I first met her at a local assembly and paid no attention to her, thinking her, quite rightly, beneath my notice. But the more I came to know her, the more I came to be intrigued by her, for her quick wits and lively intelligence stimulated me and made me want to know more of her. I began to seek her out, enticed by her conversation, which gleamed like a vein of gold amidst the dull talk and endless flattery of everyone else around me.
I found myself looking forward to seeing her and I started each day by wondering when and where we would encounter each other. My pulses quickened and the blood ran more swiftly in my veins whenever she entered a room. I was alert, where usually I am bored. I was further attracted by the fact that she was not in awe of my wealth or my position and that she treated me as she would anyone else. She was constantly challenging me, making no allowances for my name or fortune, in fact she seemed to delight in teasing me and tormenting me. She had a way of looking at me, as if daring me to cross swords with her, which fascinated me; it called forth all my instincts, base and otherwise, and made me so far in danger of forgetting myself that on more than one occasion I was tempted to kiss her. I did not do it, of course, but the urge grew stronger and stronger, and the energy I needed to resist was becoming more and more powerful, until I felt that I was in some danger from her.
I knew the remedy: to avoid her. But by some unlucky chance her sister became ill whilst visiting Bingley, and when Elizabeth called to see her sister, Bingley invited her to stay. I was thrown more and more into company with her and it was not long before I had to admit to myself that I was at risk of being overwhelmed by my feelings entirely. Where I had once thought she had not one good feature in her face, I found myself thinking her uncommonly pretty, with a pair of fine eyes which, when she teased me, sparkled. And tease me she did. What is more, I looked forward to it.
But I was still not lost, at that time. I recognised my weakness and I attempted to control it by putting her in her place, to remind her—as well as myself—that she was beneath me. But every attempt I made failed. When I asked her if she wanted to dance a reel, she saw at once what I was about, and knew that I wanted her to admit to liking the unrefined dance. So instead she outwitted me, replying that if she said yes I would despise her taste, so she would refuse—then challenged me to despise her if I dared. And indeed I did not dare! Or, rather, I did not want to, for she had outmanoeuvred me and I felt nothing but admiration for her.
I was still enough the master of my feelings to resist her charms, however, and to force myself to avoid her whenever I felt it necessary. But the pull towards her was so strong that when Bingley left Netherfield Park for a few days to attend to business in town, I followed him. I gave as my reason my concern for his attachment to an unsuitable woman; but I was just as concerned, if not more so, about my own unsuitable attachment. I encouraged him to remain in town, away from the object of his affections—and away from mine. I was sure that, with no reason to return to the neighbourhood, I would soon forget her. And for a time it seemed that I was right. Back in my own world, I saw the folly of becoming entangled with someone from such a low level in life. I knew that she would never be able to fit in with my kind; that, in short, it would never lead to anything but disaster.
And so I occupied myself with business and friends and family, taking myself off to Cumbria and surrounding myself with people I knew. But thoughts of her would intrude at the most inopportune moments and I found myself comparing every other young woman I met to her—unfavourably, I might add. None of them had her playful disposition or her lack of deference or her complete unconcern for my position, my wealth, or indeed anything else that young women usually court.
How things would have turned out if I had not visited Rosings I do not know, but the fact of the matter is that I did visit Rosings—indeed, I am still here—and by some unlucky chance she was here also.
I never thought to meet her in Kent, but her friend had lately married the rector of Hunsford and Elizabeth is visiting her friend. There! I have said her name. It is a name which haunts me and plagues me and delights me and gives me no peace.
Elizabeth.
Elizabeth, Elizabeth, Elizabeth.
It seems folly to me now, but when I first found out she was here, I thought it would be a useful test of my resolve. I flattered myself that I was no longer in any danger from her, but the more I see of her, the more I find it impossible to resist her. I find myself drawn to her as if to a magnet whenever she dines with us; and when she does not cross my path by accident, I walk in the park, following her favourite routes in the hope of seeing her. If she is not to be met with in the park, my feet turn of their own accord towards the parsonage, where I know I will find her. The other day I went in, even though I knew her friend to be away from home, and almost found myself proposing to her.
