Mr. Darcy's Diary

There is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair, on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is, that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister’s being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without ill consequence, is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this concealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister’s feelings, it was unknowingly done: and though the motives which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn them.

I had written the easy part of the letter. The difficult part was still to come. Had I the right to go further? The incidents I had to relate did not only concern myself, they concerned my sister, my dear Georgiana. If they should ever be made public…but I found I had no apprehension of it. Elizabeth would not speak of them to anyone, certainly not if I asked her to keep silence, and she had to know.

But did she have to know all? Did she have to know of my sister’s weakness? I wrestled with myself. I returned once more to the window. I watched the moon sailing over the cloudless sky. If she did not know of my sister’s weakness, then she could not know of Wickham’s perfidy, I reflected, and it was to tell her of this that I had begun the letter.

I could pretend it was to answer the charge of being the cause of her sister’s unhappiness, but I knew in my heart it was because I wanted to exonerate myself of all blame in my conduct towards George Wickham.

I could not bear the thought of him being her favourite, or the thought of my being valued at nothing by his side.

I resumed my letter.

With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has particularly accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity.

‘Colonel Fitzwilliam will vouch for me,’ I said under my breath.

But how to tell the tale? How to arrange the incidents of Wickham’s life into some coherent whole? And how to write it in such a way that my animosity did not colour every word? For I meant to be fair, even to him.

I thought. At last I continued to write.