Chapter 4
Elizabeth entered her father’s bedroom with a deep sense of awe, mingled with reverence, as though her sorrow had been diminished, absorbed by that place into which she had so seldom come.
She had always thought of the library as her father’s room, and the bedchamber merely as a place where he slept, which had never held any interest for her.
She looked first about her, but immediately his eyes held hers, and she breathed again.
Mr Bennet, the master of Longbourn, was as he had ever been.
His eyes rested upon her with that affection she had always known, in which she had grown, and by which she had become the lively, independent, and fearless young woman she was.
She, perhaps more than any of her sisters, was the creation of his mind and spirit; she loved irony, sarcasm, and that perfect honesty which he prized.
Ever eager to know and to discover, she had been formed by him and had always felt that between them there were no boundaries.
Then, unexpectedly, Mr Bennet smiled…perhaps a little more faintly, but otherwise as he did each day.
“No, my father cannot be ill. He is as he has ever been,” she thought, and once more expected to awaken from that dreadful dream.
But when he made a sign for her to sit in the chair beside him, and she saw at close hand his lips, parched with fever, reality came upon her like a dark tide, and pain seized her with violence.
Still, she allowed nothing to appear; she owed him that command of herself which he had so earnestly wished her to learn, more than any common lesson of history or Greek.
His hand sought hers, and Elizabeth, instead of taking the chair, knelt beside his bed, and laid her forehead upon his hand, which then rose gently to rest upon her brow. Even then, she did not allow a single tear to fall.
She took his hand softly within her own and waited, but as he did not speak, she whispered, “Papa, I promise—”
His hand stopped her, pressing hers with sudden force.
“No, Elizabeth,” he almost cried, “you must promise me nothing.”
He fell silent, wearied by the effort of speaking with such strength; his words astonished her beyond measure.
“Nothing?” she asked, showing a faint, almost ironic smile, with a great effort, knowing how much it would please him.
“Nothing. Be yourself, but do not be afraid to change; take care only of yourself, that is all.”
He closed his eyes, and she feared he was already gone, but then his chest rose faintly, and she was reassured. She had, however, to leave at once; Jane too had need of him. She rose and kissed him upon the cheek, and then upon the forehead.
Moving towards the door, Elizabeth did not cease to look at him, almost with her back turned, as one withdraws from the presence of a king. These were her last moments with her father. To remain there always, to hold that moment fast so that it might never end, such was her only wish.
But when he opened his eyes to look at her once more, all the moments they had shared came upon her, as though she stood between life and death, and beheld all she had lived with him.
In some wonderful manner, he lay open before her like a book, which she might read, page by page. The pain grew too great to bear; her tears broke forth, but only when she made a sign to Jane to enter.
Elizabeth felt the need to run downstairs and away, to walk for a time at a brisk pace along the road where she had so often wandered alone, to bring order to her thoughts.
But she did not go. She remained there before the door, waiting for Jane.
It was precisely because her father had asked nothing of her, and had not allowed her to make any promise, that she was compelled to weigh each action, and to reflect that she had not always acted for her family.
Perhaps it had been so for Jane in greater measure; yet the truth was that she herself had been wounded, oppressed by his disdain, which, though directed towards her family, she had felt as her own.
She had defended them violently against Mr Darcy’s contempt, but at the same time she deeply resented him for shaking the belief in which she had lived—that they were, if not perfect, at least a family loved and respected by all.
Now, however, she had the means to act with true responsibility and to support her family from affection and fidelity.
Her father had given her this last gift; he had helped her to change in a single instant, with but a few words.
To defend one’s family did not mean to wage war in its name; it meant to sustain and protect each member, and perhaps to see their faults as well.
For a moment, she thought of her walk with Jane; it seemed to her that years had passed, though it had been the same day.
Evening had fallen, the maids were lighting the candles, and she received Jane in her arms; closely embraced, they went down the stairs together.
As they passed the library, Elizabeth knocked at the door, yet did not release Jane, who clung to her, as though already conscious of the role Elizabeth must now assume.
Jane might be the elder, but Elizabeth was the one whom her father, though he had not charged her with the care of the family, had nevertheless prepared.
“We have all been to see Papa,” she said.
“We shall go up as well,” replied her uncle Gardiner, meaning himself and Mr Phillips; and the sisters entered the dining room, where the others awaited them.
They were obliged to take some tea and to eat a little; they did not dine together, but the others would come in their turn.
“What did he say to you?” Elizabeth asked, certain that this was what they must do: to speak of him, and of what he had left to each of them. “Lydia?”
Lydia raised her shoulders without answering.
“Lydia!” cried Jane, with reproach.
“He told me what he always tells me…to take care…” She paused, looking about her.
“Of what?” asked Jane, with impatience, almost with anger, since she did not understand, or perhaps had not observed until then, the lightness of her sister’s manner.
“Of life, I believe. Yes, that is what he said: to take care of how I choose to live, not to lose myself. As though one could lose oneself on the road from here to Meryton!”
“It is not the road to Meryton that is meant, Lydia, and you know it very well,” said Elizabeth, with gentle reproach. “It means that we must all change, that we must be united now above all things; there will not be easy times at Longbourn.”
“Oh!” exclaimed Lydia, as though recalled to their distress, remembering that their father lay dying, and that their home, Longbourn, might soon be subject to grievous change.
“Kitty?” Elizabeth continued, for the time had not yet come to speak of anything but their father.
“He told me to listen to you and to Jane.”
Elizabeth and Jane looked at one another; their father seemed to stand between them, ironic yet wise, loving them all equally, though differently.
“He told me to trust in myself and in life, and not in the books I read.”
“Oh,” said Jane, with tenderness. In a few words, their father had given to each precisely that advice which might guide her towards a better future.
“And to you?” Mary asked. Elizabeth was obliged to consider quickly; she could not repeat his words exactly, they might be understood otherwise than he had intended, though she had fully comprehended them.
“He told me to think before I act, and to follow my own path without fear.”
All eyes turned to Jane, who coloured.
“He told me…” Jane began, hesitating, “he told me in his wisdom not to follow my feelings blindly, to listen to my understanding, and only ask counsel of my heart…at times.”