“I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. Your

retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment

arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is much better, of

ignorance. But with me, it is not so. Painful recollections will

intrude, which cannot, which ought not to be repelled. I have been a

selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a

child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my

temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride

and conceit. Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only child),

I was spoiled by my parents, who, though good themselves, (my father

particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable,) allowed, encouraged,

almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to care for none beyond

my{454} own family circle, to think meanly of all the rest of the world, to

wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with

my own. Such I was, from eight to eight-and-twenty; and such I might

still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not

owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most

advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a

doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my

pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased.”
“Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?”
“Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be

wishing, expecting my addresses.”
“My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I assure

you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me

wrong. How you must have hated me after that evening!”
“Hate you! I was angry, perhaps, at first, but my anger soon began to

take a proper direction.”
“I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me when we met at

Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?”
“No, indeed, I felt nothing but surprise.”