Ok, since I think I short-changed you guys with my last snippet (but I would still very much appreciate your comments on it), here is a letter from Darcy to Georgiana while Darcy is in London, waiting until Bingley manages to propose to Jane.


Grosvenor Square
Friday, September 26

Dear Georgiana,

I have returned to London to wait until Bingley should have had time to secure his future with Miss Bennet; I deemed it best done without the hindrance of my overbearing personality being quite so much in evidence. I doubt it will take long, however; the two principals involved seem as likely to connect as any couple I have ever witnessed, just on the strength of Bingley’s esteem alone; but I am persuaded that Miss Bennet cherishes a deep regard for him, as well. Indeed, I am sure that, now the discouraging influence of my fearsome features is removed, Mrs. Bennet will be able to contrive ample time for the two lovers to be alone to get the job done with admirable efficiency.

So, I am sure the light of tender love triumphant shines by now on Bingley’s schemes of domesticity; I left him two days ago, and I cannot imagine it would take him longer to declare himself: he was never one to be reticent in making his feelings known. I expect to hear from him almost hourly to declare his profitable addresses. In spite of my way of talking, Dearest, I am very pleased for him, and wish him every joy in his married life; I am certain he will be happy, and in their mutual goodness I see much to value, and a most favourable prophecy of felicity.

There is little going forward in Town just now, and I am catching up on some reading. After our discussion with Miss Elizabeth Bennet in July, I have been tasting poetry by our modern authors; this afternoon I read The Castaway, by Cowper: have you read it? It is dark, though moving: the tale of a man swept overboard at night, far out at sea; its metaphor found harbour in my heart, and I have turned to this missive, my own link to light, land, and beauty, to distract me and release me from its power. I understand the author was a man given to fits of insanity—what does this say about me, I should like to know? I shall trust your regard for me to be sufficient evidence of my being of sound mind, however.

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 everything 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 benignly 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 imagery and diction—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