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.
Fitzwilliam Darcy
October 7, 1812
Netherfield
My dear Georgiana,
I hope I am not so indifferent a brother or so infrequent a correspondent that you will be astonished to receive a second letter dated October 7. Let this day be a day of commemoration, for sure—but not because of a second letter.
Have you guessed my meaning, Georgi? Likely so, for you are clever and particularly interested in the topic I am about to discuss. If, however, you cannot guess, you must not blame yourself. I am filling this page with words meant to obscure and delay my purpose.
Were you anything less than the most kind-hearted of sisters, you might accuse me of employing suspense as a means of provoking you, but you are the most kind-hearted of sisters. You believe me incapable of teasing, and at present, I must acknowledge my deficiencies in that regard. Of late, however, I have become a most willing student of wit and good humor. I warn you, therefore, to expect more teasing in the future. I cannot promise to be a great proficient, as our aunt might be, if she ever took the trouble of practicing, but I have secured the very best of teachers, one who has agreed to life-long instruction. So it seems I do have some hope of improving with time.
Now you surely know why I have written this letter, but do not look ahead to be certain—not yet. Where are you reading this ridiculous piece of correspondence? I suspect you are in your sitting room, with a crackling fire in the hearth and Mama’s prints on the wall, or if not there, in the music room, this letter propped on the piano stand, half-covering a Haydn sonata.
You must rise from your seat and travel posthaste to the portrait gallery. Forgive my officious request, but if you have comprehended my purpose in writing this letter, then you know why I am asking you to finish reading it in that room.
Are you there yet? Are you sitting on that bench, our bench**, looking up at the two people who gave us the very best parts of ourselves? Are you staring into Mama’s eyes, so much like your own? And Father—is he looking down at you with that gentle, all-knowing smile?
Tell them—
What words can I possibly use to convey my feelings? Now you understand my true motive for delaying: I am incapable of explaining how the impossible became possible.
For it seemed impossible, did it not? Mere months ago, when we sat side by side on that bench, I told you she did not love me, that she could never love me. But Georgi—
Elizabeth Bennet loves me. She loves me. She loves me (now I cannot stop writing those words) and she has accepted my proposal of marriage.
My second proposal, that is. When I reflect on the words I used in my first proposal, I consider it a miracle that her acceptance required only a second attempt.
You see now why I asked you to finish this letter in the portrait gallery. We are a family, Georgi. The four of us have always been a family, though Providence saw fit to separate us from our beloved parents. Still, we have kept them with us, in thought and in deed. Henceforth, our family will not be four but five—and God willing, more than five in the years to come.
I know how your mind works. You are considering the arrangement of the furniture, wondering how you might add another bench, or perhaps two, without cluttering the space.
Yes, I know your mind, and I also know something of your heart. You feel great joy for my sake, but your own happiness carries a tinge of melancholy. No, do not protest. If we were in fact sitting next to each other on our bench, you would assure me that Elizabeth is delightful and that you are eager to call her your sister. You would tell me the truth, but an incomplete version of it, one meant to relieve me of any concerns I might feel on your behalf.
As I have already stated, you are the most kind-hearted of sisters. I, however, would be the most obtuse of brothers if I did not recognize the ways in which my marriage to any woman might cause you some anxiety. Even the happiest of alterations remains an alteration, and all change brings a measure of uncertainty. We are, by nature, reserved and quiet people, and we have lived many years with only each other for frequent company. In this regard, Elizabeth’s arrival will indeed represent a great change. I do not think either of us will have cause to regret such an alteration.
On this account, as well, be assured: Elizabeth will be the very best of sisters, sharing that title with no one in the world except you (and perhaps her older sister, Miss Jane Bennet, whom I think you will also come to love).
I would be remiss if I did not also acknowledge a more difficult truth: by marrying Elizabeth, I will become brother to her sisters, all of her sisters, and therefore will make their concerns, all of their concerns, my own. It is a duty I undertake gladly, except in one particular. I need not name that particular; indeed I will not. I will say only that never, so long as it is in my power, will you be made to suffer the presence of those who have caused you harm.
Will you forgive me for sullying the happiness of this occasion by writing such words? You know me too well to believe I could celebrate my good fortune without acknowledging the cost to you. To Elizabeth, only this morning, I spoke of my selfish nature; this letter gives proof to my claim.
I refuse to end this announcement of my engagement in so dispirited a manner. Allow me, then, to close with this happier truth: without you, I should never have won Elizabeth’s heart. I remain undeserving of this gift, but what little claim I have to her love comes from being your brother, Georgi. Since the day of your birth, when Father placed you in my trembling arms, I have had a reason to think and act for more than just myself. As you grew, I was given an example in the ways of grace and kindness. Two summers ago, when you encountered cruelty, I learned from you lessons of strength and forgiveness, and when, only last summer, we were both miserable**, you soothed my spirit and taught me to be patient.
I am the most fortunate of brothers, Georgi, and I do not think Elizabeth would disagree when I write that she is soon to become the most fortunate of sisters. Thank you for making our family possible.
Your brother, the happiest of men,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
__
** I will admit to referencing here (and anywhere I mention the bench in the portrait gallery, or the conversation they had while sitting on that bench) a piece I wrote in our previous series, P&P: The Untold Stories. I had so much fun writing that story that I couldn’t imagine this letter without thinking back on that scene. Sorry for being so vain!
Recent Comments