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.
Mr. Darcy to his journal
April 29, 1812
I have just returned from dinner at Lord and Lady Bracknell’s. I am now convinced almost convinced that Miss Clarence is the correct choice of a wife, and I am determined considering proposing to her before the end of the May. That should grant me enough time to come to know her and be certain of my choice.
Darcy’s quill hovered over the page as he reviewed the statement he had just written. His hand shook, causing some ink to plash onto the paper. As if by design, the stain covered the word choice.
Perhaps choice was not quite the right word. Darcy had no choice, not really. He had already chosen someone else entirely. Miss Elizabeth Bennet. But she had not chosen him. That was the sticking point. And that was the reality of his situation.
Your selfish disdain for the feelings of others made me realize that you were the last man in the world I could ever be prevailed upon to marry. Darcy could still see the sharp gleam of her scorn in his mind’s eye as she pronounced those terrible words. The last man in the world! Worse than Mr. Collins. Worse even than Wickham, who had succeeded somehow in gaining her attention. Her callous rejection was a thorn that kept burrowing deeper and deeper inside him. If he did not do something about it, it would fester.
He could not keep letting Elizabeth Bennet disrupt his thoughts. He could not keep brooding, going over the same moments again and again, trying to work out what had gone so horribly wrong. He had to put a stop to it, to consign her to the past. It was time to look to the future.
As a sense of optimism took hold, Darcy dipped the quill in ink and went back to his writing.
I met Miss Clarence at a musical evening in my uncle Lord Matlock’s home. Our interaction was brief, but I found that talking to her pierced through the fog of misery that has been surrounding me. She had dark eyes like Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s and a more candid manner than any of the young ladies I have been introduced to since I returned to London.
Miss Clarence suits my needs very well. Surely I do not ask too much? I need a young lady who can appreciate my good qualities. Who can fully understand what I have to offer. Who sees the value of the Darcy name. Who is pleasing to look at and who does not drag her petticoat through the mud.
Elizabeth Bennet’s dark eyes come to mind, brightened by the exercise after she walked almost three miles from Longbourn to Netherfield.
The sharp nib of the quill tore into the paper. Darcy discovered he was pressing down too hard as he wrote. He bit back an exclamation, vexed at himself for tearing the page in his notebook. The damage was small, barely noticeable, but still, he was known for his neat writing. He had, in fact, been complimented about it more than once. Neat handwriting showed an organized mind and a disciplined approach to life.
Discipline. That was what was required.
He cleaned the nib and resumed his journal entry.
Hope is a fragile thing, but I am set on this course of action. I will pursue Miss Clarence. This is my chance to emerge from the gloom and live a full life again, after I had existed in the shadows for many weeks. I am tired of pain, of longing, of regret. I am tired of thinking of all the things I should have said. Courting Miss Clarence will propel me in a different direction.
Ever since we left Netherfield, I have been encouraging my friend Bingley to meet other young ladies in order to forget Miss Jane Bennet. ‘There are other fish in the sea,’ I have him, echoing what I had heard others say. After all, Bingley is a perfect example. He has fallen in and out of love at the fall of the hat.
Though admittedly, this does not seem to be happening now. He has been in the doldrums since November, and I have seen no signs of improvement at all. He continues to talk about Miss Jane Bennet as if he intends to return.
Darcy stopped writing, struck by that thought. How could there be hope for him, when his friend had not yet recovered? It was now five and a half months since they left Meryton, and Bingley was still dedicated to Miss Jane Bennet. Bingley, who by his very nature was incapable of feeling as deeply as Darcy felt, was still head over heels in love.
Was there no end to this affliction?
Gripped by a sense of resentment, Darcy returned to his writing.
That advice about seas and fish is utter and complete nonsense. Anyone who gives you that advice has surely never experienced the pain of rejection. They have not experienced a time when your heart feels so heavy inside you that you can barely bring yourself to rise from your bed.
When an offer of love was ground into dust with so little attempt at civility, how could you be expected to love someone else? How do you build back your dignity when you have been utterly and completely destroyed? After your pride has been scattered to the four winds?
Yet, I did try. I met Miss Clarence at musical event two weeks ago and for the first time since my abysmal proposal I believed I might stand a chance at forgetting. That, once and for all, I would be able to start anew.
The dinner at Lord and Lady Bracknell’s began well enough. Miss Clarence managed to gain my attention and hold it. Filled with hope, I did my best to delude myself throughout the dinner. Even when I first started writing in this journal tonight, I believed it was possible.
Our capacity to deceive ourselves is remarkable. It has only taken a few moments of reflection for everything to unravel. I want those dark eyes to evoke something inside me, the way Miss Elizabeth Bennet’s used to do. How could they? There is no laughter in Miss Clarence’s eyes, no pert mischief, no spark. There is no connection between us.
It is not Miss Clarence’s fault, of course. It was a mistake on my part. The timing was wrong. It was too soon. No matter how much I desired a match, I could not bring myself to care for her.
Miss Clarence is perfectly eligible, but she is not for me.
What a pickle! Now I will have to extricate myself without causing offence. Miss Bennet has taught me that much at least: to take into consideration the feelings of others. Lord and Lady Bracknell will be disappointed, of course. I hope I have not raised their expectations too much.
There is nothing to be done about it. There are no other fish in the sea for me, at least not yet. I cannot look at any young lady without seeing another face, the one that haunts my dreams.
All the will in the world will not rescue me from Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
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