You will, I know, wish to hear of Miss Elizabeth Bennet; she is well, and asked after you particularly, and on more than one occasion. But I confess that it is nearly as much for her sake as for Bingley’s that I have removed to London—knowing of her younger sister’s condition before her marriage, as I do, my presence could not but inflict some measure of discomfort on her. Of course, she knows nothing of my involvement latterly in the business, which would be much worse, but still, it must be bad enough, and so I have distanced myself from her. I can only trust to time, to let her present suffering amend itself to a degree that will allow her to see me without painful recollection. How much simpler our lives would be if we could regulate our brains to the extent that we could forget whatever we chose to: imagine the bliss of forgetting all pain and embarrassment! These are the scars of the soul, and I cannot but imagine that it would be more beautiful without them. Well, having now given that more thought, I see I am wrong; the soul of the babe is not more beautiful than that of the adult, except in the beauty of the promise it holds for the future. The soul is formed, and informed, by every thing in our lives, including, certainly, all of our trials; pain and mortification must be the price of a beautiful soul: the natural trimmings and prunings, if you will, that create the majestic beauty of the mighty oak. I do not believe that an oak raised in a hothouse would be nearly as picturesque as the forest patriarch which has withstood all the tempests and droughts Nature could throw against it.
Well, there it is, I suppose; we must weather our storms, and persevere through straitened circumstances, and grow slowly into beauty. I must, at least: you, it seems, have somehow managed to by-pass the requirement for trials and travail, having arrived at perfection quite naturally in earliest adulthood. Your trials demonstrate the beauty of your soul, whilst those by which I am afflicted must labour still to shape mine. Perhaps that is simply the difference between men and women—those of my sex must toil, and struggle, and fight with the world, before we are moulded into our correct shape, whilst your sex finds it more spontaneously and benevolently within you. Perhaps, as you are the bearers of life, you are necessarily and innately more sacred and serene, and we men are drawn to that immaculate purity in order to soothe and correct our own great imperfections. I do not know, Dearest; but surely a man without a woman must suffer the more in this life before finding tranquillity and repose.
I do apologise; the residue of melancholy left behind by Cowper does not seem to have left me completely. Be assured, Dearest, I am not so desperate as it may sound; I find that my new susceptibility to poetry affects me more strongly than I have any idea of whilst I am reading it. Then, I am more conscious of the scansion and rhyme scheme, the author’s use of diction and imagery—a dozen things. But afterwards, as I revisit it in my mind, the impact is felt the more for being free of such critical thinking.
Best I turn my attentions to something rather more mundane and purposeful; there is a letter from Stevenson, which will no doubt occupy my mind to better effect than poetry. Therefore, adieu, Dearest. I remain,
Your affectionate Brother,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
*For reply, see Georgiana, September 22.
*****
Grosvenor Square
Thursday, September 25, —
My dearest Georgiana,
I have received yours of the 22nd, and let me tell you first that Mr. Bingley has indeed secured his future. I received word of it on Saturday last, via express. He is, predictably, quite overcome with happiness, and I cannot say that his hopes of felicity are ill-founded. Miss Bennet is certainly one of the sweetest creatures I have ever met, and her quiet obligingness could not be better suited to Bingley’s open and voluble bonhomie.
Insofar as my response to poetry is concerned, I wanted to assure you that, although I may often find myself sitting to one side and “seeing into the life of things” (to paraphrase Wordsworth, another of those authors mentioned by Miss Elizabeth Bennet at Pemberley) without really partaking in life, this is just my way, and should not trouble you when it appears. We are connected to life, quite literally, through our connections to the lives of those we love; it has been apparent to me for some time that I am not meant for many such ties, and so my connection to the world at large must be lighter than those with more congenial and amiable (in both the English and the French meanings) natures, who would, of course, be drawn into life to a much greater degree. This does not reflect any disgust for life on my part; no, it is only that I must often find myself an observer, not a participant, when I am not in the company of those I love. Those such as my friend Bingley can find wherewith to join themselves to their company in almost any circumstance, but I am not gifted that way; I suppose I ought to envy such abilities, but, in truth, I cannot: I do not form such bonds myself because I do not feel the need, and so cannot repine their absence.
In some instances, it can even be of use; in the case of Miss Elizabeth Bennet, for example, such observational detachment can establish a reasonable distance from the emotions that might have been more troubling to me than to her, were I to feel that sort of bond my friend is wont to forge. Distance from vexatious emotion must be seen as a degree of contentment, so I find I can be content as I am, and not wish to emulate Bingley.
I envy you your time at home: London is hot, close, and uncomfortable; the closest thing to the “scent of summer fading” is when a wind from the north drives off the smell of the Thames for a brief respite. Some wag in Town called the London summer “a state of continual inelegance”; I do not recall who it was, but it is surely true. I went for a ride in the Park the other day, which was a great refreshment, but my poor mount required buckets of water thrown over him on our return. Town is still quiet; the Little Theatre is open, but I have not had any great need to venture out: I am content to remain comfortably in my library, and continue my introduction to our modern poets. I am even toying with the idea of reading Camilla, the novel Miss Elizabeth Bennet mentioned to us there in July.
