Confessions and Correspondence: Elizabeth Writes in Her Journal

Welcome to our epistolary retelling of Pride & Prejudice! Jane Austen’s original version of the story, First Impressions, was told entirely in letters, so it seemed like a great group project. We’ll be posting a new letter every Wednesday. 

Elizabeth Bennet’s Journal

Hunsford: April 15, 1811

I will soon take my leave of Hunsford, but will Hunsford ever take its leave of me?

Surely I will forget this desk, those curtains, the prospect from this window. I certainly hope to forget the curtains, or at least their color, which Mr. Collins calls ochre and I call disagreeable.

But then, who am I to call anything, or anyone, disagreeable? Have not the past months shown Mr. Collins, for all his buffoonery, to be the more sensible of us? Let him decorate all of Longbourn with ochre, when that dreaded day comes! At least he had the good sense to recognize Charlotte as a true and worthy partner, whereas I—

No. Do not let your thoughts travel there, Lizzy.

As for showing good sense, my cousin did propose to me first, so I suppose Mr. Collins to be my equal, at least when it comes to being blind and foolish.

I doubt there are ochre curtains at Pemberley.

Oh, what is Pemberley to me? I do not regret my refusal of — . I cannot. When he stood before me in this parlor, at that very mantel-piece, next to these ugly ochre curtains, I believed him to have destroyed the happiness of both Jane and Mr. W—

I refuse to write his name. Indeed, both men are forthwith banned from these pages!

Such a statement is unjust to Mr. Darcy. I was unjust to Mr. Darcy. I do not regret refusing him, but I do regret—will always regret—the manner in which I refused him.

No, Hunsford will never take its leave of me. I will carry this place with me always, and when I think of it, I will taste the bitterness of those words I threw so carelessly his way, as if I had no capacity to wound him.

He is proud; he can be disagreeable; he has hurt Jane. Such facts are unaltered by what happened here.

And yet, when I think back to that rainy evening, just before he left the parlor, I cannot but recall how his eyes closed, how his throat convulsed, how he appeared, just for a moment, as if he were in pain. I did not notice such details then, and so I may be imagining them now. Indeed, I must be imagining them, and yet—

Those words, those words! Could I but excise them from my memory! How could he, of all people, admire and love me? Did he truly say “ardently”? I must be imagining that, as well.

He cannot have meant it. He was out of his mind, or in his cups, or—

No, I am at least sure of this: he was as sober and grave as always.

But he was not always grave. There was that day, at Rosings, when he stood by the pianoforte as I played. The way he smiled at me then, that comment about not performing to strangers—

Oh, good God. He loves me! Rather, he loved me.

He must be so glad of his escape! Yes, I am certain of that. How ashamed he was of connecting himself to my family. The words he used to describe my sisters, my mother—my father! Whatever truth there may be in his assessment of them, to speak of them in such a way, at such a time—incredible! He would have abhorred consorting with them, and I could never have—

Well, there was no question of my accepting him, whatever words he used to pay his addresses. But to propose in spite of his great reservations, to be willing to form such a connection, against his own pride, to admire and love me, ardently—

I must not torment myself! It does neither of us any good. If I have hurt him—you have hurt him, Lizzy—then wallowing will bring him no solace. Wallowing certainly cannot help me. Indeed, thinking too much of him—of those words, his smile, the intensity of his gaze—no. Such thoughts are dangerous, not because I may find myself hoping for an impossible renewal of his affections. No, most certainly not! I do not know him!

It is obvious I do not know him. I have never been more wrong about a man—about a pair of men—in my life. When I think of what he must have endured, discovering that cad’s plan to elope with his sister—Oh! The poor man!

No, he is not a poor man, nor is one to be pitied. He would not appreciate such feelings, I am sure.

But then, what do I know?

I at least know this: to dwell on his proposal is to spur my vanity, and have I not learned that vanity is, and always will be, one of my worst sins?

All my life, I have considered my younger sisters and mother as our family’s experts in vanity: Lydia, with her bonnets and flirtations; Kitty, with her dependence on Lydia’s approval; Mary and her desperate need to be admired; Mama’s ambitions to marry us to wealthy men, not for our sakes but for hers.

I used to think my father, Jane, and I had risen above such pettiness, but now I wonder—not about Jane, never about Jane. But my father’s cleverness and my wit—are they not also forms of vanity? Do they not lead us to think ourselves superior to the people around us?

Am I really any different from Mr. Darcy, or the Mr. Darcy I supposed I knew? My arrogance, my conceit, my selfish disdain for the feelings of others!

If he loves me—if he loved me—he did so blindly. He and I both believed Elizabeth Bennet to be better than she is.

So if I am to think of him, I must not dwell on those words of love. I will think of him as he is: a proud man, yes—and one who holds truth above flattery; a disagreeable man (certainly at assemblies)—and one who dearly loves his sister; a man who has hurt my sister, true—but one who is loyal to his friend.

An imperfect man—and a very good one, too. I may never see him again, but if I do, I hope I am able to return those sentiments he so kindly offered in his letter.

God bless you, Mr. Darcy.  May you find happiness, for you dearly deserve it.

Read all the letters from Confessions & Correspondence here!