Fitzwilliam darcys priva.., p.27
Fitzwilliam Darcy’s Private Journal, page 27
At Colonel Fitzwilliam’s addressing me, I stared at him.
“Darcy, have you lost your tongue?” he laughed at my stupid blankness, and turning to the ladies, said, “I never knew him this silly, ladies, before I came to Kent. He is usually a formidable debater, an acute observer of everything, a severe critic, and always eager and ready for cogent arguments. I have often heard from Cantabrigians of his time just what a redoubtable member he had been at the Debating Society there, cutting above everybody else. And yet here, we see him stumble at words and we can draw from him barely a single very short sentence at a time every quarter of an hour if we are lucky.”
The ladies first gazed unbelievingly, utterly astounded at his description of me as quite an avid debater, as if to say that they would not have imagined that of me in a billion years. But then, they shared the fun of mocking me and joined him in hearty mirth.
In the evening after dinner, Colonel Fitzwilliam asked me if we were to leave Rosings on Monday as was our initial plan. I know that I should leave before it is too late, before I am tempted to make an irrevocable decision. But I am not ready to go yet.
“Perhaps we shall postpone it for a few days, maybe till Saturday,” said I. “There is no reason for unnecessary haste, as we have no urgent business awaiting us in Town. We might as well waste a few more days in Kent as in London. You can complete your furlough here.”
“Whatever you say, I am at your disposal,” said he. “Staying a little longer will suit me perfectly fine.”
Saturday, the 4th April, 1812
I resisted my urge to search for Miss Elizabeth on her walks for many days. But today, I gave in to it. I left the house after breakfast, and remembering their discussion of yesterday and judging that her favourite haunts had to be among the wilderness walks rather than more formal parts of the Parks, I struck into the path leading up to those. After about a quarter of an hour, a female form in a pale blue dress with a spencer of a much darker hue and a straw bonnet, suddenly came into the picture in a brisk walk round the bend of the path a little farther on. I knew exactly when she first caught sight of me. She halted for an instant and seemed to hesitate just a fleeting moment, but the next moment resumed walking in the same briskness towards me.
Upon her approaching, I doffed my hat. She dropped a curtsy and said, “Mr Darcy,” in her usual slight saucy tilt of her head to the left. Her face, framed by the bonnet with a wide pale blue ribbons tied beneath her chin a little to the side, was delicate but radiant and the fresh morning air and the brisk walk had added a most attractive colour to her cheeks. An errant lock of her hair was touched softly by the breeze and drawing an attractive swaying curve near the line of her throat. She was as pretty as any picture. I felt as if something squeezed my heart.
We exchanged pedestrian greetings and inquiries. She must have expected me to bid farewell then, and to continue my way for us to take our divergent paths, because I saw her surprised expression when I turned back to fall into step with her. I was meaning to reduce the length of my stride, anticipating her pace to be much slower, but she was vivacious and her brisk steps made curbing of my pace almost unnecessary.
Our discourse did not exactly flow. There were many occasions upon which we fell completely silent, and it could not have been said that they were moments of comfortable silence. But at one time, we, or rather she talked about flowers. That part of the ground beside the path was covered with a mass of small white flowers and a slightly pungent smell pervaded the air. She told me that they were called ‘wood anemones’ and ‘ramsons flowers’. Buds of Bluebells and lilies of the valley, which even I had enough knowledge to name, were already swollen and had changed their colour from deep green to something a little lighter, though not yet quite ready to burst into full bloom.
“What a pity!” said she. “If it were a little later in the season, the grounds would be like blue carpets with bluebells and blankets of white with lilies of the valley, and they would positively smell much sweeter, too. But I shall not complain. The wood anemones and ramsons flowers make pretty pictures too, and they would do just fine by me. And, if one would like a little more colour, I am sure that one would find some daffodils soon.”
And sure enough, a little farther up the path, there were some clumps of wild daffodils.
