Captain Wentworth's Diary

  ‘A play! The very thing,’ said Mrs Musgrove. ‘As long as Henrietta likes the idea—’

  ‘Good heavens! Charles, how can you think of such a thing?’ broke in Mary. ‘Have you forgot that we are engaged to go to Camden Place tomorrow night? And that we were most particularly asked on purpose to meet Lady Dalrymple, her daughter, and Mr. Elliot, all the principal family connections, on purpose to be introduced to them? How can you be so forgetful?’

  Whilst she and Charles argued the point back and forth, he declaring no promise had been given, and she declaring it had, I watched Anne, to see if I could tell by her face whether she looked forward to meeting Elliot again.

  Charles’s final words, ‘What is Mr. Elliot to me?’ brought my eyes to Anne again, as I wondered, with all my soul: What was Elliot to Anne? I could read nothing from her expression, nor did it seem to change when Mrs Musgrove said that Charles had better go back and change the box for Tuesday.

  ‘It would be a pity to be divided, and we should be losing Anne, too, if there is a party at her father’s,’ she said. ‘I am sure neither Henrietta nor I should care at all for the play if Anne could not be with us.’

  I awaited Anne’s reply with bated breath.

  ‘If it depended only on my inclination, ma’am, the party at home (excepting on Mary’s account) would not be the smallest impediment. I have no pleasure in the sort of meeting, and should be too happy to change it for a play, and with you,’ she said.

  But Mary was adamant that the party could not be missed, and it was soon generally agreed that Tuesday should be the day.

  I left my seat, overcome by what I had heard. She had no pleasure in that sort of meeting! No pleasure in Mr Elliot’s company! She would rather go to the play!

  I went over to stand by her, going by way of the fireplace so as not to draw attention to the fact, and tried to think of something to say.

  ‘You have not been long enough in Bath to enjoy the evening parties of the place, then?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh! no. The usual character of them has nothing for me. I am no card-player,’ she replied.

  Here was my opening, no matter how slight, and I seized it. ‘You were not formerly, I know. You did not use to like cards; but time makes many changes,’ I added significantly.

  ‘I am not yet so much changed,’ she said, and her words, too, seemed significant.

  She was not so much changed. And yet . . .

  ‘It is a period, indeed! Eight years and a half is a period!’ I said, not knowing I had spoken out loud.

  I would have said more, but Henrietta urged Anne to go with her in order to fulfil her commissions.

  ‘I am perfectly ready to go with you,’ said Anne, but she did not look it. She looked as though she wished to stay.

  And then something happened to delay her. Sounds were heard; other visitors approached, and the door was thrown open. Sir Walter and Miss Elliot had arrived.

  I felt an instant oppression, and I could tell that Anne felt the same. The comfort, the freedom, the gaiety of the room was over, hushed into cold composure, determined silence, or insipid talk, to match the elegance of her father and sister.

  I was surprised that they acknowledged me, and that they did so a little more graciously than before. I wondered what could have raised me in their estimation. Perhaps Lady Dalrymple had spoken well of me, for I was sure nothing else would have satisfied their pride.

  ‘Captain Wentworth,’ said Miss Elliot, smiling.

  I made her a cold bow: I had not forgotten how she treated Anne.

  It turned out that she and her father had called to give out invitations to their party.

  ‘Tomorrow evening, to meet a few friends: no formal party,’ Miss Elliot said.

  She laid her cards on the table—Miss Elliot at home—with a courteous smile, and included me in the courtesy; indeed she made a point of handing me an invitation. I acknowledged it politely, but felt only disdain. They had not valued me eight years previously; would not value me now, if others had not shown them the way; and I knew their friendship would be lost the moment Lady Dalrymple, or some such other person, spoke against me. And yet it was an invitation, and it would give me a chance to see Anne, I thought, as I turned the card over in my hand.

  ‘Only think of Elizabeth’s including everybody!’ whispered Mary very audibly. ‘I do not wonder Captain Wentworth is delighted! You see he cannot put the card out of his hand.’

  I felt myself growing red with contempt and, as I caught Anne’s eye, I knew that her feelings echoed my own. That decided me. I would go to the party. It was not certain that Anne loved Mr Elliot; and I would not count her lost until an engagement was announced.

  I made my bow and, feeling there was still hope, I left the ladies to their shopping.

  Saturday 25 February

  It was raining heavily when I awoke, but it would have taken more than rain to keep me from the White Hart this morning. I escorted my sister and Benjamin and we arrived there immediately after breakfast. To my disappointment, Anne was not there. Sophia was soon talking to Mrs Musgrove, and I fell into conversation with Harville. Mary and Henrietta kept walking over to the window and exclaiming on the rain. As soon as it cleared, Henrietta said, ‘At last! Come, Mary, let us be off.’

