and I am resolved to hate him forever. Another time, Lizzy, I would not dance with him, if I were you.”
Elizabeth’s eyes twinkled.
“I believe, ma’am, I may safely promise you NEVER to dance with him.”
I felt the same sentiments! How I detested one friend, while admiring the other.
“I do not know if this point will help, but it is said with the intention of being a balm,” Charlotte continued. “His pride does not offend me so much as pride often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so very fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favor, should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a right to be proud.”
“Sound advice,” Mary said, “I believe that his criticisms are meaningless, because it is spoken from a man who has been given the best education but was perhaps left to develop a superior opinion of himself. Of course, I know little of the man, so I could be mistaken… he could be a good man eventually, for all that we know.”
“Whatever his situation,” I responded, “I refuse to feel sorry for him. I have resolved within myself to feel sorry for the poor, sickly, victimized, and enslaved, but that is as far as I go. I do not feel pity for those who were given everything in life. My compassion cannot go that far.”
“Interesting concept,” Elizabeth supported, “but as for your observation, Charlotte, that is very true. And I could easily forgive his pride if he had not mortified mine.”
Mary lowered her sheets of music and stared ahead, into an invisible distance. We were all prepared, because that was the signal for when she was about to be ‘philosophical’.
“Pride,” observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her reflections, “is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed, that human nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us.”
All while Mary gave this speech, Lydia gave me a ‘must she always be so boring?’ look, and I returned it. Whatever sympathy that I could ever have for Mary, she destroyed it long ago.
Mary’s speech was interrupted by little Orwell Lucas. He was eight years old, and the second youngest Lucas child. While he was there, he was rolling a small ball toward me, and I would kick it back to him from my seat. This was a custom of ours, and we always kept it up.
“If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy,” Little Orwell Lucas declared, in the big way that little children express things when they wish to sound important, “I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of foxhounds and drink a bottle of wine a day.”
“Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought,” Mama protested, “and if I were to see you at it, I should take away your bottle directly.”
“You would not.”
“Oh, yes I would.”
“I would not let you.”
“You would have no choice in the matter.”
“Yes, I would. I would be master of the house, and no one would tell me what to do.”
“I surely would, and you would obey.”
“No, I would not.”
“Yes, you would.”
* * *
“… and it continued that way the entire visit,” I said to Mr. Liam Lucas when he visited Longbourn to join his sisters when they were to leave. He had been paying a visit to a nearby farm that his family had an arrangement with. Sometimes, rather than shopping in town, they arranged for the farmer, Mr. Cox, to send produce directly to their home, and Mr. Cox was paid at the end of each week.
“Really?” Mr. Lucas said to me as his sisters were getting their bonnets and gloves on. He was standing in the hall, Lydia was playing a hand game with little Orwell during it, and I had just gotten done telling him about Mama and Orwell’s argument.
“Yes. We thought both of them would be finished with the argument after a few minutes, but they just were inexhaustible.”
“I should not be surprised by either of their part. For your mother is resolute, while little Orwell is at the age when speaking up is all he knows how to do.”
“I miss being that age,” Elizabeth said to Mr. Lucas, standing nearby.
“So do I,” Mr. Lucas agreed.
“And I,” I echoed. “Oh well, I guess.”
Mr. Lucas leaned into me.
“I cannot say for sure,” he whispered to Elizabeth and me, “but I am of the suspicion that my parents will soon hold a dinner party where the Netherfield company will be invited to attend. I saw how much pleasure their appearance gave you all, so I thought you might enjoy the news.”
“Yes, we do,” I answered with enthusiasm.
“But of course, it is my guess, and you must not tell anyone.”
“We won’t,” Elizabeth whispered, “will we, Kitty?”
“We won’t,” I agreed. “But, oh, I do hope that your parents do give the party. You must convince them, Mr. Lucas. You must.”
“I shall try.”
With that, he left with the rest of his family.
As we watched them go, Elizabeth leaned next to me.
“You heard him, Kitty,” she pressed, “you must keep this secret. You swore to tell no one.”
“I know,” I snapped.
“Yes, I know that you know, but will you do it?”
“Fine, fine, fine.”
“Fine what?” Lydia asked, bouncing up to me.
“Oh, well…”
Lizzy gave me a look.