“These small delicately formed yellow flowers in the shape of trumpets, look quite exquisite in their natural woodland setting, do you not think so, Mr Darcy?” And again that alluring tilting of the head. What else could I have done but nod agreement? We walked a little farther on.
“And here they are!” she exclaimed. “Sweet violets with their petite purple flowers. Oh, dear sweet violets, sweeter than all roses! Who would need roses when one has sweet violets with such perfume!?”
She ran up to them, knelt down, held a flower head between fingers very tenderly and inclined her head as if to smell the scent. It was a gesture that was gentle and feminine, and endeared her to me even more. In nature, Elizabeth looked even more alluring. She was herself like a sweet violet of springtime which charmed whoever beheld it. Delicate and exquisite, and yet bursting with life. Oh, would that I could have held her in my arms and smelt her scent as she did the sweet violet!
Nature was alive. She was alive, very much alive. She was herself a vital part of Nature, one who participated actively, not one who just passively stood by and looked on.
During the walk, she told me that that particular part of the Park was a favourite haunt of hers. When she said so, I thought that I sensed some pregnant expression in her eyes. Did she let it known to me wishing that I would come again?
Monday, the 6th April, 1812
I walked with her again today.
Why do I love her so much? What is it that has made me fall so hopelessly in love with Elizabeth? Is it because she does not fawn over me? Am I so contrary? Is it this contrariness to which human nature is so prone that has made me plunge into love thus? I had long resisted crossing that last border - the final submission to my inclination, acknowledging to myself that I love her irrevocably - and yet, it was beyond my power to hold on to my resolve. I swear to all that is holy, I had tried. As God is my witness, I had endeavoured to forget her. But she was thrown my way God only knew for what purpose! And now it has reached the point at which my yearning for her could no longer be repressed. This indolent indecision is not worthy of me. I have to ask her hand in marriage. And yet I alternate between despondency and confidence. Oh, God, torture me not!
Wednesday, the 8th April, 1812
I walked with Elizabeth today again for the third time. It was a warm and sunny beautiful day. But the beginning of April, and yet it felt like early summer. Song birds seemed to be vying with one another chirping away and the low droning of bees reached my ears from somewhere lending the atmosphere a relaxing monotone. Walking beside her and looking at her profile - well, I cannot honestly say that I actually saw her profile, for her face was quite effectively hidden behind the brim of her bonnet - I wondered again why, of all the fair sex whom this world abounded in, it had to be this girl with low connections and dreadful family to attract this Fitzwilliam Darcy. But I smiled to myself ruefully with resignation, because the stage of such questioning was long passed. She was my heart’s desire. It was in vain to try to fight against such.
“You are much pleased with your stay in Hunsford, I trust?” I asked.
“Yes, thoroughly, I thank you,” answered she.
“And I hope that you have found your friend well settled and happy with her new environment, and… may I say… with her husband?”
“Yes, as happy as she could ever be expected to be under the circumstances,” said she, and I detected some smile in her voice. I knew that she was happy for her friend in spite of the husband. After all, though Mr Collins is not the wisest of men, he must have some saving graces. He is harmless enough.
“Your love of solitary walks must have rendered you quite an authority on the Parks of Rosings,” observed I. “You must know the Parks, or at least the wilderness walks, like the back of your hand by now.”
“Oh, yes, I am quite certain that I know them even better than Lady Catherine De Bourgh herself does,” jested she, “although, when it comes to the house itself, I am not at all well acquainted with it. I still often find myself quite lost in it. It is by far the largest house that I have ever been in.”
“Yes, it is true that it is quite a large mansion,” said I, “but the problem lies in the planning of the corridors. It has rather an awkward complexity. Not so straightforward as that of many other mansions’. May I say that it has the owner’s perversity and contrariness reflected upon it?” I was surprised at myself joking thus. Elizabeth’s jocularity certainly had much influence upon me. “It is rather a difficult thing to familiarize oneself to when you visit only as an outsider. Maybe, when you visit Kent next time, you will, I hope and trust, have a much better opportunity to be fully acquainted with it.”
