Chapter 6: My Friend Bingley
Bingley began attending Cambridge my last year, a few months before my father died. I was vaguely aware of his presence. It was hard to miss someone who seems jovial most of the time and has blond hair so light as to be almost white, though I do not know that we had ever exchanged words, but for a quick apology he gave me when he almost collided with me after turning a corner.
So, it was a bit odd when he approached me one day as I was leaving a class. "Excuse me," I kept walking. "Wait!" he was now jogging by my side to keep up with me. Still, I did not think he was addressing me, or pretended that he was not. I kept my eyes firmly fixed forward until he said, "Mr. Darcy, wait!"
I stopped and looked at him, perplexed as to what he could want with me. I had made it clear enough that I did not want friends, and no one asked me to do anything with them anymore.
"What?" My word was precise and did not encourage any unnecessary discourse. I let my eyes drift away from him and to the wall above him, only half seeing him.
"Mr. Darcy, Professor Hanson said I should come talk to you." I waited and that must have been encouragement enough as he added, "I am having trouble with history and he told me that you could help me."
I had excelled in the class when I had taken it earlier, but no other gentleman had ever approached me for assistance before. I wondered if it was a ploy, another trick, but became convinced when he showed me his paper, blotted and incomprehensible, along with a note from Professor Hanson.
We made arrangements to meet later. I decided we would meet in my room, as I would feel better being there, but then as I waited for him, I wondered if this was the best location. I had selected it so that if this was a trick I could avoid being pranked, but I also was not sure I wanted to let someone into the place where I felt most safe.
Bingley arrived promptly and I helped him with his work. When we finished, he did not rush off as I expected, hoped.
Instead, he leaned back in his chair and said, "Finally we are done and can have a bit of fun." Then he sat back up and asked me, "Now, how is it that I never see you out with the other fellows?"
At first, I was very guarded. I shrugged and said nothing.
But he persisted, "Tell me, just who are you, Darcy," (at some point he had dropped the "Mr." and started just addressing me by my surname as most men at university do, though up until this point most everyone still called me Mr. Darcy, except George who still insisted on calling me that retched nickname) "and what do you like doing?"
"I enjoy my studies." I stared at the wall as I answered.
"Come now, there must be something else you like doing. What is it?"
Again, I shrugged. Why would he just not leave? My eyes drifted over to him. Now he was sitting forward, his arms on the table, his dark pupils fixed on me. I noticed then that his irises were a pale blue, and his left sideburn was a bit longer than his right. He kept waiting.
Realizing perhaps that I had no intention of saying anything more, he asked additional questions. I continued to give him as little as possible. Seeing my discomfort, I suppose, he began to talk about himself.
"My family hales from Scarborough originally and I still have cousins there. It is well known that Father made his money in trade, though he is divested now. Many of our fellow students do not think I belong at Cambridge; I am constantly dismissed for being who I am and where I came from. Perhaps I should have told you about this before you helped me today, but I really needed the help. If this is a problem for you, though, I will leave now and not ask for your help again."
I almost told him to go then, not because he was not a gentleman, but because I simply wanted him gone, would have wanted anyone gone. My silence must have been encouragement enough, though, for him to continue to talk.
He told me, "My father built carriages; my uncle still designs and repairs clocks. My father's back was bent from an accident he had when a small child working at a job meant for someone larger. Perhaps it was in fact a blessing, an opportunity, as when he healed as much as he was able, he found that his brains were more important than his brawn."
We talked long into the evening, or Bingley, rather, mostly talked and I listened. I found myself to be interested, despite myself, although the only questions I think I asked were about how carriages were put together, but he could not really answer those well because as he explained his father had kept him away from the family business as much as possible.
I learned his entire family history starting with his grandparents. Bingley's grandfather began his career repairing carriages but quickly concluded he could design them better than they were. He had been saving to open his own shop when his son was injured. Then he had even more motivation to build something which would provide income for his son. He trained his son to understand every aspect of the business and improve it where he could.
Bingley's father rose to direct most of the work, solving the problems others could not. Bingley wanted to join his father in that line, but Bingley senior chose instead to leave the trade as he wanted his son to have more respect than he did and eventually sold the business to his uncle.
He told me, "I know Father did this for me and my sisters, to advance us in this world, but I was still proud to be my father's son while he was yet in trade."
When he left that evening, Bingley told me, "You are a good listener. I have enjoyed our time together."
I only nodded and bid him, "Good night."
Bingley surprised me by arriving on my doorstep two days later. I invited him in, setting aside but not closing a book of maps showing what was known of the dark continent that I was studying (not for a class but for my own amusement) and asking, "What composition do you need help on now?"
He strode right in and waited for me to shut the door before telling me, "I have no work right now. I thought we could talk some more." He paused and added, "I hope I am not disturbing you."
