----------------------------------------
As the hours of the day waned, a curious repartee unfolded in the drawing room of Netherfield. It was a scene punctuated by the wit and intellect of those present, and yet, it was underscored by an undercurrent of tension and rivalry, the cause of which I was becoming increasingly conscious.
Miss Bingley, ever poised to assert her presence, engaged me in a dialogue that was as much about displaying her own erudition as it was a challenge to Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Mr. Hurst interjected, “Do you prefer reading to cards?” said he; “that is rather singular."
Miss Bingley seized the opportunity to paint Elizabeth in a light less flattering, though her words missed their mark.
“Miss Eliza Bennet,” said Miss Bingley, “despises cards. She is a great reader, and has no pleasure in anything else.”
Elizabeth, who had overheard the exchange, was quick to correct her with a gentle rebuke. “I deserve neither such praise nor such censure,” she said. “I am not a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things.”
It was Bingley who diffused the moment with a grace befitting his character. "In nursing your sister, I am sure you have pleasure," he said to Elizabeth, "and I hope it will soon be increased by seeing her quite well."
Elizabeth expressed her gratitude with a warmth that seemed to brighten the room, and then she moved towards a table where a few books lay—a modest collection that nevertheless provided a segue for further discussion.
The topic of libraries and literature became the new battleground upon which Miss Bingley sought to distinguish herself, praising the grandeur of Pemberley's collection and lamenting the inadequacy of their own. I affirmed the value of such a collection, alluding to the generations of care that had shaped it, and the personal efforts I had made to enhance its worth.
If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.
As the conversation meandered towards the subject of accomplished women, a topic I found myself drawn into with unexpected fervor, I was struck by the divergence between Miss Bingley's understanding of the term and my own. To be truly accomplished, I argued, a woman must possess more than the superficial trappings of the arts. She must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, as well as a certain something in her air and manner of walking.
Elizabeth's participation in the debate was as insightful as it was provocative. "Then," she observed, "you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman." Her words challenged us to define our expectations, and in doing so, revealed the narrowness of our assumptions.
The discourse continued, with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley protesting the rarity of such paragons of virtue, until the interjection of Mr. Hurst, whose attention to the card game far exceeded his interest in our philosophical musings, brought it to an abrupt end.
It was not long after that Elizabeth excused herself, her concern for her sister drawing her away from our company. In her absence, Miss Bingley resumed her criticism, this time unencumbered by the object of her disdain. "Eliza Bennet is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex by undervaluing their own," she declared, a statement I found to be grossly unfair.
"Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable," I found myself agreeing, though my mind was not on the conversation but on Elizabeth's hasty departure. Her devotion to her sister was beyond reproach, a devotion that, I begrudgingly admitted, commanded my admiration.
The evening concluded with the usual diversions—music and light entertainment—but the joy of it was marred by the undercurrent of concern for Miss Bennet's health. Bingley, showing the depth of his character, gave orders to ensure the comfort of the Bennet sisters, a gesture that did not go unnoticed by me.
As I retire to pen these thoughts, I am left to ponder the complexities of the day. The evolving dynamic between Elizabeth and myself, her evident virtues, and the ignoble conduct of those who would belittle her, are matters that weigh heavily upon my mind. In the quiet of the night, I find myself questioning the very foundations of my beliefs and the nature of my regard for Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
Fitzwilliam Darcy