Darcy's Letter

Dear Father,

Though you are beyond the reading any of these seemingly futile letters, I write to you again as having no living acquaintance that the conversing of this subject would not bring me some level of embarrassment and undesirable attention to my person. The subject of this letter is one that even in written form is difficult to discuss with myself at this time, but it is that I feel it necessary to clear my mind of such thoughts that would most likely lead to a blinded reasoning on my part, creating failings in areas in which I wish to make none. The subject that has come to bring me so much trouble in these recent months, most simply put, is love.

 This feeling of attraction to certain persons was something I never thought I would have the inclination to experience, or experience in such a way as I am now. In a sentence, it is not as I thought. It is a humorous thing that having no experience on a subject one often thinks such a subject easy to explain, to understand, to overcome, so I found with myself on this topic. You were always one to tell me that my pride could leave me to create opinions of things in which I had no understanding and with such as my natural superiority in which I profess myself, it would only make my falling in error all the more painful. You were correct.

Previously I thought of love as an easy feeling, that like a coat over one's shoulders it was an easy thing to become accustomed to, but could be shaken off with a simple movement of the shoulders, even if it might perhaps expose one to the uncomfortable cold. It pains me to say that I was decisively and completely wrong, in a way that tortures me to the time of writing. It is painful to me that I was to find out of this misconception in the act experiencing it, experiencing it in a way that I hoped I never would, that I nor even had the inclination to give the smallest contemplation to, such a situation that now pulls my being in roils of confusion. Perhaps I might have been able to avoid it, to dodge this dire problem altogether. Though I can only imagine that I would have been hopelessly unsuccessful in such a prospect.

 Love cannot be simply shaken from the shoulders; It is not a manageable or uncomplicated feeling. Love does not seem to follow the common rules of man or of state. It is not an elementary feeling of attraction, of finding a feeling of kindred among those on the other side of our humanity. It is a binding thing. I cannot at sometimes doubt that there is a being who slings arrows of such feelings at random, that the flame of love is a playful thing that finds delight in torturing the unsuspecting bystanders. But even at these moments there is a part of my being that can only feel that there is absolute destiny and eternal arrangement in these matters. That only one could possibly catch my affection in such a deep affecting way. That through all the chaos of life somehow, someway, even if I had never stepped aboard the carriage to Netherfield, my acquaintance would have blown upon the one of which my affection rests at this very moment. It is a tumultuous thing to encounter love, never do I believe I have been so badgered by affliction, so blown about in myself that I can find no way but to proceed on the path that at times inevitable.

It tears me that I have even come to contemplating thoughts that would fail to logically keep this house and my kin in the order as I had thought and promised to myself on the day of your passing. The thoughts of joining with one who would not add to our finances or seemingly to further the broad education of young Ms. Darcy. How do I find myself pondering on such things as destiny and chaos as I had discouraged my companions at times previously. How can I feel something so deeply purposeful and destined but cannot at times understand the logic of such conclusions. The object of these feelings I cannot help but feel is the most possibly deserving advocate; yet this person, of whom I think often, is not of such station of which I have tried to direct my attentions to, for the wellbeing of my sister, in the past. Yet I can find no fault with the immediate recipient, no fault in her appearance or in her smiling ways. Love is NOT as I thought.

I feel that I may never hope to comprehend it. It is too wide a thing to be measured, too tall a thing to climb over. Love is beyond me, but a part of me at simultaneous moments. I find that I can only hope for this feeling to be carried to the one of which I aspire for. I do not know of anything to deny nor confirm any equal or mutual feelings on her part. That is what scares me.

 If this feeling is only to be rejected, to be turned away, what, how would my reaction be? I do not know enough about love to measure my reaction at refutation. I do not believe my feelings would lessen, for even now, I do not know where her feelings lie at this moment. To be rejected would mean in a word that can least describe the feeling, a disappointment. Yet I can only at this time wish her happiness in whatever she chooses. I do not though, really believe there could be such a refusal. But I never know. Love has turned my inner compass every which way and ever since I have entered this feeling, I find that I never know. I never know. I only know that even if time somehow finds a way to lessen my deep regard, it seems ludicrously impossible at the moment, but even if it could decrease my passion, I know that it will never leave my heart. There will always be a tenderness in my being if not even to the extent at this time, a remnant will always reside within me.

I do not know, but I find myself drawing low on ink and since I might waste many more sheets of paper on this subject, repeating myself to an unneeded extent, I draw to a close this letter. The fact remains that love is not something any man or women can claim to understand. My knowledge is none the superior, therefore I may never hope to understand the subject, but I know no one could ever steal my joy, if my feelings in the end of this confusion are realized. I would be the happiest man in the world to call upon the one I love, as Mrs. Darcy.

FITZWILLIAM DARCY

 Upon the rejection of Ms. Bennet, Mr. Darcy attempted to throw these pages in the fire, burning their corners and damaging the sentence in which he admits his fear of his affection being futile. But after a second's reflection, he rescued the papers burning his left thumb slightly. Where in the handing of the letters of explanation to Ms. Bennet the next day he wore a pair of spotless white gloves.