There, what could have been a more blatant intimation of my intention? She seemed to have understood me. I could not say that she shewed the greatest of joys, but, she looked becomingly abashed and I saw her lower her eyes and a good measure of colour mount her cheeks. I was persuaded that she was not averse to my forcing attention upon her in this fashion.
Then, the walk brought us back to the parsonage, and I took leave of her.
Tomorrow, I shall look for her in her walks again, and ask for her hand in marriage. I am well aware that she is so far below me in her station in life and I shall be doing great wrong in bringing such a connection to mar Georgiana’s consequence, but I am sure that Georgiana would forgive me and love her as if they were real sisters. At Pemberley, so far from Hertfordshire, I should be able to protect her from any unwanted influence of Elizabeth’s family. Society will, no doubt, be outraged at first by such a grave disregard on my part for social responsibility, and a great pantheon of formidable dowagers and society ladies would view Elizabeth with great distaste. But her intelligence and spirit would, I firmly believe, in time soften any disapproval or displeasure which my choice of bride would have incurred, and I trust that their disapprobation would not be worth a few weeks’ purchase.
My aunt has invited them to drink tea with us tomorrow evening. I hope that in the meantime everything will have gone smoothly and Elizabeth will play for me.
Oh, Elizabeth, when did I start calling you by your given name only? When did you become mere ‘Elizabeth’ to me not ‘Miss Elizabeth’? Surely, I may call you Elizabeth at least in my diary?
Thursday, the 9th April, 1812
Dear God! Elizabeth has rejected me, and in such a fashion! Why did I assume that she was kindly inclined towards me? What made me think that her dislike of me in Hertfordshire had turned into something warmer? Upon the strength of the single fact that she had not spurned me on those encounters on the walks? I only saw what my heart wished to see, clinging blindly to the shred of hope and thought it the evidence of her regard!
I have to steady myself and gain some mental purchase. It will hardly be the way to calm my nerves, but I need to look back upon the course of events.
After breakfast, I set out for a walk in anticipation of meeting her as planned. Though I walked well over an hour, I had not the good fortune to find her, and was obliged to abandon the search, taking solace, however, in the prospect that I would somehow contrive to find the opportunity in the evening when the parsonage party came to visit Rosings, or if that failed, I could try again tomorrow.
After luncheon was partaken of, Colonel Fitzwilliam expressed his intention of making his annual tour of the Park, and asked me if I would care to accompany him. I declined, as it would not serve my purpose meeting her in his company, and elected to devote the time instead to writing letters to Bingley and Georgiana, which I had been procrastinating. On his return, I found that Colonel Fitzwilliam had indeed been blessed with far better luck than me. Not only had he met her, but also had been fortunate enough to have her join him upon his walk.
When the time arrived of the parsonage party’s visit, I found that she had excused herself pleading a headache. She was alone at the parsonage! It was a futile effort to try to put the thought of her aside and feign tranquillity. Hardly had the first cups of tea been passed around and the rest begun to settle down to a comfortable coze for the remainder of the evening when I made some limp excuse about forgetting something and needing to be excused for a few minutes, and before Lady Catherine could find the breath to raise an objection, I was out of the room.
To the parsonage I hurried. My thoughts were only for Elizabeth, and my brain was in a kind of feverish delirium. What they would think of the strangeness of my excuse or how odd they might find it when I failed to return after a few minutes never entered my thoughts.
I cannot even recall what I did or said when I reached the parsonage. When the maid answered the door, I must have uttered something of a wish to see Elizabeth, but that part is a complete blur. What I vaguely recall is my mumbling something to the effect of “I hope you are feeling better” to Elizabeth upon being ushered into the room, and her answering, “Yes, a little better, I thank you,” without a smile.
