That is, indeed, my present dilemma: I know wherein lies my mistake—what I do not know is how I can ever come to trust my feelings again. If the deepest feelings of one’s heart can be so much in error, what hope is there of ever finding contentment in life? This is the question I struggle with daily; for without contentment, without happiness and hope for the future, what is life? But I shall desist; I do not wish to dwell on these thoughts nor bore you with the seemingly endless variations on them that are my constant companions.
I found your comments on Miss Bingley to be most amusing: I am sure she would be mortified to know what you write, and, as I have told you before, you must be very careful not to permit your letters to be seen, even briefly and by hazard, lest you offend your friend’s nearest relations.
Poor Miss Elizabeth Bennet! To be burdened with such a mother, yet to possess such resources of wit and humour! What you have written is wonderful to me: you have never before spoken so highly, nor at such length, of any woman in your acquaintance. I should dearly like to meet her, Brother, truly I should. Does she go to Town? Do you imagine she might come to Derbyshire? Has she any friends near Pemberley? Do please enquire, Fitzwilliam, for my sake, if not for yours.
You spoke of Miss Bennet’s sister, in your previous letter, as being from a family of “little standing and no connections.” But their father is a gentleman, surely? I cannot imagine Miss Bingley stooping so far below her class in seeking companionship as to befriend any one from any other station. I am confused by what you have written; most especially by what you describe as Miss Bingley’s “quest for ascendancy” over Miss Bennet. Surely, if their stations were so dissimilar, this would not occur: Miss Bingley’s standing would secure her from the need to vie with Miss Bennet. Yet you believe Miss Bennet would not be accepted by…whom? The rest of your acquaintance, or perhaps your relations? In Town, or in Derbyshire? But how could she hold forth with you on such diverse matters if she felt herself your inferior? And why would she not dance with you? I cannot resolve this; you must write more particularly when you receive this.
Notwithstanding, you sound as if you are enjoying your stay in Hertfordshire, and I am very glad of that. I look forward to your next letter.
Your loving sister,
Georgiana Darcy
*For reply, see Darcy, November 19.
*****
*Pemberley
Sunday, November 17, —
Dearest Fitzwilliam,
Thank you for your letter of the 15th; I find your descriptions of what passes at Netherfield a most welcome diversion. What you write about Miss Bingley, unfortunately, does not surprise me as much as it should; in all truth I must confess that I have found in her an unfortunate tendency towards assurance, self-indulgence, and a certain coarseness of feeling; I hope you will forgive me for speaking so of some one of your acquaintance, but I believe this to be a very serious matter, and I would have you know what I know. I have heard her speaking with her sister in unguarded moments when there were no members of the opposite sex present, and observed in her a most…pragmatic…view of men. She counts herself among the most eligible women in London Society, and she is bent on making a “conquest worthy of her qualities,” to use her expression; it would appear that she finds you worthy. I need hardly say, but be most circumspect, Brother. She is capable of stratagems that make me blush to contemplate. Time, and an adamantine adherence to propriety, will eventually discourage her, as she knows that youth is fleeting, and desires to make her “conquest” before her bloom is gone.
But let me pass on to a more agreeable topic: I am most desirous of knowing more of Miss Elizabeth Bennet; what you have written interests me greatly. Brother, you have confused me exceedingly, for you say on the one hand that she is all that is amiable, and on the other that any connection with her family is unthinkable; yet you have never said why. As you know, I am forced to conclude that she is a gentleman’s daughter, by her inclusion in the Netherfield family circle. What, then, is the impediment? You have mentioned her nonsensical mother, but it cannot be this, because, well…good Heavens, if one were to name all of the nonsensical mothers in London, or in Derbyshire, for that matter—and certainly in Kent—the list would be formidable, indeed.
