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Mr. Bingley was exactly the sort of husband Elizabeth had wanted for Jane: doting, attentive, and delighted by nearly everything Jane did, from the way she stepped out of a carriage, to the colors with which she chose to trim her gown. Mr. Bingley credited his wife with every private virtue and every public excellency. He wished all the world to know of the perfections of Jane Bingley (née Bennet).
To this end, Jane's portrait must be painted.
His friends (and his sisters most particularly) believed this to be a passing fancy, but Mr. Bingley pursued it with the alacrity he had always possessed and a newer resoluteness that surprised those who did not know Jane well. Within a fortnight of his expressing the wish, he had settled on François Hüet Villiers as the artist and was in talks with that gentleman on whether or not Mrs. Bingley’s portrait would be full-length or half, and in what attitude and with what background.
“Those who dismissed it as a passing fancy were at a disadvantage,” Elizabeth teased her own husband, who had had his doubts as to whether or not Mr. Bingley’s wish and Mrs. Bingley’s desire to indulge him would result in any tangible object. “They did not know, as I do, the firmness of Jane’s character. She is immovable when she feels herself to be right.”
“And so she thinks it is right to have her portrait painted? Her desire to oblige Bingley scarcely seemed to win over her modesty the last time we dined with them.”
“That is true,” Elizabeth conceded, “but in the best marriages there is a melding of character. Jane has always been reserved, but Bingley has made her manners more open and inviting by example and in the great happiness he has given her, as well as the security that happiness brings. Mr. Bingley has a ductility of temper that some in our circles used to persuade him–” Darcy looked conscious, but a smile still hovered about his handsome mouth (Elizabeth delighted in seeing how he was becoming accustomed to being teased) “—but Jane has made him more resolute by example, and in the daily proof she provides of the correctness of his own judgment in choosing her to be his life partner.”
“And therefore your argument is that Bingley felt a portrait to be right and would not move until his objective had been achieved.”
“Precisely!”
“Although,” said Darcy, “you have not taken into account the feelings, habits, and character of the other party in this equation: the artist himself.”
Elizabeth laughed. “And what can there be said as to his part?”
“You do not think his desire for a handsome commission from as liberal-handed a patron as Bingley has played a greater part in the creation of this portrait than the wishes of either Bingley?”
“You may as well credit his sense of artistry, for I am fully convinced that any painter who sees my sister would accept any commission so long as they could trace her profile. There cannot be many women with the symmetry and sweetness of feature as Jane. If you will assign the creation of the portrait not to the willingness and determination of the sitter to bring pleasure to the man she loves most in the world, or the desire of that man and his determination to see the project through, but to the artist himself–”
“I should think an artist would prefer a challenge.”
Elizabeth laughed again at that. “His pride as an artist is a greater source of motivation than the perfection of his subject? Well! A gentleman of my acquaintance did once say that pride, under good regulation, is not necessarily a weakness of character.”
She had only begun to realize how much Darcy delighted in debate, how much he liked to refine a point against the sharpness of her wit, to trade and commingle ideas and so toss them about that the chaff had been winnowed thoroughly from grain; and so she indulged him in this to the point where the two of them went to see Monsieur Villiers themselves.
Darcy seemed to be in a playful mood, for all that he acted with his usual dignity and well-bred reserve, for he set Monsieur Villiers a challenge rather than expressing the desire for a portrait of his wife outright: “I am not convinced even an artist of your skill could capture the expression of Mrs. Darcy’s fine eyes, for all that their shape and color could be copied.”
Elizabeth was both amused and pleased by this piece of gallantry, though Monsieur Villiers was almost offended, and stiffly begged leave to try, for Mr. Bingley was already in raptures over the portrait of Mrs. Bingley. Even unfinished, one could see Monsieur Villiers’ skill. There was Jane, exactly herself– size, shaped features, and sweetness. From the curl of her golden hair to the green trimmings of her gown, there was no mistaking his fair subject.
Darcy allowed himself to be convinced by this proof. He commissioned Elizabeth’s portrait.
Elizabeth had less modesty than Jane (though, she reflected darkly to herself, much more than Lydia) and while she had made great strides in correcting for her vanity, she had not eradicated it entirely. It appealed very much to her vanity to know her husband thought her worthy of a portrait. She needed very little persuasion to sit for Monsieur Villiers.
There was, too, the fact that Jane had done it first, and Mrs. Bennet had once said of her two eldest daughters that, as children, if Jane’s head had been going to be cut off, Elizabeth would have hers cut off too.
It was not merely vanity or not wishing to be behindhand with anything Jane had done, however; there was very great pleasure in drawing out the debate with Darcy and seeing his delight in the finished product– and greater pleasure still in his saying, “I did not think it could be done, but you have accomplished it, Monsieur Villiers– you have captured Mrs. Darcy perfectly.”
“I will be submitting Mrs. Bingley’s portrait to an exhibition in the Spring Gardens,” said Monsieur Villiers, puffed up with professional and personal pride. “It would give me great pleasure to submit Mrs. Darcy’s as well, and have the two sisters hanging side-by-side–”
“At a public exhibition?” Darcy asked, alarmed. “Certainly not.”
Monsieur Villiers could not hide his disappointment.
Elizabeth was so flattered by this, that at that moment, anyone who asked her about him would meet with her fervent declaration that Monsieur Villiers was the best artist of the century.
“I suppose sir,” said Monsieur Villiers, with a sigh, “that you wish instead to add the portrait to your gallery at Pemberley.”
“I do,” said Darcy. “Any portrait of the mistress of Pemberley belongs there, not in any public place.”
He glanced at Elizabeth with a smile of love, pride, and delicacy mingled, which Elizabeth did not quite understand but none-the-less appreciated. She had not been married long enough to become accustomed to any of these quiet shows of particular regard, or the reminder that she belonged with all else he loved, or still less—
—that she was a source of pride to him.