Chapter 17 Letter from Fitzwilliam Darcy to Elizabeth Bennet, 25 December 1811
Dearest, loveliest Elizabeth,
We have just parted, and my mind races with all the words I wish to speak to you—the tender sentiments I may now, at last, disclose.
Would that I might have said all this in person, but—to your amusement and my extreme chagrin—the gathering today at Netherfield permitted us but the briefest moment of solitary conversation. Thus am I punished for my efforts to thwart Bingley.
Yes, my love, I give you leave to laugh at me. I shall enjoy it, knowing that I may now anticipate a lifetime of your teasing.
I enclose with this note several letters that I wrote to my cousin chronicling our confinement at Netherfield.
I trust they will afford you some amusement and grant you insight into the depth of my affections.
I can only hope that you will not despise me for them.
I do, at one juncture, term you a crafty chit—a tribute to your exceptional wit and determination, I assure you.
Elizabeth—the liberty of at last addressing you so is a heady thing!
The past days seem to me like something out of a dream, too marvellous to be real.
When I first resolved to return to Hertfordshire, that determination was almost despair: my one hope lay in your refusal to promise my aunt that you would not marry me.
As my carriage drew further from London and nearer to you, I felt increasingly certain that you would spurn my offer, and only my sense of justice demanded that I tender my apologies for Lady Catherine’s conduct and express the truth of my sentiments in person.
You deserved at least the opportunity to rebuke me for my family’s unforgivable discourtesy.
When I saw you again—two days ago, though to me it seems a lifetime—I felt sure that all my fears were confirmed.
You were quiet, your eyes fixed on your hands, and you made your curtsy without once looking at me.
Even as the last of my hope died, I thought you more beautiful than ever—peerless, and eternally beyond my reach.
Then you looked up. Your eyes found mine as though by some inevitability, and the force of your gaze nearly robbed me of breath.
Have I told you how I adore your eyes, my love? They have bewitched me from almost our first meeting—so clear and bright, lit by turns with a teasing spark or defiant fire. Perhaps I shall give over management of Pemberley to my agent and pass all my days henceforth in gazing into your eyes.
You will forgive me for writing nonsense, will you not? —But I know you will, for absurdity diverts you, and evidently happiness renders me very absurd indeed.
That one glance restored all my hope. You did not smile, but neither did you look away.
It carried me through the whole evening.
Dearly though I wished to be constantly at your side, to speak all that was in my heart, it was enough to know that you did not despise me and that my courtesy towards your family, which I ought always to have offered, might now give you some pleasure.
When we returned to Netherfield, I scarcely slept, so eager was I to see you once more.
I had hoped to find occasion to address you during the wedding breakfast, but of course, it proved impossible.
Your mother required your assistance in entertaining the guests, and I passed much of the morning in avoiding Miss Bingley.
I know you observed my discomfort at her frequent demands and insinuations.
On one occasion, you intervened by asking if I wished for more coffee, and I dearly wished to kiss you.
When you thereafter fixed me with a teasing smile and left me to the dubious mercies of my former ally, I longed to kiss you all the more—teasing minx!
I was fortunate that your excellent aunt swept in mere moments later to compare our childhood impressions of Lambton.
Have I you to credit for that intervention, my dear?
Or was it merely Mrs. Gardiner’s good nature?
In any case, no opportunity to declare myself appeared. Nevertheless, I returned to Netherfield in high spirits, knowing that Bingley was happily settled and that I would see you again today.
Most of all, I cherished that moment we shared during the wedding service: you, standing up for your sister, and I for my friend.
Though we were supposed to face the altar, I could not resist glancing over at you often.
I suppose the whole of Hertfordshire must now know of my sentiments, unless they be very unobservant indeed.
You seemed to keep your eyes fixed forward for most of the service.
Only when the couple began their vows did you turn towards me, and our eyes at last met.
You did not look away. I felt—was I alone in this, I wonder?
—that your soul gazed into mine. I knew then, as never before, the extent of my own foolishness in attempting to give you up.
What is name or fortune compared to the affectionate understanding I found in your eyes?
Compared to the delight of arguing or laughing with you, of observing your selfless care for those you love?
What higher good could any man wish for in this life, than to win the hand of so excellent a woman?
Will you tease me for this letter, I wonder? I can only hope so.
I rose this morning with a sense of profound expectation: whether by chance or contrivance, the moment to speak must come.
And come it did, though later than I might have wished.
Miss Bingley, perhaps sensing the impending destruction of her hopes, clung doggedly to my arm in the churchyard this morning and lingered at my side all through lunch and dinner.
Fortune favoured me, however—though perhaps I ought not profess satisfaction at another’s distress.
Mrs. Hurst’s health remains indifferent, and when she retired, she demanded her sister’s attendance.
At once, I drew apart to the window. There, I waited in desperate suspense.
If you joined me, would that not be a sign that you were open to my addresses?
At last, you came, gazing out into the darkness beside me, your arm nearly brushing mine. Your nearness was an intoxicant: my head reeled, though I had drunk but little.
At once, the words tumbled forth. I cannot recall what I said: some expression of regret for my aunt’s conduct, which you at once dismissed, followed by an ineloquent expression of my own adoration and a plea that you accept my hand.
What I do recall—so clearly that I might be living the moment again even now—is your answer. You turned ever so slightly towards me, looking up at me with a smile of breathtaking radiance, and said, “Oh, yes. Thank you, Mr. Darcy. I should like to marry you.” Then we both laughed quietly.
You swayed towards me ever so slightly, and, hidden from the rest of the room, your hand clasped mine. I could feel the tremble of your fingers, and I longed to remove my glove, to feel your skin against my own.
Then your mother called you away, and shortly thereafter you departed. I retired moments later, unable to attend to the conversation or to think of anything but my own happiness.
I will deliver this to you tomorrow, when I ride to Longbourn to speak to your father. If he permits it, I shall acquire a license and make you my bride before Twelfth Night.
You have made me the happiest of men, Elizabeth. The day cannot come soon enough when I may truly call you mine.
I am, now and always,
Yours,
Fitzwilliam Darcy