It is madness! The inferiority of her family, who are small country gentry; the wild behaviour of her younger sisters, who spend their time flirting with the officers stationed nearby their home; the vulgarity of her mother; the irresponsible nature of her father; the family’s lack of connections or fortune; all of these things make it impossible. It would degrade me to marry her. I would be laughed at by all my friends, jeered at by my enemies and pitied by all. I could never possibly marry her. And yet—and yet I cannot keep away from her. The lightness of her spirits, her humour, her arch smile, her teasing, her eyes—oh! Philip, her eyes! which sparkle when she teases me and show she knows her power over me—all these things drive me to distraction.
I can tell no one but you. You know my character, you know how proud and disdainful I am, but against my better judgement I have been enraptured by her. It is out of the question for me to marry her; out of the question to make her my mistress.
I would leave if I could, but if I go now it will look particular and that is something I very much want to avoid. I do not know what to do.
Your beleaguered cousin,
Darcy
Mr Philip Darcy to Mr Darcy
London, April 21
Darcy, leave at once. Make some excuse and go today, this minute, never mind if it looks particular, it will soon be forgotten. Do not linger another moment. This kind of fever is virulent and the only thing that can control it is a prolonged absence from its source. Have your valet pack your things and meet me in London straightaway. If you stay, you will regret it.
PD
Mr Darcy to Mr Philip Darcy
Rosings Park, Kent, April 22
Philip, your letter arrived too late. I have proposed. I never meant to. I was in a ferment of passion, I did not know what I was doing. I was looking forward to seeing her, for she was engaged to drink tea with my aunt, and I was surprised and humiliated at the bitterness of my disappointment when she did not attend. She had a headache, her friend said. I wondered what could have occasioned it; I wondered how bad it was; I wondered if she needed a physician. I could not ask without it causing interest and so I said nothing, but excusing myself on account of a letter which I said needed an urgent reply, I bent my steps to the parsonage and before I knew what I was doing I was inside.
I do not know what possessed me, but possessed I was. I enquired after her health in a hurried manner and she replied coldly, not pleased to see me. Her manner only inflamed me more. I sat down in an effort to collect myself but my passions rose within me like a volcano and I believe it would have killed me to keep them in. They erupted from me as I told her that in vain had I struggled, but that I ardently loved and admired her.
Once started, I could not stop. I poured out my feelings: my horror at the behaviour of her family, the inferiority of her station in life, and the degradation it would be for me to marry her; but that, despite all this, I could not root out my feelings, that they were impossible to conquer, and I expressed my hope that she would accept my hand in marriage.
I did not doubt she would accept me and I was resentful even as I waited for her answer—resentful because she had brought me to this pass, resentful that she h
ad taken control of my thoughts and feelings and reduced me to a state of helplessness—but that was nothing compared with the feelings I had when she rejected me. Can you credit it? I confess that I cannot. It is incredible to me. I am still smarting with the humiliation of it. To be rejected by anyone—I, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley—is inconceivable. And yet to be rejected by Elizabeth Bennet, who is no one from nowhere, and who should have been honoured I even noticed her, let alone proposed to her? The thing is incredible. And all because I listed the scruples that had long kept me from forming any previous proposal. Had I flattered her into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination, by reason, by reflection, by everything, then I am convinced she would have accepted me, whatever she might say. But disguise is my abhorrence and I made no scruple of my struggles. And how did she repay this honesty? With contempt, telling me that she had never sought my good opinion, never wanted it and had no difficulty, in short, of throwing my proposal back in my face.
