Chapter 12
E lizabeth thought for a long time before beginning her letter. A deep emotion engulfed her; it was as if, by writing down her feelings, she could bring Mr Darcy—Fitzwilliam—closer to her heart than ever before.
She remembered the first few times they had met and wondered how their relationship might have been different or would have progressed had she not heard those terrible first words about herself that had coloured her view of him for so long.
Elizabeth recalled moments when he had looked at her with admiration, amused or curious about her ideas, interested in their conversations. Yet, that first impression had never faded in her mind. No matter what he did, she saw him as the proud man she first met at the Meryton assembly, the one who had criticised her neighbours and found her not handsome enough to tempt him.
Mrs Barstow, on the other hand, believed that Fitzwilliam had liked her from the beginning. Was it possible that he had been attracted to her, yet he had done everything possible to exhibit his superiority, despising the Meryton assembly for not being equal to the gatherings he was accustomed to?
She tried to imagine a different story, where she had been given the chance to see him in a better light, appreciating his intelligence, refinement, and that mocking smile resembling her father’s. In this story, she could introduce him to her family as they were—a loving but sometimes frustrating group of ordinary people with flaws and qualities, but most importantly, bound by love.
At that moment, Elizabeth had a clear idea of the letter she wanted to write to him.
Mr Darcy,
I usually respond promptly to any letter I receive. Whilst I may, on this occasion, transgress the conventions of decorum, it is more important to let you know what I think than adhering rigidly to customs that I find obsolete.
Your letter, sir, has conferred upon me most essential enlightenment concerning the despicable character of Mr Wickham, and I express my sincerest gratitude for entrusting me with such a difficult disclosure, thus sparing me from potential dangers. With the aid of my father and aunt, I began to see the true nature of Mr Wickham not long after you departed Hertfordshire, yet none of us imagined the depths of his villainy.
In your letter, you referenced two distinct offences of a very different nature that I laid upon you. I shall continue my letter speaking of only one, yet it is of such magnitude as to eclipse any other concerns I may have. It pertains to my sister Jane.
You stated that you observed the behaviour of Mr Bingley attentively, noting that his partiality for Jane surpassed anything you had ever witnessed in him before. In essence, there was a significant chance that Mr Bingley held my sister in genuine affection. And you continued by declaring that my sister’s countenance and air were such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched. In other words, she betrayed no sign of being smitten.
Her presumed indifference and the regrettable discussion you overheard about an alleged betrothment between my sister and your friend led you to believe that Jane was interested only in Mr Bingley’s wealth.
Even writing this allegation, my pen trembles with anger and sadness, so I trust you comprehend the depth of my rage when confronted with such assertions during our discourse at the Parsonage.
If I may be permitted to opine, we share the guilt for that ill-fated meeting, which resulted in frustration and resentment for both of us. From the moment I discovered your role in Jane’s unhappiness and your avowed belief in the inferiority of my family, no persuasions could have swayed me to believe in your affections.
For, Mr Darcy, it is my conviction that love is not merely a sentiment but a condition of the mind and soul that exerts its influence over one’s entire existence. It is not enough to admire another’s virtues; one must also accept their flaws, while the inferiority of one’s family cannot be judged superficially. We are speaking about people you did not have the chance to know, and I expect you to give credence to the idea that you could be wrong in some respects.
I agree that errors were committed on both sides, and it is with regret that I reflect on my own loss of composure. Instead of accepting your reproaches where they were pertinent and trying to make you see your mistakes or misconceptions, I behaved in a manner I now find utterly reprehensible.
But I am only human and beset by imperfections—I become utterly enraged when members of my family are wrongly accused of vile deeds. And this is the case with my sister Jane.
Your image of her is completely wrong and offensive. Jane is to our family what Miss Darcy is to yours—the epitome of purity, kindness, and joyfulness.
Jane Bennet is the friendliest, most caring, and most patient person I have ever met. She is known by those who truly know her not only for her beauty but for her goodness and shyness.
Yes, Mr Darcy, she is reserved, deeming it unseemly to exhibit her emotions in public. If she appeared unenthusiastic, it was solely because she chose to express her sentiments only in private, eschewing public displays of affection. Jane still loves and has always loved Mr Bingley, considering him the love of her life, even though he disappeared in such a shameful manner.
I believe that Mr Bingley’s conduct attests to a lack of genuine affection, having merely dallied with her heart before leaving without explanation. I ask you, then, to ponder upon who bears the greater culpability in this affair—my suffering sister or Mr Bingley, who amused himself for a few weeks with her poor heart then left without a word.
Or there is another possibility. It is conceivable that Mr Bingley’s affections were sincere, but being a man who respected his family and friends, he chose to take their advice despite what his heart told him. In such a case, your interference has destroyed the prospect of happiness for two deserving souls.
With the same honesty you showed me, I shall tell you the truth. The rumour of an impending betrothment between my sister and Mr Bingley did circulate. Regrettably, the story was spread by my mother. I am deeply ashamed of her penchant for gossip, yet her fervent desire to see my sister wed is understandable. Our parents granted us the freedom to choose our life partners, and while Mr Bingley’s wealth brought my mother joy, it held no sway over Jane’s affections.
My mother may have rejoiced in Mr Bingley’s fortune, but I fail to perceive any wrongdoing. I noted that Lady Matlock also seeks a prosperous match for Colonel Fitzwilliam. Is this not a common aspiration among families? I accept that members of my family occasionally display behaviour that falls short of the ideal, but I ask again, is it not the same in all families? Please observe, sir, your family. If, in your scrutiny, you discover your own family to be impeccable, I shall readily accept the inferiority of mine compared with yours.
I must also exonerate another member of the Bennet family from your harsh judgment—my father. There are innumerable attributes I could employ to describe him. Still, I shall content myself with this observation—any admiration you harbour for me, sir, is due not to my modest beauty, which is scarcely comparable to that of other women, but rather from my independent spirit and thirst for knowledge. I am, in essence, the product of my father’s guidance, and if your admiration is indeed genuine, it is impossible to discount the influence of my father on the woman I am today.
I hope you will place in me the same confidence I placed in you, sir, and that state of mind will lead you to reflect and reconsider the image you have of my family, especially Jane and my father.
In conclusion, I confess my deep regret for my behaviour and my harsh words proffered at the Parsonage, an episode I reflect on with little pride. I fervently hope we may go on with amiable feelings reflecting respect and affection on both sides .
Yours sincerely,
Elizabeth Bennet
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“What happened during your visit to the Darcys?” Mr Gardiner asked at dinner. He was interested in having a good relationship with Mr Darcy, who had shown an interest in his business.
Elizabeth looked at Mrs Gardiner, who made a discreet sign to let her speak.
“It was a ladies’ gathering, dear.”
“And you did not see Mr Darcy?”
“No, it seemed he had a previous engagement.”
Fortunately, Mr Gardiner was not very skilled in deciphering the emotions of ladies, so he did not see the sadness in his niece’s face nor the regret in his wife’s.