Chapter 36

If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to contain a renewal of his
offers, she had formed no expectation at all of its contents. But such as they were, it may well be supposed how eagerly
she went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited. Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be
defined. With amazement did she first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power; and steadfastly was she
persuaded, that he could have no explanation to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong
prejudice against everything he might say, she began his account of what had happened at Netherfield. She read with an
eagerness which hardly left her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what the sentence might
bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister’s insensibility she
instantly resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to
have any wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied her; his style was not
penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and insolence.

But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham — when she read with somewhat clearer attention a
relation of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which bore so alarming an
affinity to his own history of himself — her feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition.
Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming,
“This must be false! This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!”— and when she had gone through the whole
letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not
regard it, that she would never look in it again.

In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half
a minute the letter was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she again began the mortifying
perusal of all that related to Wickham, and commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence. The
account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what he had related himself; and the kindness of the late
Mr. Darcy, though she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own words. So far each recital
confirmed the other; but when she came to the will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living was
fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on
one side or the other; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did not err. But when she read and
re-read with the closest attention, the particulars immediately following of Wickham’s resigning all pretensions to the
living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She
put down the letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be impartiality — deliberated on the probability
of each statement — but with little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read on; but every line
proved more clearly that the affair, which she had believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to
render Mr. Darcy’s conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a turn which must make him entirely blameless
throughout the whole.

The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay at Mr. Wickham’s charge, exceedingly shocked her;
the more so, as she could bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his entrance into the ——
shire Militia, in which he had engaged at the persuasion of the young man who, on meeting him accidentally in town, had
there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told
himself. As to his real character, had information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of inquiring. His
countenance, voice, and manner had established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to recollect some
instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr.
Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those casual errors under which she would endeavour to class
what Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years’ continuance. But no such recollection befriended
her. She could see him instantly before her, in every charm of air and address; but she could remember no more
substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and the regard which his social powers had gained him
in the mess. After pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued to read. But, alas! the story
which followed, of his designs on Miss Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel Fitzwilliam
and herself only the morning before; and at last she was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel
Fitzwilliam himself — from whom she had previously received the information of his near concern in all his cousin’s
affairs, and whose character she had no reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to him, but
the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr.
Darcy would never have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his cousin’s corroboration.

She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation between Wickham and herself, in their first
evening at Mr. Phillips’s. Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was now struck with the
impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of
putting himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct. She remembered that he
had boasted of having no fear of seeing Mr. Darcy — that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that he should
stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very week. She remembered also that, till the
Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but herself; but that after their removal it
had been everywhere discussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy’s character, though he had
assured her that respect for the father would always prevent his exposing the son.

How differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned! His attentions to Miss King were now the
consequence of views solely and hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer the moderation of
his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything. His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he
had either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his vanity by encouraging the preference
which she believed she had most incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter and fainter; and
in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not but allow Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago
asserted his blamelessness in the affair; that proud and repulsive as were his manners, she had never, in the whole
course of their acquaintance — an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much together, and given her a sort of
intimacy with his ways — seen anything that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust — anything that spoke him of
irreligious or immoral habits; that among his own connections he was esteemed and valued — that even Wickham had allowed
him merit as a brother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his sister as to prove him capable of
some amiable feeling; that had his actions been what Mr. Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of
everything right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and that friendship between a person capable of it, and
such an amiable man as Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.

She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham could she think without feeling she had been
blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd.

“How despicably I have acted!” she cried; “I, who have prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on
my abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blameable
mistrust! How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not have been more
wretchedly blind! But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the
neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven
reason away, where either were concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself.”

From herself to Jane — from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line which soon brought to her recollection that
Mr. Darcy’s explanation there had appeared very insufficient, and she read it again. Widely different was the
effect of a second perusal. How could she deny that credit to his assertions in one instance, which she had been obliged
to give in the other? He declared himself to be totally unsuspicious of her sister’s attachment; and she could not help
remembering what Charlotte’s opinion had always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his description of Jane. She
felt that Jane’s feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in her air
and manner not often united with great sensibility.

When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited
reproach, her sense of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly for denial, and the
circumstances to which he particularly alluded as having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first
disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind than on hers.

The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed, but it could not console her for the contempt
which had thus been self-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she considered that Jane’s disappointment had in
fact been the work of her nearest relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt by such
impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she had ever known before.

After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every variety of thought — re-considering events,
determining probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and so important,
fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made her at length return home; and she entered the house with the wish
of appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such reflections as must make her unfit for
conversation.

She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a
few minutes, to take leave — but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for her
return, and almost resolving to walk after her till she could be found. Elizabeth could but just affect concern
in missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an object; she could think only of her
letter.