It has done one thing for me, however. It has cured me of my feelings for her. I am only now ashamed of what those feelings have been. I pray you will never mention this to anyone, not even to me. I have only to answer the remarks she threw at me in her refusal, and then I have done with her. An encounter would not be wise for either of us, but a letter—yes, a letter will show her how wrong she has been.
I am looking forward to seeing you again. Tell me you will be in London for the Season. I myself will be there. I cannot leave Rosings soon enough. I am now ashamed of myself for ever having thought well of her, for being attracted to her and—above all—for proposing to her. This unfortunate affair is over. Once I have placed the letter into her hands, I hope I never see Elizabeth Bennet again.
Darcy
Miss Elizabeth Bennet to Miss Susan Sotherton
Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent,
April 22
I scarcely know where to begin…I cannot believe…and yet, did not Charlotte always say…But how was I to know, how to think she was right? Of all men, Mr Darcy! And yet there is no doubting it now. Oh! That man! How right my mother was to call him so! To come here and…but I must tell you all.
You know that Mr Darcy is here. He has visited us constantly and I never knew why. I laughed at Charlotte when she said he came for me, for his attentions were certainly not loverlike; indeed, when he called here one day and found me alone, he scarcely opened his mouth. But now…
I was unwell, a headache—caused by Mr Darcy, for I had discovered he played a role in separating Bingley from Jane; Colonel Fitzwilliam told me so—and so I stayed at the parsonage when Charlotte, Maria and Mr Collins went to Rosings for tea. I read Jane’s letters again, mourning her lack of cheerfulness and the knowledge that Mr Darcy was the cause, when the doorbell rang. Thinking it might be Colonel Fitzwilliam come to ask after me, I put the letters aside, but what was my astonishment when Mr Darcy walked in!
You will readily imagine my feelings: he was the last man in the world I wanted to see. I could not understand what he was about. He asked after my health, but seemed to be labouring under some heavy burden, and then he burst out, saying that he admired me and loved me! I have never been so astonished in all my life. I thought he had run mad, or else had taken too much wine. But it soon became apparent that he was perfectly sane and sober, for he strode around the room and told me that I was beneath him, that my family were in every way reprehensible, that it would be an insult to his own relations, but that he was determined to marry me!
My moment of feeling flattered—for who could be insensible to the compliment of a proposal from such a man?—swiftly passed, to be replaced by anger, mortification and contempt, and I roundly rejected him. He started; he had not expected it. He thought I would fall at his feet and thank him for his condescension, which shows how little he knows me! And then he asked why he was rejected with so little civility! When he had spent ten minutes roundly abusing my parents, my sisters, my station in life and his own wayward feelings!
You may be sure I answered him in kind, asking him why he had couched his proposal in such insulting terms. But I could not wait for his answer, for my feelings against him were such that they had to be given voice. I told him that I could never marry a man who had ruined my sister’s happiness, and he changed colour, which removed every last shred of doubt in my mind that he was indeed the person responsible. He did not apologise, as might have been expected, but said only that he had been kinder to Bingley than to himself. This civil reflection did not do anything to lessen my anger, as you may imagine, and I set about him for his cruel and inhuman treatment of George Wickham. And what was his reaction? Shame for his misdeeds? Not a bit of it! He waved them aside and declared that I had only rejected him because he had not flattered me enough!
Why do men find it so hard to understand that we will not fall at their feet if they ask us to marry them? I am beginning to think that they are all either too stupid or too arrogant to see that we are not all eager to spend the rest of our lives with cruelty or pride; that we might draw back from trusting our future happiness to a man who has shown no interest in our feelings, but only in his own needs and desires.
I dare tell no one else of this proposal. I would tell Jane—how I miss her!—but I would then have to reveal that Mr Darcy interfered in her affairs, and I do not want to reopen that wound. I cannot tell any other member of my family. Can you imagine what Mama would say if she knew? And what she would say if she knew that I had refused him? She would not speak to me when I refused Mr Collins, and what is Mr Collins to Mr Darcy? She would no doubt banish me from the country if she knew I had denied her the right of visiting Pemberley and the opportunity to talk of it constantly to Lady Lucas!