And I am very troubled to hear that you will leave before the ball; pray do not—please? We shall be amply prepared for our relations’ visit without your hurrying your departure. Will you not stay to dance with Miss Bennet? I would have you do so, dear Brother, truly I would. It would be a shame indeed if you were to lose her acquaintance forever without ever once having danced with her.
I have already begun preparations for our removal to Town. Mrs. Annesley and I have discussed what is needful, and have already planned several possible entertainments for the time our family is all together; so you see, Fitzwilliam, there is no need for you to hurry your return.
I shall hope to hear that you have changed your mind, and decided to stay, when I receive your next letter.
Your affectionate sister,
Georgiana Darcy
*****
*Pemberley
Wednesday, November 20, —
Dearest Fitzwilliam,
Have no fear, Brother, on receiving this letter by express, lest it contain ill-tidings; all is well here at Pemberley. It is only that I read with great disappointment in your last that you are definitely planning to leave Netherfield before Mr. Bingley’s ball, and I was compelled to write you before this plan should be carried out. Why must you leave without attending the ball, Fitzwilliam? The idea that you will leave Miss Elizabeth Bennet behind you without ever having danced with her, quite breaks my heart. At the very least you must allow yourself to take her hand for one dance.
You see, as it happens, I was not so very surprised by the intelligence you offered in your letter, to the effect that you had found yourself attracted to Miss Bennet; inasmuch as she is the only lady you have ever distinguished to me by any degree of approbation, and since you have so distinguished her in each one of your letters since you met her, your admission comes too late for surprise. All that you have written to me of her has quite delighted me, Fitzwilliam, and I wish most earnestly to meet her. But, as you will know when you have received my earlier letters, I am at a loss to understand your objections to her. Surely her family’s standing cannot be so far beneath our own as to forbid you even to feel for her, or she would never be admitted as a guest into Mr. Bingley’s house. I would never presume to think you mistaken, but I would most sincerely wish to understand your thoughts more fully. And I hope you will forgive the question, my dear Brother, but are you sure that in deciding this you have also listened to your heart? That the heart and mind must always follow the same pole-star is not true, of course; but neither does it follow that the path chosen by the heart is always the wrong one.
But never mind my opinions on your heart; they mean little enough, indeed—you recently entreated me, though, to tell you if there was anything whatever that would give me pleasure, and I now ask this of you, Fitzwilliam: to gratify my heart, would you please stay to the ball, and dance with Miss Bennet? Please, for my sake? I can hardly explain why it should be so, but this means a great deal to me, and I do hope you will find it in your power to indulge me in this.
Your loving sister,
Georgiana Darcy
*For reply, see Darcy, November 21.
*****
Pemberley
Saturday, November 23, —
Dearest Fitzwilliam,
I hope all is well; your letter made it sound almost as if you were distressed over some of your affairs. I hope this is not true, and that your time in Hertfordshire remains pleasurable.
I am so very glad that you have decided to stay—I thank you from my heart for indulging me in this way. I hope and trust you will be happy you took the opportunity to dance with Miss Bennet, and I am sure you will find her to be a charming partner. I dare say I am as excited as you—possibly more—at the idea. I sh
all look forward very much to hearing all the details of your evening.
I imagine Mr. Bingley’s ball room to be rather like ours; perhaps a little smaller, but that would make for a delightfully hospitable setting, I should think. I cannot suppose the country neighbourhood could supply more than forty or fifty couples, although the proximity of Netherfield to London might make it possible for some to come in especially, I suppose. In any event, knowing Miss Bingley as I do, I am certain it will all be done most thoroughly, and no detail will be ignored.
Oh, Fitzwilliam!—you have made me very happy! Have you had occasion yet to ask Miss Bennet if she is to be in Town at all this winter? Or if she ever comes into Derbyshire? You must try to remember to do so.
