Darcy, Deceit and Disguise

[anghraine]

[reposting from wordpress]

In my corner of the Jane Austen fandom, one of the more hotly contested lines is something that Darcy says during the dreadful Hunsford scene: Disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. (He makes several other comments to the same effect throughout the book, but they receive much less attention.) Side 1 says something like, ‘See? He doesn’t lie, so when he says —-, he must be telling the truth.’ The other says, ‘But what about Bingley and Jane? He did lie, so therefore he is fully capable of misrepresenting himself so therefore we can’t trust anything he says.’

And, in my not so humble opinion, both are pretty far afield, so I’m yet again weighing in on the subject — this time in the context of Wickham.

 

First of all, I think that knowing the story so well often does us no favours. Everybody knows what happens, so we sometimes overlook the actual text, the details of what happened. So, let’s look at the actual text. Setting aside the context, connotations, implications, what do we really know?

First, let’s take the Bingley/Jane scenario. First, Darcy's objections against Jane were based primarily on her family’s total want of propriety, and secondarily on their low connections. He had no objections to her personally.  This only ’staggered’ Bingley’s resolve; Darcy then gave his firm opinion that Jane did not love Bingley. Thus Bingley stayed away, Jane’s heart was broken, etc etc.

Then, towards the end of the novel, Darcy assures Bingley that Jane does love him, Bingley gets his permission and proposes to Jane, hurrah. If this latter persuasion is morally right, as seems generally accepted, what makes the original one so terrible? Is it that he’s interfering in something that isn’t really his business? No — he continues to do that and it’s treated as a rather amusing personality quirk.

Is it that his judgment of Jane’s affection is based on a very brief period of observation? No — he repeats the behaviour, deciding on her feelings after two rather brief meetings in crowded drawing rooms, instead of one long evening at a ball.

Is it the bias in his observation? He’s probably about equally biased in both situations — in the first, he wants to find Jane indifferent, and as he is very motivated to fix his error in the latter case, he has good reason to wish her in love with Bingley. Yet he insists in both cases that his judgment is not based upon what he wishes to find, whether the reader believes him or not. What does he do in the first case that he does not do in the second? What makes the one so much worse?

Not to be too controversial, but I think the difference is quite simple, and has very little to do with moral behaviour. Darcy was wrong. I don’t mean morally. He was mistaken. If he had been right about Jane, he would have saved his friend from an unequal marriage. But he wasn’t right, he misunderstood Jane, and so was to some degree responsible for her months of heartbreak. In the second case, he was to about the same degree responsible for her happiness, and so his action is considered good and proper.

The point of all this is to say that I don’t consider either of the situations too horribly wrong. However misguided and mistaken on occasion, he is basically aboveboard here — perfectly sincere, acting out of concern for his friend, without a whiff of disguise.

But now we enter Phase 2. Jane goes to London and calls upon the Bingley sisters, who pretend they never received her note. After some weeks, they eventually call on her, and are so cold that even she understands their hypocrisy. Bingley never knows that Jane is there, he never suspects that she might be.

It’s important to bear in mind that Darcy never sees Jane. He only knows she is there because Caroline tells him so. He, deciding that Bingley might lose his senses should he meet her again, simply doesn’t pass the information on. This is the only part of the business that, at the time, he feels any discomfort over. Tellingly, he uses a familiar word for it in describing the affair: Perhaps this concealment, this disguise, was beneath me; it is done, however, and it was done for the best.

Disguise is not identical in meaning to a lie, though there are certainly similarities. It is a misrepresentation. By nothing more remaining silent — by concealment — Darcy misrepresents the true situation.

That all clarified, let’s go back to his earlier assertion. Disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. We can see that he has, on at least one occasion, stooped to disguise. Does that mean he is lying?

No. What he says is that he hates disguise, not that he never uses it. However much he may disapprove of ‘art’ (and he does, a great deal) he clearly rates loyalty above it. He is perfectly willing to use deceit and disguise and concealment to protect his impressionable, impulsive, often-in-love friend.