I had dinner last evening with the Colonel, who sends his best; he has been rather distracted lately, as his work, while evidently well received at the War Office, has not succeeded in stopping Bonaparte, and he has begun to take this as a personal affront. He mentioned he had been thinking of simply tracking the French general down and challenging him to a duel, as he is convinced that while he lives, the French will remain victorious. He jokes that he believes the man has a pact with the Devil that guarantees a miraculous stroke of luck whenever needed to turn the tide of battle. I asked why he did not make a pact in his own right, and he replied that his superiors would object to his stepping over them in the chain of command.
Well, as I am now certain that I have corrected my error of last year, and all is well with Bingley, I shall return home the sooner. I expect to return to Meryton on Saturday (I wish to give him a bit more leisure to enjoy his time with Miss Bennet, and not trouble himself playing host to me), and I shall not stay long, I should not think. I can hope, therefore, to see you at Pemberley within the fortnight. I look forward to that, and to spending a solid period of time at home, where the world cannot reach me, and I can share in your peace.
I remain,
Your affectionate brother,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
*****
*Netherfield
Sunday, September 28, —
My dear Georgiana,
I have to write you straight away regarding the most wondrous and amazing news; Miss Elizabeth Bennet has agreed to be my wife! Yes, quite true, I assure you. How or why I have been so blessed is still a mystery to me, but I wanted to share it with you as soon as possible.
I returned to Netherfield, you must understand, to apologise to Elizabeth (as I am now admitted to the honour of calling her) for a visit she received from Lady Catherine. That good lady had heard a rumour that Elizabeth had agreed to marry me, apparently based on the assumption that, as her sister was to marry my friend, naturally she would be next, a
nd I was fixed on as the lucky man. However it may have come about, Lady Catherine went to Hertfordshire to forbid the banns, as it were, and gave Elizabeth quite a substantial piece of her mind. She then proceeded to Grosvenor Square to give me one, too. The upshot was, I left for Meryton yesterday, intent on making every apology in my power to Elizabeth, and determining whether I might ever have a chance to succeed with her. This, I know, will surprise you, but now I must tell you something that will surprise you even more: I had actually proposed to her before, when we were together at Rosings. She turned me down in a decided fashion, for which I was solely to blame, I admit. It was this that was troubling me throughout the spring; I could not bring myself to tell you of it, Dearest, as I knew it must pain you, too—and there could be no point in upsetting you with what could not be mended. So, when my aunt’s retailing of her interview with Elizabeth gave me some suspicion that she might not be as resolutely set against me as she was before, I was compelled to return, both to apologise and to see what hope I might ever have.
Arriving at Longbourn last night, and contriving, with Bingley’s connivance, to be alone with Elizabeth this morning, before I could so much as mention my aunt, let alone my more pressing interests, Elizabeth gave me to understand that she knew of my involvement in her younger sister’s elopement and marriage—imagine my horror and chagrin! But somehow, I know not just how, my apologies and expressions of contrition turned into a declaration of my continued regard for her. And, miraculously, Elizabeth made representations to me of her own regard, and is now to be my wife, and your sister. Is that not a wonderful and staggering piece of news? I would stake anything that you had no more idea of it than myself. I could wish for a more imaginative word, but I am absolutely dumbfounded; I am constantly having to stop myself from grinning in the most idiotic way. There: I have just had to stop it again. I am persuaded that those men who declare themselves the happiest in the world must know nothing at all of the matter, as, in the main, on the point of their ladies’ esteem they are moved no farther than from near-certainty, into certainty—which surely can be no great source of exceptional wonder or joy—whereas I was transported from despair to amazement and bliss in the space of a few heartbeats. To have scaled such heights from so great a depth is to truly know happiness.
It is already late, and I wish this to go out tonight, so I will leave off here, Dearest. I expect to hear from you soonest.
Your affectionate, and bewildered brother,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
*For reply, see Georgiana, September 29
*****
Netherfield
Thursday, October 1, —
Dearest Georgiana,
You will forgive me, but I had to laugh over your letter, although I certainly do not blame you for your confusion: indeed, I still question as I wake each morning whether it all might be a dream that disappears in the light of day; so far, however, it has withstood the test. Your letter reminded me very much of my own bewilderment that first evening, sitting at Longbourn and trying to understand it all; and do you know, I had that same thought about our chambers? What a thing to think of at such a time! —but there you are: we both had it.
But let me tell you straight off that I am coming for you to bring you to the wedding; I would never think of leaving you out of such an event in my life. There: now I hope you will finally believe how much I value you, you dear, silly creature. And since you have already heard my assurances on Elizabeth’s regard for you in your mind, perhaps there is no need to repeat them here, but I shall: she holds you dear already, and I would stake my life she will come to love you the more as she knows you better. This, I think, may answer half the questions in your letter, and “I do not know” is probably the answer to the other half. Almost all of you questions as to the hows and whys of her accepting me I have no answer for. I am myself still trying to understand it all, but I hope that by the time I come to bring you here I shall be able to give you more particulars.
But on to the more material items: I shall be home early on Sunday the 19th, and spend the night; we shall leave for Hertfordshire in the morning. We will spend one night somewhere on the road, and be at Netherfield on Tuesday. I recommend an early dinner on the day I am home, and early rest, as our travel will be wearisome.
That is all my news for now; it is not enough, I know, but the rest I will share when you see me: we shall have ample time at home and on our trip to make it all as clear to you as it is to me, which is to say, not clear at all; but perhaps by then it will all make sense. Until I see you, I remain,
Your loving brother,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
*****
FINIS
Darcy's Tale, Volume III_The Way Home Page 28
