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 Elizabeth Bennet
August 19, 1812
Dear Diary,
I am doing my best to remain calm and even tempered, for Jane’s sake, and Mama’s. Papa’s, too. He has sequestered himself in the library and refuses to come out. Mrs. Hill takes a tray of food to him, but other than that, he will not allow anyone in, not even me. I tried knocking, but to no avail. He has taken it hard. We are still awaiting something from my uncle, who has promised to send an express if there is any news. Every sound outside Longbourn has me running to the window. I lie awake at night hoping to hear the thuds of a galloping horse coming down the lane. But alas, my hope has been met with silence. The waiting is almost unbearable. I am fast approaching my limits. If Lydia’s predicament is not resolved soon, it is very likely I will start waving a handkerchief and lamenting loudly like Mama.
It seems selfish to be writing about myself when we are all in this together. We are all facing ruin, and our lives may never be the same again. All because of Lydia! Thoughtless, thoughtless girl! I confess there are moments when I wish the worst should happen to her so she could at least learn her lesson. It is uncharitable of me, I know, but I have lost my patience with her. Besides, I might as well be honest as I write to you, otherwise why bother?
There. Now you know the worst. I am vexed at her. How could I not be, when she has done this to us? Even before she ran away, she managed to cause problems. I am convinced Lydia’s inappropriate behavior drove Mr. Bingley away. I also suspect she was largely responsible for Mr. Darcy considering our family beneath his notice. That was even before she ran away with Mr. Wickham. Now the situation is much, much worse.
Because of Lydia, I have lost everything. Everything! The moment Mr. Darcy knew what she had done, he turned and left. That day in Lambton will forever be etched into my mind. As he strode out of my life forever, I could do nothing. There were no excuses I could make, no glib explanations. I simply sat there, clutching Jane’s letter in my hand, my heart fracturing in so many ways as my world collapsed around me.
You see, that was also the moment I realized how dearly I had come to love Mr. Darcy.
Since then, I have been enveloped in a fog of misery that is only partly about my concern for Lydia’s fate. Yes, I do worry for her. She is my sister, after all, and despite the harsh words I have written, I am terrified what will happen when Wickham abandons her in London without a penny. How will she find her way home? It is clear he has no intention of marrying her. If his intentions were honorable, they would have returned here sooner, engaged at the very least. No, there is no hope. He will abandon her to her own devices in London once he is bored with her. I cannot imagine anything more terrible. A young girl of only fifteen, in despair, and left to her own devices. We all know what happens in these situations.
Meanwhile, I pine for what will never happen. I dream of those two days in Pemberley, when, I found happiness, just before it was snatched from me.
But let me go back to the beginning, since I did not write any of this earlier, so you may understand why I am so dejected.
I arrived at Pemberley with my aunt and uncle, planning to tour the house and be gone within two or three hours. I had no expectations. I was curious about Mr. Darcy’s estate, and I wanted to find out for myself if it was worth the arrogance Mr. Darcy had displayed when talking about his family and status.
It was one of those languid summer days, the kind that sticks in your mind long afterwards. Not a cloud marred the perfection of the blue sky. As we rode through the estate, I was shocked to find it was much grander than I had imagined. The cascading fountains and the large expanse surrounding the building itself already revealed a property more extensive than Rosings Park. Then I saw Pemberley itself.
It brought home to me the difference in our situations. If I say Longbourn would fit into the stables at Pemberley, it would be an exaggeration, but not a huge one. I suddenly understood who Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy was.
Of this place, I might have been the mistress. The house whispered to me. I stood in its shadow, and stared at it with awe.
“It is very impressive,” said my uncle. “No wonder Mr. Darcy considers himself a grand gentleman and puts on airs. I would, if it were me.”
I laughed, but deep down I was dismayed. For a while now, I had been ashamed of my behaviour. I had dismissed his proposal in a manner that I had believed was dignified and regal. Over time, though, I had come to recognize it as arrogant and, much as I hated to admit it, petty. Hard to believe it, but at the time I was still vexed with him for not dancing with me at the Meryton Assembly. How long had I carried that grudge and held onto it, giving it more importance than it merited?
Now, standing there, staring at the imposing façade, I felt doubly ashamed. The master of this grand estate had asked me to marry him, expressing some of his uncertainties, and I had responded with mockery and insult.
A strange feeling came over me. If I did not know better, I would have thought it melancholy, but my nature was not like that. As the housekeeper showed me around, her praise of her master and her praise of his kindness made me feel even more wretched.
I was glad when the tour was over and I could go outside. I asked my aunt and uncle to walk ahead, perturbed by strong feelings that I had only been vaguely aware of until now. The image of Mr. Darcy arose before me as I stood leaning on the stone balustrade of the terrace, overlooking the raised formal garden. face to face with the truth that I had hidden even to myself.
Somehow, along the way, without even noticing, I had come to see Mr. Darcy much more favorably. I would even venture to say I liked him.
How had that happened? And when? Lost in sudden confusion, I stood there for some time, barely aware of my surroundings.
Then something extraordinary happened. I found myself face to face with Mr. Darcy! Actually face to face with him! This was no figment of my imagination, because I could not have possibly imagined him looking like this. He had been swimming, and his cotton shirt, dripping wet, was clinging to his broad shoulders and torso in such a way that I could not prevent myself from staring. I could not help noticing that Mr. Darcy was the handsomest man of my acquaintance.
My face burned with embarrassment. Fortunately, he was just as embarrassed as I was. After mumbling some commonplace things, he turned and marched to the house. I took the opportunity to escape, wanting to put the biggest distance between me, Mr. Darcy, and the embarrassment of being caught intruding on his property. I walked I did not know where until I spotted my aunt and uncle. I wanted to leave Mr. Darcy’s estate at once. What must he think of me?
But before I could catch up with the Gardiners, I heard footsteps behind me, and, to my absolute astonishment, found Mr. Darcy once more moving in my direction. He was now dressed immaculately, but his hair was still adorably wet, his curls plastered to his face in little waves.
“Miss Bennet,” he said. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”
Heavens! I hope he did not think I had deliberately sought him out. Perhaps he had come to chastise me for showing up, uninvited. After all the things I had said to him at our last meeting, I would not blame him for being angry.
“I am here with my aunt and uncle.” I babbled. “We are staying in Lambton. My aunt lived here as a child, and she is visiting some friends and relatives.”
“I would like to meet them,” he said, “if I may.”
Dear Diary, you cannot imagine how touched I was when I realized that, far from being angry at me, he was doing everything possible to make me feel at ease. If you had seen how much of an effort he made to be civil, you would understand.
I spent two pleasant days with him and with his sister, marred only by the presence of Miss Bingley and her sister. Mr. Bingley was there, and his eager questions about our family showed he was just as infatuated with Jane as ever. It was like a fairy tale come true.
Until Jane’s letter arrived at the Lambton Inn. Mr. Darcy read it, and a few minutes later, he was gone.
I keep thinking of Mr. Darcy’s retreating back and the way his tall frame blocked the light in the doorway as he left, fleeing the wreckage as quickly as he could. There is a limit to civility, and Mr. Darcy found it that day, when he discovered that all the Bennet sisters were utterly and completely ruined beyond repair.
But it seems my time for confessions is at an end. I just heard the drumming of hooves in the lane outside, along with Mrs. Hill’s footsteps and the squeal of the front door. There is news from London. I must go down at once and discover what it is.
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