My heart was thudding as it had never done before. She sat there mute while I paced about the room. In hindsight, her cold silence should have warned me. There was not a line of encouraging softness in her body, nor a trace of warmth in her face, nor a hint of smile in her eyes, but with my fevered brain, I failed to notice any of that.
At last, I approached her and told her how I had struggled in vain to conquer my feelings and how ardently I loved her. She stared at me with unblinking eyes for what seemed like an eternity. When pink dyed her cheeks, I took that as a maidenly blush, inviting me to proceed! What a blasted fool I was!
I poured out my heart, tracing my emotions and sufferings, laying bare, as I considered it necessary, not only my ardent, consuming love which in spite of my long struggle had now become insuppressible, but also the scruples which I had had from the very moment when my ill-judged passion had been formed and all the ill consequences and objections which I had known would accrue from indulging such a passion.
“An alarmingly strong attraction which I felt almost at the dawn of our acquaintance, at once warned me that I was in grave danger, and by a sheer force of will I endeavoured to forget you. My sense of duty as the head of a family of lineage as well as the knowledge of the great discrepancy between your station in life and my own combated the passionate admiration and the fervent love which I could not but feel for you, and each side vanquished and was vanquished by turns at first. But in spite of all my caution, for all the drawbacks of such a union which I was more than sensible of, and from which my reason and judgement should have made me turn in horror, there was no conquering my love. Thereby, I implore you to find in your heart enough mercy to end my strife, torture and suffering by accepting my hand in marriage.” I thus pleaded.
She let long silence fall before she answered. Her face was set in a hard line, but even then, I was too foolish to see what was in store for me. I genuinely thought that she was sensible of the honour of receiving a marriage proposal from me! What a clod-pate I was!
At first she deigned not even to turn her head to look at me, but then she levelled a cold stare in my direction, and in a curt, brief manner rejected my offer.
I was aghast to the last degree, and was overpowered by the tumult of my own emotions. Fitzwilliam Darcy, rejected!? It could not be! Elizabeth did not want me!? Could it be possible? All sorts of convoluted emotions roiled inside me, making me almost vertiginous. I felt as if I were teetering on the edge of a precipice, and was obliged to seek support of the mantelpiece, upon which ticked a large clock cheerily breaking the silence as if it were mocking my despair. I tried hard to school my emotions. I waited until I was sure that I had regained my outward composure, then, and only then, with as much dignity as I could muster, did I express my astonishment why with so little civility I was rejected.
The answer which she vouchsafed me first assured me that her rejection derived from her chagrin which my honest opinion of her low consequence had given rise to. But then, she professed that there were other incitements and proceeded to accuse me of having been the very, if not the only, instrument for ruining the happiness of Miss Bennet. Her voice trembled with indignation. I was not a little taken aback. I had not known that she had divined that crucial part which I had played in separating Bingley from Miss Bennet. I would have much rather she had not, but that was of little consequence. I had acted with Bingley’s welfare in view, for which my conscience was unassailed, and I rejoiced in my success, and were I to be called for now, I would happily do the same again, all of which I acknowledged to Elizabeth without reservation. She manifested every sign of being positively displeased.
Then, to what - or rather to whom - she referred next deprived me of a good measure of composure. She referred to Wickham, and the eager interest which she still took in his concerns was freshly made amply apparent to me.
I cannot deny what I felt then was agonizing jealousy. Being repeatedly made to feel jealous of Wickham of all men! Oh, Elizabeth! What a wretched state of degradation you reduced me to again and again!
She hurled the fierce accusation at me of having with malicious intent withheld from Wickham his rightful claim which I had known to be wholly his due, of treating with contempt and ridicule his present relative penury and misfortunes, which I had myself been the callous inflictor! Oh, that she could believe such a thing of me, believe me capable of committing such dishonour, such iniquity! How low her estimation of me must have been! I felt resentful and angry, angry with her to have believed Wickham with such blind trust, and angry with myself to have loved her so much only to have my love thrown back at my face.