In fact, there are a few major issues where he is very much less than straightforward. First, of course, is his concealment of Jane’s presence, which despite some scruples he manages quite easily. At Rosings, he again conceals his knowledge when Elizabeth tells him that Jane is in London and asks whether he has seen her. He replies that he has not had that pleasure — that is, he, himself, has not seen her — true.  Strictly speaking.  But it’s not really honest, either, and he clearly is unhappy about the perceived necessity of it.

I think we can conclude that Darcy would make an appallingly bad liar.

He also fails to make Wickham’s character known. Now, he is hardly Wickham’s keeper, but even when provoked by Elizabeth, he only speaks in the vaguest terms. He has plenty of information against Wickham without even mentioning Georgiana. However, it would be incredibly ungentlemanly to mention his private history with Wickham (Darcy may occasionally miss out on the spirit of gentlemanly behaviour, but he manages the letter of the law well enough). He finds it beneath him and remains silent, even while knowing that Wickham is spreading tales — and, quite probably, racking up debts.

Of course, at Pemberley, Darcy and Elizabeth both conceal the extent of their relationship — the Gardiners, intelligent people that they are, never find out what was actually going on. Apparently nobody does, except Darcy, Elizabeth, and to some degree Jane. There’s no reason why he shouldn’t, but by acting as a friendly acquaintance rather than a rejected suitor, he certainly succeeds in concealing a great deal from the Gardiners.  (Ironically, the concealment of their relationship ultimately persuades the Gardiners that there is more of one than really exists; they think Darcy and Elizabeth are secretly engaged, and act accordingly.)

He actually enlists the Gardiners, Lydia, and Wickham in his last concealment. He doesn’t want anyone, especially Elizabeth, knowing of his interference in the matter, and so makes them promise not to mention it — Lydia, naturally, is the one to let the cat out of the bag.

The interesting thing is that he never says an untrue word; he always misdirects through silence — omission. And amongst all the lies and half-truths and deceits perpetrated in this novel, there is one other character who does almost exactly the same thing.

None other than — you’ve guessed it — George Wickham.

I’m not sure whether to find his story clever or ridiculous; I suspect it’s a sort of Catch-22. Wickham is supposed to be incredibly plausible, but his account is clichéd, overwrought, and completely melodramatic — and I think it’s supposed to be, so that Elizabeth is fully culpable for her blind acceptance of it. But it rather undermines the plausibility factor. Anyway, for the purposes of this discussion, it’s important to take a close look at what he actually says and does.

(1) He first sounds out the local knowledge of Darcy, and finds where he is staying, what is known of him, and what the general opinion of him is.

(2) He gains some points by his knowledge of Pemberley’s worth — a ‘clear’ ten thousand a-year when he lived there, five years before.  (Totally OT – this is another point for 1790s!P&P, because there is no way Pemberley would still be worth £10,000 p/a after five years of rapid inflation, unless Darcy was painfully extravagant.)

(3) He then makes some not-very-veiled insinuations as to knowing Bad Stuff about Darcy.

(4) He asks if Darcy is leaving any time soon.

(5) He insists that he won’t be driven away by Darcy, and makes vague claims about being very ill-treated by him.

(6) He praises his godfather, Darcy’s father, in typical overwrought hyperbole.

(7) He then wanders away from the subject, making himself agreeable.

(8) He mentions being brought up for the church, and that he could have had a valuable living had Darcy wanted to give it to him — that it was left to him by Mr Darcy Sr, but that, when the living fell open, it was given to another.

(9) He says that the terms of the inherited living were vague enough that he couldn’t seek legal address — that Darcy chose to doubt them — and asserted that Wickham had forfeited his claims through extravagance and imprudence, hurrying on to dismiss the objections as mere words — ‘anything or nothing.’   (I bet 'extravagance' and 'imprudence' are the exact words Darcy used, too.)

