“Yes, but my mother and aunt Gardiner thought it a good match. Robert was a friend of my uncle’s. Jane’s determination to have Robert Cuthbert convinced my father. However, I still believe that a few pretty verses had too powerful an impact on a girl who had not yet outgrown romantic sensibilities.”
“If music is the food of love, it is not hard to believe that poetry can feed it as well.”
“Of a fine, stout, healthy love, it may. I think Robert’s inclination was rather slight. But thin as it was, it has not weakened, and Jane is happy. Still, if I had to base my marital happiness on a form of literature, poetry would be my last choice.”
“Is poetry not the highest form of literature? ‘Those numbers wherewith heaven and earth are moved, Show weakness speaks in prose, but power in verse.’ There is a considerable value in poeticexpression—beyond simply winning a lady’s affections. Why, poetry is powerful enough even to inspire virtue in people.”
He was entirely wrong in that assessment, and she did not hesitate to tell him so. “There may be adivertingvalue to poetry, but no verse can impact the way we live our lives and treat our neighbours the way a well-argued treatise may.”
“A mere prose treatise on ethics could not have the power to deeply affect the person who reads it. Only poetry has the appeal to do that.” Mr Darcy’s eyes glowed with an inner fire when animated, and his sudden interest in arguing with her surprised her.
“Even an intelligent novel might linger in one’s mind longer than rhyming verse. A poem may be beautiful, but its style is too limiting to be inspirational.”
“No, there is far greater scope in verse,” he replied with a smile, “and more elevated language than in a novel.”
“No, novels are the works in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature is conveyed, not poetry. Novels are more than just an ordinary train of life events; they exhibit our principal values.”
“This is the rationalisation from the woman who forced me to listen to a novel with a heroine who threw herself into the Thames to act out her romantic delusions. And that was before it lulled me to sleep.” Mr Darcy did not seem embarrassed at the memory of waking up and realising he had fallen asleep on her shoulder, but at the time he scarcely knew where to look and had immediately left the room. “Your novel, at best, I could grant you, was a shrewd parody, but not as stirring or affecting as poetry.”
She knew Mr Darcy read a great many things, novels as well as what he would say were more clever books. He was a sensible, uncommonly intelligent man, but this discussion struck her as peculiar. “Do you argue with me because you have the opposing opinion and feel the need to defend it, or because you enjoy a debate and think you have a chance of arguing me out of my opinion?”
“Why can not it be both?” he said smilingly.
She shook her head, but Elizabeth smiled. She rose and said goodnight. When she was near the door, Mr Darcy called to her. “What literature would you choose?”
“Choose for what?”
He leant back in his seat and crossed his arms over his chest, giving her a self-satisfied smile as though he thought her going to bed meant he had won this debate. “On what form of literature would you base your chance at marital happiness if not poetry?”
“A good satire, perhaps.” She met his smile, and then left.
As much as they mourned Georgiana, as much as Elizabeth was often brought low by the thought of her impending death, they had no need for Lydia here.
Darcy rodeacross the country in quest of tranquillity. Today, the last day in June, was a fortnight since he buried his sister. He could now reconcile himself with knowing that she would never have been cured and every day she lived had increased her suffering. Any who suggested that her death was a blessing still had no heart, but at least now Darcy could find comfort in knowing her pain was over.
Regardless of what Mrs Darcy says, I cannot forgive myself for wishing for a miscarriage of my own nephew.He did not want forgiveness for wanting Wickham dead; nothing could convince him that the villain did not deserve whatever punishment that could be meted out.
Still, Darcy’s anger at himself had lessened after confessing to his wife the burden of what happened. She understood how much Georgiana loved her unborn child, and Mrs Darcy’s love for Georgiana outweighed any esteem she had forhim. He knew enough of Mrs Darcy’s forthright disposition to be certain that had she hated him for hoping his sister would miscarry her child, she would have acknowledged it. Instead, they had grown more comfortable with one another.
She was still often sad, naturally. She mourned a friend for whom she had given up her home, however happily.And the strain of knowing that any step she took, any stair she climbed, any word she spoke, could be her last must often rob her of all presence of mind.He no longer agreed that not telling her family about her impending death was for the best; however, it was not his place to circumvent the wishes of the dying.Darcy could understand her wanting something to control, of having the power of choice over her own life.
It was time to return from his bracing ride and write more letters.I am so tired of writing about Madeira, a place I have only read about and seen a drawing of.
Now their content had shifted to mourning notices.Darcy did not want to think about how the next round of letters he would receive would invariably have questions about his return to England.
Before Darcy could proceed to his study, the housemaid said he had a caller. Other than a few neighbours who waited on him when he first let the house, no one had called forhim. He scarcely even nodded to anyone after church until he married Mrs Darcy. After considering having the maid say he was not at home, he checked if his black armband was still in place and entered the parlour to see Mrs Darcy listening to Sir William Lucas run on.
Mrs Darcy had changed into her mourning gown to receive his caller. It looked as though it had been dyed by inexperienced hands; there must have also been something wrong with the dye for the colour to be so mottled. He thought of Mrs Collins refusing to forward any money for her to have a new gown on her wedding or for the ball, and it angered him to think of all the small indignities Mrs Darcy had suffered. He would order black bombazine for her to make a proper mourning gown; Mrs Darcy would only complain about the expense if he suggested she do it.
“It is good to see you out of the house,” exclaimed Sir William. “Of course, Miss Darcy’s loss must be strongly felt, very strongly felt, but it would not do to let your careful keeping of your sister’s memory leave a gentleman isolated.”
Darcy looked at his wife, who gave him a sympathetic smile.Not entirely isolated.“Thank you, sir. If you called on a matter of business, would you care to?—”
“No, Mrs Darcy may hear. She has been so good as to keep me company this quarter hour. She knows your habits. She was certain you would return from your ride by half past, and here you are.”
Darcy glanced at Mrs Darcy, who gave him a small shrug. Sir William was grinning, and Darcy feared the man was fit to burst withwhatever he wished to say. “I have the good fortune to formally admit you to the Meryton Whist Club!”
Sir William looked as though this enthusiastic pronouncement deserved a round of applause, or perhaps a pretty speech of gratitude. While Darcy was struggling with how to politely say he had no desire to join, his guest went into raptures.
