At length, the wished for day came. The girls arrived at the ball to find in Mr. Bingley all that was promising: a handsome and amiable man, with happy manners and an engaging countenance. His friend Mr. Darcy was handsomer still, and the room soon filled with half-whispered conversation of his person and its ten thousand a year. Another man, evidently from Town, was talking to them rather loudly. Mr. Trump’s countenance was orange, his manner coarse, accent harsh, and wig ginger. No one could ascertain his income, as the number kept changing at his own report. But the company soon decided that he was the handsomest, upon finding that he possessed several estates, all of them furnished entirely of gold.
Such merit must speak for itself, but it did not speak long. Mr. Trump’s reputation soon suffered even more materially than that of Mr. Darcy, who was merely found proud, taciturn, and unpleasant. Trump’s errors were of a far graver sort. He strolled about the room complimenting no one but himself, was angry with his dance partners when he trod on their feet, and he ate all the little cakes made particularly for the refreshment of the ladies.
Mrs. Bennet soon became as virulent in her dislike of him as she had been in urging her daughters to marry him, Trump having insulted her second eldest daughter, Elizabeth. The number of ladies unfortunately exceeding the number of gentlemen, Elizabeth had sat down without a partner for the third dance.
On seeing her, Trump said, for any one to hear, “You know, ladies love me. They love me. I am ‘uge with women, let me tell you. I am good. They all wanna dance with me and I say, no, not good, stupid. You’re a loser. I’m a winner. I win, it’s what I do. I see a lady sitting down with no partner, like this Elizabeth Bennet, and I say not good, she’s a loser. She’s got blood coming out of her eyes, blood coming out of her everywhere. It’s disgusting. Women, disgusting, losers, believe me.”
“What?” said Darcy.
For Mrs. Bennet the remedy for such dislike was easy. Trump had only to show a decided interest in one of her daughters.
Elfrida was not the most handsome Bennet sister, but she was by far the most devoted Tory. And, against all his public declarations of his refusal to settle with any but a most exotic beauty, Trump seemed in a fair way towards falling violently in love with her. All that remained to seal their union, at least to Mrs. Bennet’s mind, was to invite him to a family dinner.
Accordingly, a date was set, and Trump arrived in state, opening the evening with his compliments to Elfrida’s bosom, and then settling unhappily on the subject of politics.
“The Irish question. You know, it’s not really a question. We govern them, right? And some of them want independence, but some of them come over here and work in our mills. They eat our food. They bring their crime. There’s criminals, rapists, drunks they bring over here,” said Trump.
“Yes!” Elfrida cried, her eyes quite wild, her complexion flushed and feverish. “The Irish are criminals and blackguards! Exactly so—”
“Elfrida,” Elizabeth interrupted, “will you please pass the potatoes?”
“And it’s an easy solution,” continued Trump, “But you got this crooked, phony William Pitt for Prime Minister. And he’s not doing anything about it, and actually he started it. I’d fix it easy. I’d put up a wall, between England and Ireland, keep out the criminals and the losers.”
“Oh yes, quite so! Keep out the losers, keep in the winners. Then we’ll only have winners! How clever you are,” gasped Elfrida, eyes glowing with admiration.
Elizabeth raised her brow archly. “Is not the Irish Sea some impediment to this plan, sir?” she inquired.
“That’s a loser idea, believe me,” he replied. “The wall would be no problem, I can do it. I get things done. I’m a winner, understand? You know, Napoleon, here’s a guy who’s a great leader for his country. He’s a great leader. And French trade is very attracted to me. Let me tell you, Napoleon could build a wall. There’s two guys who could do it: Napoleon and me. But I’ll do it better and it’ll have forty-foot letters on it. The Trump name. In gold. I’m that good.”
“What?” said Mr. Bennet.
It was all as Mrs. Bennet hoped: in three weeks, Trump and Elfrida were married. Everything at the ceremony was draped in gold, from the ornate carriage Trump had commissioned to the elaborate cravat that adorned his person.
Though the wedding ended in a hail of tiny gold figurines in the groom’s likeness, Trump and his bride left the neighbourhood with considerable debts. The workmen, tailor, vicar, and cook for the wedding were left unpaid. It was much to the detriment of his purse, but Mr. Bennet laughed, “He’s a capital man — he will best them all in swaggering falsehoods and gold lace cravats. I challenge any of my neighbours to find such an admirable turnip for a son-in-law. Do you know, I think he took all the children’s bon bons!”
Some years later, Elizabeth and her husband received word that a most surprising candidate was making a bid for parliament. The man was none other than Trump. He ran on a platform to build a wall in the middle of the Irish Sea, and praised Napoleon’s attempts to spy on his Whig competition for the seat.
“What the fuck?” cried Elizabeth.
“Quite,” said Darcy.