I would leave if I could, but if I go now it will look particular and that is something I very much want to avoid. I do not know what to do.
Your beleaguered cousin,
Darcy
Mr Philip Darcy to Mr Darcy
London, April 21
Darcy, leave at once. Make some excuse and go today, this minute, never mind if it looks particular, it will soon be forgotten. Do not linger another moment. This kind of fever is virulent and the only thing that can control it is a prolonged absence from its source. Have your valet pack your things and meet me in London straightaway. If you stay, you will regret it.
PD
Mr Darcy to Mr Philip Darcy
Rosings Park, Kent, April 22
Philip, your letter arrived too late. I have proposed. I never meant to. I was in a ferment of passion, I did not know what I was doing. I was looking forward to seeing her, for she was engaged to drink tea with my aunt, and I was surprised and humiliated at the bitterness of my disappointment when she did not attend. She had a headache, her friend said. I wondered what could have occasioned it; I wondered how bad it was; I wondered if she needed a physician. I could not ask without it causing interest and so I said nothing, but excusing myself on account of a letter which I said needed an urgent reply, I bent my steps to the parsonage and before I knew what I was doing I was inside.
I do not know what possessed me, but possessed I was. I enquired after her health in a hurried manner and she replied coldly, not pleased to see me. Her manner only inflamed me more. I sat down in an effort to collect myself but my passions rose within me like a volcano and I believe it would have killed me to keep them in. They erupted from me as I told her that in vain had I struggled, but that I ardently loved and admired her.
Once started, I could not stop. I poured out my feelings: my horror at the behaviour of her family, the inferiority of her station in life, and the degradation it would be for me to marry her; but that, despite all this, I could not root out my feelings, that they were impossible to conquer, and I expressed my hope that she would accept my hand in marriage.
I did not doubt she would accept me and I was resentful even as I waited for her answer—resentful because she had brought me to this pass, resentful that she had taken control of my thoughts and feelings and reduced me to a state of helplessness—but that was nothing compared with the feelings I had when she rejected me. Can you credit it? I confess that I cannot. It is incredible to me. I am still smarting with the humiliation of it. To be rejected by anyone—I, Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley—is inconceivable. And yet to be rejected by Elizabeth Bennet, who is no one from nowhere, and who should have been honoured I even noticed her, let alone proposed to her? The thing is incredible. And all because I listed the scruples that had long kept me from forming any previous proposal. Had I flattered her into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination, by reason, by reflection, by everything, then I am convinced she would have accepted me, whatever she might say. But disguise is my abhorrence and I made no scruple of my struggles. And how did she repay this honesty? With contempt, telling me that she had never sought my good opinion, never wanted it and had no difficulty, in short, of throwing my proposal back in my face.
It has done one thing for me, however. It has cured me of my feelings for her. I am only now ashamed of what those feelings have been. I pray you will never mention this to anyone, not even to me. I have only to answer the remarks she threw at me in her refusal, and then I have done with her. An encounter would not be wise for either of us, but a letter—yes, a letter will show her how wrong she has been.
I am looking forward to seeing you again. Tell me you will be in London for the Season. I myself will be there. I cannot leave Rosings soon enough. I am now ashamed of myself for ever having thought well of her, for being attracted to her and—above all—for proposing to her. This unfortunate affair is over. Once I have placed the letter into her hands, I hope I never see Elizabeth Bennet again.
Darcy
Miss Elizabeth Bennet to Miss Susan Sotherton
Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent,
April 22
I scarcely know where to begin…I cannot believe…and yet, did not Charlotte always say…But how was I to know, how to think she was right? Of all men, Mr Darcy! And yet there is no doubting it now. Oh! That man! How right my mother was to call him so! To come here and…but I must tell you all.
You know that Mr Darcy is here. He has visited us constantly and I never knew why. I laughed at Charlotte when she said he came for me, for his attentions were certainly not loverlike; indeed, when he called here one day and found me alone, he scarcely opened his mouth. But now…
I was unwell, a headache—caused by Mr Darcy, for I had discovered he played a role in separating Bingley from Jane; Colonel Fitzwilliam told me so—and so I stayed at the parsonage when Charlotte, Maria and Mr Collins went to Rosings for tea. I read Jane’s letters again, mourning her lack of cheerfulness and the knowledge that Mr Darcy was the cause, when the doorbell rang. Thinking it might be Colonel Fitzwilliam come to ask after me, I put the letters aside, but what was my astonishment when Mr Darcy walked in!
You will readily imagine my feelings: he was the last man in the world I wanted to see. I could not understand what he was about. He asked after my health, but seemed to be labouring under some heavy burden, and then he burst out, saying that he admired me and loved me! I have never been so astonished in all my life. I thought he had run mad, or else had taken too much wine. But it soon became apparent that he was perfectly sane and sober, for he strode around the room and told me that I was beneath him, that my family were in every way reprehensible, that it would be an insult to his own relations, but that he was determined to marry me!
My moment of feeling flattered—for who could be insensible to the compliment of a proposal from such a man?—swiftly passed, to be replaced by anger, mortification and contempt, and I roundly rejected him. He started; he had not expected it. He thought I would fall at his feet and thank him for his condescension, which shows how little he knows me! And then he asked why he was rejected with so little civility! When he had spent ten minutes roundly abusing my parents, my sisters, my station in life and his own wayward feelings!
You may be sure I answered him in kind, asking him why he had couched his proposal in such insulting terms. But I could not wait for his answer, for my feelings against him were such that they had to be given voice. I told him that I could never marry a man who had ruined my sister’s happiness, and he changed colour, which removed every last shred of doubt in my mind that he was indeed the person responsible. He did not apologise, as might have been expected, but said only that he had been kinder to Bingley than to himself. This civil reflection did not do anything to lessen my anger, as you may imagine, and I set about him for his cruel and inhuman treatment of George Wickham. And what was his reaction? Shame for his misdeeds? Not a bit of it! He waved them aside and declared that I had only rejected him because he had not flattered me enough!
Why do men find it so hard to understand that we will not fall at their feet if they ask us to marry them? I am beginning to think that they are all either too stupid or too arrogant to see that we are not all eager to spend the rest of our lives with cruelty or pride; that we might draw back from trusting our future happiness to a man who has shown no interest in our feelings, but only in his own needs and desires.