Bingley's visit was unprecedented, and I did not know how to react. I closed the book and then seated myself on my sofa; he took the other end. He said, "I have been thinking about you and wondering, just who is Fitzwilliam Darcy. I must admit I made a few inquiries and while people know of you, who your father is and all that," he waved his hand through the air with a quick flick of his wrist, "no one seems to really know you, except George Wickham, but I cannot match anything he said with the person I met. I really would like to know, who are you? Not who your family is, or what you do at Cambridge, but you yourself, the man."
I was completely unprepared for that question. I told him, "I do not know at all . . . ."
He waited, and then something in me must have recognized that I could trust him given how much he had shared with me previously as without conscious volition, I voiced the following words: "I think something is wrong with me."
He listened as I told him of my trials and how I could not fit in with my cousins or the students at Eton or Cambridge. He kept listening even when I spoke louder and more disjointedly, when I shook when remembering past hurts. I did not tell him all that much that night, but it was enough.
I think this is the occasion when we became more than acquaintances, but instead true friends. I had never had his like, though I knew my mother and sister loved me, they did not choose me (or rather they were stuck with me, though they chose to love me also which was not a requirement I suppose of who I was to them, as I was not sure whether Father had ever truly loved me). While I felt connected to my cousin Edwin, the Earl's son, Edwin also had a family obligation to me. Nurse Storey and Mr. Stowbaugh cared for me, I am certain, but they were paid to do so.
Perhaps others in seeing our closeness would have felt that Bingley was getting something from my status, my family connections, but other than my tutoring, it was I who benefitted, it was he who helped me. He had suggestions for things I could do to ingratiate myself with his set of friends (which was made easier by my seniority and place in life) and encouraged me to engage in activities. He did not try to make me into someone I was not. I began to be invited to proper social outings because he was my friend and I went to some because he smoothed my way, explained me to other people, defended me when needed. He enjoyed more society than I wanted but was also content to come visit me and simply sit in companionable silence with me if that is what I wanted while I stared at my maps.
After months together, Bingley told me I reminded him of his uncle James. "He is not a sociable fellow, but he knows more about clocks than anyone else you could ever meet. No one taught him anything about them, he taught himself. He will not say more than two words about any other subject. There is something in the way you look at most people, not quite in the eyes, that is like him, though he stares more at one's chin. But when you talk about maps or he talks about clocks you are both fully engaged and joyful. I wish I could feel that way about something."
Then he asked me something that no one had ever asked me before: "Why do you like maps so much?" I knew the answer, but it was difficult to explain in words. He let me think and did not rush me.
I considered giving him the full answer, explaining that the lines on the maps were like my worms to me, that I felt safe in being able to trace and master the physical world in such a way, but as I had never told him about my worms and snakes, this would lead to more questions and I feared what he would think of me if he knew. Whereas when I was younger, I had no embarrassment for my fondness of such things, now I knew all too well how unacceptable someone else was likely to find this particular predilection of mine. Instead, I settled for giving Bingley a partial answer, explaining only how my preference for the lines in maps had gradually transformed into a peculiar talent.
I told him "I am not like other people. I think they just see lines. I can feel myself being in the map, experiencing the meanderings of the roads depicted as if I am on them and can remember where to go. When I travel somewhere new by horseback (or on foot) it forms a map in my mind; it builds on whatever map is already there. I never get lost. I remember every twist and turn. The older maps may be wrong, but they are a way of experiencing what others thought about their world. I can layer many maps in my mind to increase the complexity perhaps beyond what another could comprehend. I adjust the flawed maps others create to true maps when I travel and see things for myself. I believe I could make truer maps than we have even now."
"How marvelous!" Bingley told me. "What a wonderful ability and talent!" He smiled and nodded.
I was amazed and pleased that Bingley accepted what I told him, although a little voice in my head also pointed out that he would not have been nearly as accepting if he knew about the string in my pocket, or how much I had played with my worms and snakes as a child, or how much I still desired to do so now.
I also felt an unnamed, good emotion. Later, when I reflected on it, I thought it might be pride, or a sense of self-worth. I liked the feeling even if it was somewhat tainted by the idea that I had not been fully honest with him.
From that time forward, whenever we went someplace (whether I had been there before or not), Bingley let me take the lead. I could tell he had confidence in me. In this one thing at least, who I was, was not something to be ashamed of.
Because Bingley could trust in me, I trusted him with more than I had ever trusted any save for perhaps my mother. But there are things that a man cannot share with his mother, things that he keeps deep inside himself.
This did not mean that suddenly I shared everything with him; I never did tell him about my worms and snakes. But it did mean that later, I shared with him about Miss Wilde.