  ‘Will you not wait for Anne?’ asked Mary.

  ‘I will not wait for anyone, I am eager to be about my business. There is some lace I saw yesterday that I must procure, and a new bonnet that I must have. Mama, you must make sure Anne does not leave. Once she has arrived, you must keep her here until we return. I would not miss her for anything.’

  I was gratified to see how much Henrietta valued Anne. She evidently had not forgotten that Anne had lent her her assistance at Lyme.

  The two young ladies set out, and not long afterwards Anne arrived. I was immediately aware of her, but I could not break off from Harville as he had asked me to help him with a letter of business. I wanted it out of the way, and suggested I write it at once.

  Paper and pen were laid out on a table at the side of the room, so I went over to it, and began to write. I consoled myself with the fact that I was not missing any conversation of great import, for Mrs Musgrove was telling Sophia about Henrietta’s engagement, and was going into such detail that I am sure it took all of Sophia’s patience to seem interested.

  ‘And so we thought they had better marry at once, and make the best of it, as many others have done before them. At any rate, said I, it will be better than a long engagement,’ finished Mrs Musgrove.

  ‘That is precisely what I was going to observe,’ said my sister. ‘I would rather have young people settle on a small income at once, and have to struggle with a few difficulties together, than be involved in a long engagement. I always think that no mutual—’

  I no longer heard her for I had to pay attention to my letter, but when I had come to the end of it, Sophia was still abominating long engagements.

  I sanded the letter, and as I did so Harville left his seat, moved to the window, and invited Anne to join him with a smile. They had moved so close to me that I could not help overhearing what was being said.

  ‘Look here,’ he began, unfolding a parcel in his hand, and displaying a small miniature painting, ‘do you know who that is?’

  Anne took it and looked at it, and declared it to be Captain Benwick.

  He agreed, and said it was for Louisa.

  ‘But,’ he went on sadly, ‘it was not done for her. It was drawn at the Cape, in compliance with a promise to my poor sister, and he was bringing it home for her. And I have now the charge of getting it properly set for another! It was a commission to me! But who else was there to employ? I hope I can allow for him. I am not sorry, indeed, to make it over to another. He undertakes it,’ he said, looking at me and referring to the letter I was engaged upon. ‘He is writing about it now.’ His voice dropped. ‘Poor Fanny! she would not have forgotten him so soon!’

  ‘No,’ replied Anne, in a low, fe
eling voice, ‘that, I can easily believe.’

  Her ready sympathy won Harville’s gratitude. I, too, was grateful to her, for giving solace to Harville’s spirits.

  ‘It was not in her nature,’ he said, drawn on by Anne’s manner. ‘She doted on him.’

  ‘It would not be the nature of any woman who truly loved,’ said Anne.

  I started, and I was glad at that moment that there was no one near enough to see it. Could I believe what I was hearing? Could Anne really be saying that a woman who truly loved would never forget a man so soon? And could she mean something by it? For I thought she glanced in my direction. Did she mean that she had not forgotten me? I felt my hopes stir—and then sink. The two cases were not alike. Fanny had been dead for less than a year, but Anne and I had been separated for eight years. That was a difference in time indeed.

  Even so, I strained to hear what she would say next, for I felt sure there was more to her words than Harville could know, and my every nerve was on fire. I glanced at her, too, in the mirror that hung over the table, so that I could catch her expression. Next to her, I saw Harville smile and shake his head.

  Anne spoke out more decidedly.

  ‘We certainly do not forget you so soon as you forget us,’ she told him. ‘It is, perhaps, our fate rather than our merit. We cannot help ourselves. We live at home, quiet, confined, and our feelings prey upon us. You are forced on exertion. You have always a profession, pursuits, business of some sort or other, to take you back into the world immediately, and continual occupation and change soon weaken impressions.’

  Is that what she thought? I wondered. Did she believe that occupation and exertion had weakened my impressions? That I had forgotten her in the press of other concerns?

  It was a new idea to me, and one that troubled me greatly.

  ‘Granting your assertion that the world does all this so soon for men (which, however, I do not think I shall grant),’ said Harville, his words putting new heart in me, for he was speaking up for all men, ‘it does not apply to Benwick. He has not been forced upon any exertion. The peace turned him on shore at the very moment, and he has been living with us, in our little family circle, ever since.’

  ‘True,’ said Anne, ‘very true; I did not recollect; but what shall we say now, Captain Harville? If the change be not from outward circumstances, it must be from within; it must be nature, man’s nature, which has done the business for Captain Benwick.’