“I… well, Mr. Lucas told me about some very good fruit that their family will get from Mr. Cox. He thought maybe we might be fortunate enough to try it later on this week.”
“Fruit?” Lydia laughed. “Who cares about that?”
Later in the evening, when Lydia and I were in our nightgowns and talking on our beds, she turned to me.
“You are hiding something from me, and you know it,” Lydia declared. “I know that Mr. Lucas didn’t talk to you about fruit.”
“But I can’t tell,” I responded. “I made a promise.”
“But I know that you want to tell me,” Lydia said, taking my arms, pulling me up and spinning me around. “I know that you won’t be happy until you tell me. And I won’t be happy until I know everything!”
Laughing, I began to become dizzy. Unable to resist, I gave in and told her everything. When we finished, we fell on the floor and laughed.
“We will see them all again so soon?” Lydia laughed. “Oh, who cares? I didn’t like any of them.”
“Outside of Mr. Darcy, why didn’t you like any of them?”
“Because they didn’t care about me. Why should I care about people who don’t care about me?”
I looked down at my fingers, seriously desirous of looking at my nails. One of them was uneven from when I bit it.
“Mr. Bingley was very nice,” I pointed out. “He could grow to being a very good neighbor. He could grow to like us all.”
“He likes Jane, and that is it.”
“I wish that we were as pretty as her. Everything would be different if we were.”
“I am prettier than her,” Lydia boasted. “You’re not. But I am.”
“That’s a lie. You are no prettier than me.”
“Oh, yes, I am.”
“No, you are not,” I said, throwing a pillow at her. She responded by throwing one as well.
“Oh, yes, I am.”
“No, you are not. And I won’t listen to anything else,” I said, getting up and retrieving my journal from a hiding place.
“Just for that, I will read your diary.”
“No, you won’t. Even you wouldn’t stoop that far. Besides, I’ll just find somewhere else to hide it.”
Sitting down at my desk, I put the candle close to me, took out my pen and ink, and began to write. Since Lydia was on her bed, and was beginning to doze, I knew that she was too far away to see what I was writing. After writing down the events of the day, I proceeded to write down my innermost feelings… feelings that I was ashamed of:
Ever since the assembly, I cannot stop thinking of the Netherfield Party—but of one face in particular. Mr. Bingley is the sort of person who I cannot release from my thoughts. Even now, I see his face before my mind’s eye, and no activity can distract me.
I was once told that falling in love was like being struck by a thunderbolt, and it forced your emotions into disarray. That is precisely how I feel at present.
I feel a sudden impulse within me, and drive and will to run across the longest plain, cross the farthest ocean, and climb the highest mountain. That bolt of lightning struck me so cruelly, and I cannot deny it. I feel—a longing passion for Mr. Bingley. I like him exceedingly, and I flatter myself that perhaps he could learn to care for me.
There are only two large problems. First, I am the fourth born, so I am the fourth sister that everyone looks at. And the second and largest obstacle: Jane.
Mr. Bingley immediately favored her, but with any hope, it would not remain as such. He could always have been nice to her, struck by her initial beauty, which was augmented by her being the first born. He would naturally be attentive to that. Yet once Jane ceases to be a novelty to him, perhaps he would look differently upon me.
Or what if he didn’t? What if he really does like Jane? That would… be devastating.
Therefore, I must make my resolve now, that if I have no chance with Mr. Bingley, then I shall not let it consume me. I have heard frightening stories of women who have died of broken hearts and men who have become shriveled-up scholars, afraid of ever falling in love again, due to heartache.
No, I would not let that be my fate!
Besides, I didn’t even know if falling in love was something that I ever really wanted. Rather, it was a shock that came upon me and startled me. With any luck, this was a passing fancy, and that is all.
There are two parts of me that are in extreme contradiction.
One side of my soul likes Mr. Bingley.
Another side of me never wants to like him.
But both sides are certain on one thing: I will not take my inner passion out on Jane. I will not be angry with her for being his choice, I will cease to be jealous of her, and I will not sour my nature towards her, because of it. Whatever our present circumstances, I love Jane. So, there is only one thing that I could do; I must let go of my feelings for Mr. Bingley.
Of course, that is always better said than done.
Tomorrow is another day.
Only time will tell. But I refuse to let this cast me down. I refuse!