Neither can I tell Charlotte, for she would certainly counsel me to marry him. She has been advising me to encourage him since almost the first moment I laid eyes on him, and I do not want to hear any arguments in his favour. I am still boiling with anger.
I am not even certain enough of my aunt to confide in her, for she would ask me if I refused Mr Darcy on account of Mr Wickham, and I would not know how to reply; for although I would have refused Mr Darcy even if I had never met Mr Wickham, I cannot deny that it gave added anger to my rejection of him.
Thank goodness I have you, Susan.
You must promise to tell no one of this. I hereby swear you to secrecy.
How I am longing to see you again. Is there any chance of you coming to Meryton, even for a few days? For I am afraid there is no chance at all of me coming to Bath.
And now I must go and bathe my face, for I was so angry that, once Mr Darcy left, I sat down and cried for half an hour. I can scarcely believe it even now, that he should have proposed to me; that he should have been in love with me for months without my knowing it; that he should wish to marry me, despite all his objections to the match. In another man it would have been gratifying indeed. But his pride! His abominable pride, his shameless avowal of the part he played in Jane’s unhappiness and the unfeeling manner in which he mentioned Mr Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he did not even attempt to deny! No, I do not regret my decision, quite the reverse.
But already I hear the sound of the carriage. I am not equal to facing Charlotte. She is sure to tell that something is wrong and I cannot face her like this, with my face streaked and my eyes no doubt swollen.
Write to me soon. Tell me how you go on in Bath, where life is normal and no impossible men seek to disturb you.
For now, adieu,
Lizzy
Miss Susan Sotherton to Miss Elizabeth Bennet
Bath, April 23
How cruel, Lizzy, to confide in me and then swear me to secrecy, for with such a secret I could amaze the whole of Bath! Mr Darcy in love with my Lizzy! Though it does not surprise me, for you know I love you and so how can I be amazed when you are loved by someone else? It shows that, if nothing else, Mr Darcy has some sense, even if he has no manners and is evidently in need of some lessons
in humility.
How I longed to say something when your letter arrived, for several ladies arrived a few moments later as they paid a morning call. Miss Violet Cranmore launched into her favourite topic at once—well, almost her favourite topic, for her favourite topic is herself—but her second favourite topic, then, of Caroline Bingley, and Caroline’s attempts to win Mr Darcy. They were at the seminary together and hate each other, it is plain to see.
‘Caroline’s efforts are pitiful,’ said Violet. ‘She keeps writing to me and telling me how important she is to him, but everyone knows Mr Darcy will never marry beneath him. He is as good as betrothed to Miss Anne de Bourgh.’
I wanted to smile sweetly and say that, actually, Mr Darcy had no intention of marrying Miss de Bourgh; that he was in love with my friend and that he had just proposed marriage to her.
Oh, how I wish you had accepted! Not really, of course, I could not bear to see you marry a man you do not love. But if you could have loved him, what fun it would have been to see her face, and the face of her superior mama, for they both of them look down on me. They are annoyed that I have caught Mr Wainwright, who has a handsome fortune, far larger than that of Violet’s intended.
Have you told Charlotte yet? Do you think you ever will? And what about Jane? She will want to know, even if it hurts her to begin with, I am sure of it. And anyway, there is no need to tell her that Mr Darcy interfered in her own life, only that he proposed to you. When will you be seeing her again? It is so exciting. And that is always the way of things; either there is nothing to tell, but one has perfect liberty to tell it, or something so momentous it would rock everyone, but one is unable to breathe a word!
Write to me soon, dearest, you know you can tell me anything, and I promise faithfully to keep your confidence, whatever it costs me!
Your loving friend,
Susan
Miss Elizabeth Bennet to Miss Susan Sotherton
Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent,
April 23