(10) Two years prior to Wickham's taletelling, when the living came open and he was just of an age to receive it (IIRC, twenty-five), Darcy gave it to another. He says he doesn’t think he did anything to deserve having lost it, except throwing screaming fits and spreading libellous reports around the countryside speaking his opinion of him too freely (defending himself with a claim to a ‘warm, unguarded temper’).

(11) He adds that Darcy hates him.  (Quite true, I’m sure.)

(12) He (ostensibly) rejects Elizabeth’s idea of public exposure by saying that he can never expose or defy Darcy out of respect for his godfather.  In the act of doing so.

(13) He attributes Darcy’s motivations to a firm dislike, which he argues is based on jealousy because he, Wickham, was Mr Darcy’s favourite.

(14) In response to Elizabeth, he agrees that their circumstances were identical — they were brought up in the same house, enjoyed the same amusements, and were objects of the same parental care (which will have completely different ramifications later), and then explains how his father became steward of Pemberley and close to Mr Darcy.

(15) He adds that Darcy is liberal, generous, etc etc, all out of pride for his family and his father, and that it is the same pride, with some very little affection, that makes him a kind and careful guardian to his sister.  (Bastard.)

(16) Upon being asked about Georgiana Darcy, he says that she was once affectionate and fond of him, but has since become very, very proud, but that it pains him to speak ill of a Darcy.  (I can’t be the only person who went ‘what?!’ there.)

(17) After Elizabeth wonders that such a horrid man could be friends with the good humoured and sweet natured Bingley, Wickham explains that Darcy can be quite pleasant when he feels like it.  (Foreshadowing!)

(18) Mr Collins mentioned Lady Catherine, and Wickham asks Elizabeth if she knows the de Bourgh family well; he then explains that Lady Catherine’s sister was Lady Anne Darcy, Fitzwilliam Darcy’s mother, therefore Lady C is his aunt, and adds the rumour that Darcy and Anne de Bourgh are intended to marry.  (He presumably heard it at Pemberley – yes, really.  It’s not a figment of Lady Catherine’s imagination.)  When Elizabeth gives her impression of Lady Catherine as conceited and arrogant, Wickham agrees, says that he never liked her, and concludes that her reputation for being sensible and clever comes partly from her rank and fortune, partly from her authoritative manner, and partly from Darcy’s insistence that his connections should be considered smart.

Phew! However, going through the points, it’s really remarkable how he carries it off. He, like Darcy with Bingley, says almost nothing untrue. I’ve always found his protection against Darcy’s good reputation hilariously funny — he describes him as liberal, just, sincere, rational, honourable, agreeable at times, giving his money freely, displaying hospitality, assisting his tenants, relieving the poor, and an excellent guardian — honestly, I don’t think we see a more effusive account of Darcy’s virtues anywhere.

In any case, the substance of the tale — the history of their fathers’ friendship and their own childhood companionship, Mr Darcy’s wish to leave the living, and Darcy’s refusal when it fell vacant, are all true. Wickham probably would have done better to leave it at that, but spices the whole thing up with insinuations as to Darcy’s hatred and jealousy (and while he hates Wickham, Darcy is never shown to be jealous of anybody — he admits that Wickham was his father’s favourite without batting an eyelash), denying any knowledge of Darcy’s motivations, and dismissing his objections (which will be more thoroughly reiterated in Darcy’s letter).

Of course, it’s really sheer vanity that leads him into the sort of self-aggrandisement that Elizabeth later realises that she should have noticed, and weakens his story. ‘It pains me to speak ill of a Darcy’ and ‘it is not for me to be driven away by Mr Darcy’ and ‘I can never defy or expose him‘ (I can’t be the only one who has ever wanted to whack her upside the head at that point) — he’s at his most gloriously self-contradictory there.

But, ignoring the smarmy self-dramatisation, he manages quite well — better than Darcy, who knows to keep it simple. Their personalities and principles may be worlds apart, but they’ve got the art of omission down pat.