“It is a dry food, he only needs to sweep it,” Darcy replied as though that were of no concern. Then he added slowly, “Unless she takes it into her mind to smear it into the books.”
Elizabeth laughed. “You are such a great gentleman, and I suppose he worried that he might lose the sale if he complained — Emily, what sound does this animal make?”
The girl had changed the page to one which had images of sheep, with a shepherd with a crooked staff leaning against a rock observing them.
“Baaaa,” was the instant reply.
“I shall,” Darcy said, “have Emily fed elsewhere next time.”
“Are you not concerned that she shall tear the book?” Elizabeth watched as Emily turned the page.
Darcy shrugged. “I prefer to buy books for her that have no value beyond the text itself. The easiest way to give her the feel of how to manage a book is to let her tear a few.”
Elizabeth studied him in bemusement. “My father was quite tolerant of us, but I believe the only time he tanned any of us was when Lydia was five and tore up several of his books on purpose.”
“Emily knows that if she intentionally tears at a book, I will remove it — You disapprove. It is wasteful, but… I am a wealthy man. I will not pretend I am not. If I must spend a half dozen guineas on a book that my child mangles, but the gain is that she becomes well used to handling books from a young age, I consider my expense amply compensated.”
“She has torn books?”
“Not recently, and not on purpose.”
“What an odd and unique philosophy — do you intend to punish her at all? To spare the rod and spoil the child? — or is your view the opposite. One should spoil the rod and spare the child?”
Darcy shrugged. “There will be, I am certain, occasions when it is necessary to punish her. I will see her raised with a good character, and a solid understanding of true and goodmoral principles, but teaching a child to be terrified of their parents will not lead to good outcomes.”
“Were you frightened of your own father?” Elizabeth flushed. The question was too intimate to ask.
“No.” Darcy’s manner showed thoughtfulness, not offence. “I respected him enormously. A quiet man. But never frightening. I worried… that I would disappoint him. That I would not be what I ought to be, that I would fail to fulfil all of my obligations, and that I would not be worthy of his name and his pride… I still worry. I still…”
His voice hung, and he frowned.
“What do you worry about?”
Darcy shook his head. “DoesThe Monkin fact have immoral tendencies?”
“Oh, no.” Elizabeth laughed. “It is a book of moral education, presenting an endless array of behaviours one ought not engage in, with their punishments following promptly.”
Darcy raised his eyebrows. Emily quickly flipped through the pages of her collection of plates. “Your father did not prevent you from reading it?”
“Youdojudge me for reading it.”
“I ask as a parent curious about another father’s reasoning. Did you benefit from readingThe Monk?”
Elizabeth laughed. “I derived great entertainment from it, I felt shivers of horror and shock, and the most pathetic scenes bring me to tears. The whole is so ridiculous that it beggars belief. We live in a delightful age, and a delightful country where such nonsense can be published, peddled, and find great fame.”
“I have not heard the proliferation of such novels described in such terms of unreserved commendation before,” Darcy replied. His eyes were smiling.
“The purpose of reading novels is not tobenefitthe reader.” Elizabeth shook her head at the thought of such nonsense.“ReadingThe Monkdoes not even give distinction. Almost no girl memorizes Milton or quotes Homer. That would impress at least. But my friends have all readThe Monkthemselves, and those who have not are no more impressed by the accomplishment than you are.”
“Your view then,” Darcy replied in that tone of voice that showed him to be half serious and half making a joke, “is that your father ought not have permitted you to read it?”
Elizabeth cracked into laughter.
The two of them grinned at each other, and Elizabeth felt a sense of joy in being able to simply speak freely about something that mattered to her, and perhaps no one else. Despite what he had said, it was clear from Darcy’s manner that he did not judge her severely for her taste in literature.
He seemed fascinated. Perhaps the women he met pretended exclusively to a higher taste. Or worse, maybe they did in fact only have excellent taste in literature.
“My father never made a great effort to manage our reading.” Elizabeth smiled fondly at the memory. “Not after I reached my fifteenth year. Before that he insisted we discuss all novels I read at length — he had this passing odd notion that I might gain a distorted understanding of the ways of the world if the voice of reason did not specify what was unrealistic in novels.”