Well, I am sure I shall have an hundred questions to ask you after, but for now I shall say good-bye, as I calculate that this will just reach you before the ball; I shall leave off now to post it. I pray the ball will answer all your hopes, and I remain,
Your affectionate—and grateful—sister,
Georgiana Darcy
*****
Letters from Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy
*****
Grosvenor Square
Thursday, October 10, —
Dearest Sister,
My dear, gentle Georgiana, your letter grieves me more than words can express. Your pain is my doing, entirely; I neglected you and trusted others to perform duties that properly belonged to me. Mrs. Younge abused my trust while you were at Ramsgate, it is true; but she could not have done so had not I, with an imprudence altogether inexcusable in one of my years, accepted her recommendations without sufficient enquiry. Nor had I prepared you as I ought to have done for such men as he. I knew him for what he was, yet never sought to inform you, not only of his character, but even of the existence of such predatory men. My excuse is that I had thought to preserve your innocence and spare you this knowledge, but I see now that that is like sparing the knowledge of fire: we encounter it every where, and if we are not taught caution it will do us a grave injury. My Mother, I know, would not have left you defenceless in this way, and I berate myself for not having foreseen this need. I, who pride myself on my understanding, have failed utterly in its application.
I have allowed you to be badly burned, and I pray to God that the pain will subside and the scars will fade, for yours is the sweetest nature Heaven ever sent to Earth; if I have allowed such an angelic disposition to suffer permanent damage I shall never forgive myself. Dearest, you must believe me: you did no more than accept the lies of a man who could deceive even one so worthy as Father, as you must now realise he was wholly deceived by the man. And you must remember, as I certainly do, that it was your own goodness that made you acknowledge to me your planned elopement, for the pain you knew it would give me. You are too good: you cannot allow even your most pressing desires to harm another. Please, please consider my words, Dearest, and believe that I am,
Your most loving and contrite brother,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
*****
*Netherfield Park, Herts.
Wednesday, November 13, —
My dearest Georgiana,
I promise I shall write to you every day, now I know you wish for my correspondence. And do not feel burdened by the need to reply; do so at your convenience, and if you have anything to say.
Dearest, are you sure that I had not better be at home with you? There is nothing here that requires my presence, and even if there were, nothing could take precedence over your slightest needs. Tell me instantly if you want me, and I shall be home before the sun rises twice.
Though I have no experience with a betrayal as deep as the one you have suffered, I do know that even the deepest wounds must heal in time, if we can but survive the initial blow. This you have done, and what is more, you have felt this to be true, which is infinitely more important than being told, no matter by whom. I refer to your realization that harming yourself is not a solution. Pain so great as to overwhelm the mind and body can, most assuredly, result from such injuries as yours. Felo de se, in these cases, is no more than a delayed reaction to the original attack; that you do not feel such an exigence is proof that you have not taken mortal injury. This is why I can confidently say that you will heal. You may not have had these thoughts in mind when you wrote me those lines, but, perhaps, now that I have presented them in this light you might see them as I do. And you ought to know that I was never alarmed by any thought of your doing yourself an injury; I knew you would never have done anything rash, for I know you. Whether you made a deliberate decision, or were simply acting according to your nature, I was certain that you could never conduct yourself in a way that would harm others, as such an act must invariably do.
So, given time, you must heal. Not to the degree that you will ever be exactly the same as you were before, I know, and that saddens me immeasurably; but neither will you be crippled by the scars—that I swear. It was I who failed to protect you, and it is upon me to see to your recovery. If the path to restoring your strength leads us to the ends of the earth, if I must ransom our lands and impoverish every one of our connections, I will see you whole again. Please, Dearest, please do not hold back if there is anything you want, anything you desire, anything that holds even the faintest hope of cheering you.
