Welcome to our epistolary retelling of Pride & Prejudice! Jane Austen’s original version of the story, First Impression, was told entirely in letters, so it seemed like a great group project. We’ll be posting a new letter every Wednesday.
Private Journal of Fitzwilliam Darcy
16 September, Netherfield
Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth,
Be not alarmed: you will never receive this letter, which is, in fact, not a letter but an entry in a journal I keep when I can find no other means of arranging my thoughts. Would you be astonished, or perhaps amused, at the existence of such a book? For my part, I cannot open it without feeling chagrin. My ledgers I may regard with satisfaction, for they are proof of a rational mind and financial acumen. This volume, however, is little more than a repository for unwieldy sentiments and ungovernable thoughts.
I have written in it far too often of late.
As I do not generally write to you when making use of this book, I cannot defend my decision to do so now, certainly not when the rightful recipient of my words sits in his study, awaiting my arrival.
Have a drink with me, Darcy! That is what Bingley said, but what he meant to say was, Let us discuss our dinner at Longbourn. No, what he truly meant to say was, Let us discuss Miss Jane Bennet.
I require a few minutes to myself, I replied, which Bingley probably took to mean, I require the use of a chamber pot, but which in fact meant, I dread the conversation we must have.
Two tumblers of brandy have not made the anticipation any easier to bear. (They have, however, made Bingley’s likely interpretation of my remarks more truthful.)
None of this drunken nonsense—for yes, I am in my cups, Elizabeth—explains why I am writing to you, but I suspect it is because—well, because I am drunk, but also because I require provocation, and there is no person among my acquaintance, indeed no person on this earth, better suited to provoking me than you.
Again, be not alarmed: this letter, which is not a letter, is not actually about you. I will not dwell on what I felt when I saw you at Longbourn tonight. I will not express how much I wished to be sitting next to you at the table (and not simply because I would never, of my own volition, sit next to your mother).
No, I am not concerned with you. Not with your eyes (meeting mine too infrequently, but always with that spirit of inquiry and laughter), nor with your fingers (did they tremble when I handed you my coffee cup?), certainly not with your smile, which you offered me only once, when Bingley chose his seat at dinner.
Bingley.
When he settled himself next to your sister, he turned to look at me, likely for my approval. I knew, in that moment, what I must say to him. Perhaps I have known since leaving Hunsford, but I told myself I could not speak to him of your sister, not without observing her behavior for myself and ensuring her affections for my friend remained steadfast.
Now I have observed her; now I can have no doubts.
I ought never to have doubted your sister’s continued attachment. You assured me in April that she had been pained, most acutely, by her separation from Bingley. Such pain does not originate from mere infatuation, as I know only too well. My feelings for you have not altered these many months, unless the strengthening of those feelings be considered an alteration.
No. No more thoughts of you, Elizabeth. I am being selfish; I am only delaying what I dread. I must put down this pen and go to Bingley. I must speak to him of my error.
Error. That is the word I used to you in the letter that was, in fact, a letter. I have been misled by error, I wrote, as if the mistake of separating Bingley from your sister had been a mere miscalculation.
No, I was not misled by error, Elizabeth. I was wrong. On so many accounts, I have been wrong.
Wrong to make Bingley doubt his own judgement.
Wrong to disdain his natural talent for turning strangers into friends.
Wrong to confuse your sister’s modesty and reserve for indifference.
Wrong not to tell him sooner.
How do I say these things, Elizabeth? How, when he has always looked to me as a friend and advisor, do I admit that I have been blind and foolish and wrong?
I have been wrong about you, too, Elizabeth, or at least your feelings for me. Still, I know you well enough to imagine what you would say to me now: Put down the pen, Darcy. Stop dithering and make amends.
It is done. I am to London tomorrow. He did not ask me to leave, of course, but I saw the relief in his countenance when I told him I would depart before breakfast. It is for the best, he said.
He made no mention of my return.
I doubt, Elizabeth, you have had cause to see Bingley become angry, but I have, at least three times now: once at Cambridge, when an acquaintance insulted his father’s connections to trade; once when his sister insulted your family’s connections to trade; and tonight, when I told him I had kept from him the knowledge of your sister’s presence in town.
He does not express anger like other men. He does not raise his voice or his fist; he falls still and silent. For a man so inclined to speak and move with energy, Bingley’s passivity wields all the power of a blow. It is a withdrawal of warmth, an acknowledgement that I am not, at present, deserving of his friendship.
I do not doubt he will forgive me, and soon. Even in the direst of circumstances, Bingley cannot hold fast to resentment, another trait I once considered a weakness. Though I have disappointed him, I have also been the bearer of news he has long wished to hear. He will not wait long to address your sister, and when he does, he will be too happy to remain angry with me.
I deserve a longer exile from his good graces, but do not fear, Elizabeth: I have received a harsh and just sentence. Those I love best have now seen the worst of me.
I go to London tomorrow, unhappy and uncertain. Last autumn, it was Bingley who left Netherfield in this state. Shall we sit together some day and laugh at the irony of this reversal? Good God, I hope so, Elizabeth, but what right have I to hope? About as much right as I have to write to you, which is to say, none at all.
And still I write; and still I hope.
Read all the letters from Confessions & Correspondence here!
Recent Comments