  I longed to speak but I could not, for I feared what I would say; that I would blurt out my feelings before everyone, astonishing them with the fervour of my passion.

  ‘No, no, it is not man’s nature,’ said Harville. ‘I will not allow it to be more man’s nature than woman’s to be inconstant and forget those they do love, or have loved. I believe the reverse. I believe in a true analogy between our bodily frames and our mental; and that as our bodies are the strongest, so are our feelings; capable of bearing most rough usage, and riding out the heaviest weather.’

  ‘Your feelings may be the strongest,’ replied Anne, ‘but the same spirit of analogy will authorize me to assert that ours are the most tender. You are always labouring and toiling, exposed to every risk and hardship. Your home, country, friends, all quitted. Neither time, nor health, nor life, to be called your own. It would be too hard, indeed, if woman’s feelings were to be added to all this.’

  As she spoke, she faltered, overcome with emotion, and I dropped my pen on the floor, so agitated was I, and nearly bursting with all I wanted to say.

  ‘Have you finished your letter?’ Harville asked me, his attention attracted by the noise.

  I was about to admit that I had when an idea occurred to me, and saying, ‘Not quite, a few lines more. I shall have done in five minutes,’ I pulled another sheet of paper towards me, picked up my pen, dipped it in the ink, and began to write. My pen scrawled across the paper in my haste as my feelings poured out of me.

  I can listen no longer in silence. I must speak to you by such means as are within my reach. You pierce my soul. I am half agony, half hope. Tell me not that I am too late, that such precious feelings are gone forever.

  And as I wrote, I heard more and more words that almost overpowered me.

  ‘I do not think I ever opened a book in my life which had not something to say upon woman’s inconstancy. Songs and proverbs, all talk of woman’s fickleness. But perhaps, you will say, these were all written by men,’ Harville was saying.

  ‘Perhaps I shall,’ said Anne. ‘Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story. I will not allow books to prove anything.’

  Men have had every advantage of us in telling their own story, I thought. And I was determined to tell Anne mine:

  I offer myself to you again with a heart even more your own than when you almost broke it, eight years and a half ago. Dare not say that man forgets sooner than woman, that his love has an earlier death. I have loved none but you.

  ‘But how shall we prove anything?’ Harville asked.

  ‘We never shall,’ admitted Anne. ‘We each begin, probably, with a little bias towards our own sex; and upon that bias build every circumstance in favour of it which has occurred within our own circle; many of which circumstances (perhaps those very cases which strike us the most) may be precisely such as cannot be brought forward without betraying a confidence, or, in some respect, saying what should not be said.’

  With every word, I was more and more convinced that she had not forgotten me, that she loved me still, for what else could her talk about betraying a confidence mean?

  Unjust I may have been, weak and resentful I have been, but never inconstant. You alone have brought me to Bath. For you alone I think and plan. Have you not seen this? Can you fail to have understood my wishes?

  ‘Ah! if I could but make you comprehend what a man suffers when he takes a last look at his wife and children, and watches the boat that he has sent them off in, as long as it is in sight, and then turns away and says, ‘ “God knows whether we ever meet again!”’ said Harville.

  ‘Oh! I hope I do justice to all that is felt by you, and by those who resemble you. God forbid that I should undervalue the warm and faithful feelings of any of my fellow-creatures! I should deserve utter contempt if I dared to suppose that true attachment and constancy were known only by woman,’ said Anne.

  Then she knew that men could be constant! And, knowing it, must know that I could be constant, too!

  My pen responded to her, as my voice, at the present time, could not:

  I had not waited even these ten days, could I have read your feelings, as I think you must have penetrated mine. I can hardly write. I am every instant hearing something which overpowers me. You sink your voice, but I can distinguish the tones of that voice when they would be lost on others. Too good, too excellent creature! You do us justice, indeed. You do believe that there is true attachment and constancy among men. Believe it to be most fervent, most undeviating, in F. W.

  I was about to put down my pen when I realized that Anne was still speaking.

  ‘I believe you capable of everything great and good in your married lives,’ she said. ‘I believe you equal to every important exertion, and to every domestic forbearance, so long as—if I may be allowed the expression, so long as you have an object. I mean while the woman you love lives, and lives for you. All the privilege I claim for my own sex (it is not a very enviable one: you need not covet it), is that of loving longest, when existence or when hope is gone!’

  Is that what she thought? That she loved longest when hope was gone? Nay, for I would love her forever, with or without hope.

  ‘You are a good soul,’ said Harville affectionately.

  A good soul, indeed.