Now, let me tell you the news from here. Mr. Bingley has, seemingly, managed yet again to stumble into a pleasant situation; his propensity for leaping blindly is surpassed only by his great good fortune in not cracking his noggin on landing. With no more than half-an-hour’s investigation, he has managed to secure a lovely estate. Of course, Hertfordshire is not Derbyshire, but still and all it is handsome and well-suited to his needs. Miss Bingley and Mr. and Mrs. Hurst are here with us, so Miss Bingley has a willing audience for her wit and there is no want of loo and whist. Mr. Bingley is smitten again, this time with a country miss of little standing and no connections, but a lovely girl nonetheless, whose smiles are the only ones I have ever seen that outshine Bingley’s own. She also is here, owing to having been taken ill during a visit to Miss Bingley. She is attended by one of her sisters, whose conversation and countenance have been among the brighter notes of this expedition into the country. But now, Dearest, I must leave off to post this and go down to dinner. I promise to write more fully to-morrow. Until then, know that you are in my heart and thoughts.
Your devoted, albeit distant, brother,
Fitzwilliam Darcy
*For reply, see Georgiana, November 15.
*****
*Netherfield Hall
Thursday, November 14, —
Dearest Georgiana,
I hope you have had time to read and reflect on my letter of yesterday; as I think back on it I can find no part of it that I would amend. I trust you will forgive me for writing so openly and feelingly on such subjects, knowing as you do that I should never write so to another. But with you I have no reservations, nor do I fear that I might be misunderstood, as you will always honour me with the benefit of your trust and your good heart. But as I have no desire to lecture on these topics, I shall henceforth hold my thoughts on the subject in abeyance, until you have had an opportunity to reply.
Miss Bingley here asks that I convey to you her compliments, and her delight in the prospect of seeing you at Christmas. We are in the drawing-room after dinner; she sits near me as I write, and sanctions my efforts with her fullest approval and encouragement. If, therefore, my letter seems stilted or haphazard in its construction, or some tinge of exasperation creeps into it, I pray you will forgive me and attribute it to the appropriate cause.
While here at Netherfield I have encountered rare new levels of both sense and nonsense; here I have met with one whose nonsensical views and mental dishevelment surpasses any other in my experience. This is one Mrs. Bennet, who is mother to the two young ladies I told you of yesterday. She is a veritable caricature of unreason, unable to hold onto a single thought long enough to complete an intelligible sentence, and yet a
t the same time maintaining a complete assurance of the sagacity of her judgement and the rectitude of her opinions. I have been in her company now several times, and never once has she offered a comment worth the hearing. Her two eldest daughters, I am happy to say, the ones who are staying presently at Netherfield Hall, have escaped the misfortune of sharing their mother’s affliction. She has three other daughters, however, who are certainly infected with the disorder, although not to such an acute degree.
Notwithstanding, the second Miss Bennet, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, is that very one whose sense and understanding is so superior to any other lady’s in my acquaintance. She has just joined us in the drawing-room after tending to her sister throughout the day, and most of the night prior. Save for you, she shows the greatest good sense and warmest regard for others I have ever seen combined in any of my fellow creatures.
Between Miss Bennet and Miss Bingley there exists a great disparity of personality, and I have been afforded no small measure of entertainment by studying the difference between Country manners and Town manners. Miss Bingley is every inch the Society Miss, as you know, having lived almost exclusively in London, whereas Miss Bennet’s manners have nothing fashionable about them—she, as I believe, having been brought up largely here in Hertfordshire. It is interesting to contrast her character and Miss Bingley’s: she is sincere where Miss Bingley is witty, witty where Miss Bingley is affected, charming where Miss Bingley is smart, warm where Miss Bingley is well-mannered. And Miss Bennet is possessed of a singular intellect: I have seen her run verbal circles around a staunch military man, yet show such rare concern and compassion as to do so without giving him so much as a hint of what she was about, and taking no advantage of the poor man at all. Upon your brother she has turned her wit like unto a well-honed rapier, and yet has done so in the most charming manner imaginable. She is very amiable, and adores dancing (although, to say the truth, she has turned down my hand), and even though the society hereabouts offers little by comparison with her own talents, she remains thoroughly modest, unaffected by the awareness she could scarcely avoid of her own superior gifts.
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