Darcy's Thoughts on the First of Four Evenings at Netherfield with Jane Bennet Ill Upstairs and Elizabeth Bennet Downstairs.

Posted on March 5, 2009

Good God, Miss Bennet, who'd suspect
    that sister Jane would spend the night,
    then you'd endure a three-mile plight,
    proving to be a dreadful sight.
How many more can we expect?

This flight of Bennets needs to cease.
    Your crowded house, with girls galore,
    bursting its roof, might start to pour
    a horde of harpies by the score
to come destroy my blessed peace.

But do partake of Bingley's grace.
    As long as we must entertain
    two common girls like you and Jane,
    I'll stifle my routine disdain
unless your mother shows her face.

I hear you breathing stealthy sighs.
    Yes, that is how it always starts.
    A girl exerts her female arts
    sinking her teeth in manly hearts,
as Bingley's sister often tries.

Don't try to hide your furtive stare.
    It's as I thought, you're like the rest,
    embarking on a husband-quest,
    thinking that I would be impressed
because you've caught me unaware.

So let me clear your muddled mind,
    reminding you of who you are,
    and pointing out the social bar,
    the gulf between us too, too far,
your situation so confined.

Your simple life is rather grim.
    With no effective future plan,
    you live at Longbourn while you can,
    entailed to that pretentious man.
You ought to go and marry him.

Oh yes, that Collins can display
    a penchant for convenient love
    with sanction from the Lord above,
    the sort that Anne is weary of.
I hope it's your house where he'll stay.

Your presence throws my brain askew,
    confounding all my mental powers.
    So please confine your idle hours
    to milking cows or planting flowers,
whatever country ladies do.

Darcy's further thoughts on the second of four evenings at Netherfield after Mrs. Bennet had been to visit that afternoon

I can't abide a girl like you.
    Your mother such a fussy hen,
    your sisters number almost ten,
    trying to ambush single men,
and you're embarrassed by them too!

Your mother lets your sister ride
    in pouring rain, and then you walk
    a full three miles without a squawk,
    greeting us in your muddy frock.
What guidance does Papa provide?

Your mother takes a firm command
    when any of her offspring meet
    a naive man of large receipt.
    He might as well admit defeat
for soon his wedding day is planned.

What is it that your mother thinks?
    That Bingley's life belongs to Jane?
    That he should be her next campaign?
    That he approves this Bennet stain?
What is it that your mother drinks?

Thank God they didn't stay the night,
    or else I'd be your mother's prey
    and have to fly out Longbourn way,
    hearing what Father has to say
with all his females out of sight.

You do possess a certain wit,
    a sort of sharp and clever mind,
    and judgment of the keenest kind.
    But still you're much too unrefined.
For Pemberley you're so unfit.

And that's the worst of all my fears,
    to have a mistress at the helm
    who'd traipse around my ancient realm
    feeling at once so overwhelmed,
she'd run to Longbourn, drenched in tears.

But, heavens, what a nerve you've got!
    To think I'd marry one like you,
    your next of kin a motley crew,
    mother who acts without a clue.
To think I'd harbour such a thought!

I have to say, though, something's there,
    the laughter that your wit provokes,
    the comfort that your voice evokes,
sitting upon that Queen Anne chair,
ringlets within your tousled hair,
    snubbing Miss Bingley's little jokes,
    watching her while her temper smokes.
A girl like you is very rare.

You hide it well. Your cryptic face
    betrays no hint of any scheme.
    Your eye holds no ambitious gleam.
But mine is such a busy case.
Think of the duties I embrace.
    My name is held in such esteem,
    my hand is every woman's dream.
For you it's not the time or place.

Yet more thoughts on the third evening at Netherfield after Miss Bingley insists upon taking a turn about the room.

You females make a pretty pair.
    Like rivals, at your throats all day,
    scheming, while my attentions stray
    to put your figures on display
while I just ogle from my chair.

Miss Bingley asks I take a turn,
    but I'll just sit, enjoy the view,
    study what female forms can do,
    and watch her try to bury you,
But watch me make her temper burn.

"My dear Miss Bingley, I presume
    that in this rather crowded sphere
    my presence there would interfere,
    so I'll observe from over here."
And now let's hope she leaves the room.

And yet she stays. She won't allow
    your presence here to compromise
    her lofty rank, for in her eyes
    my surname is her well-earned prize.
I'll need to let her down somehow.

But wait, Miss Bennet, surely you
    don't harbour any vulgar thought
    that Bingley's sister holds a spot.
    I tell you frankly -- she does not!
How could you nurture such a view!

She's really just a hanger-on.,
    who's hoping for the slender chance
    of sharing what my fortune grants,
    but hardly rates a second glance.
She'll be delighted when you've gone.

But if she leaves, I hope you'll stay
    My little sister, still at home,
    has sent me quite a lengthy tome,
    including such a pretty poem
about a girl's who come my way.

Her poem's inspired by thoughts of you.
    I don't know what I ever said
    to put the notion in her head
    that you'd be one I'd want to wed.
Her rosy-eyed romantic view!

It's true, I may have said a word
    about your bold and haughty air,
    about the way you wear your hair,
about the thoughts you may have spurred.

My silly sister's heavy touch!
    The foolish thoughts that she'll evoke
    from what I prematurely spoke.
That naive girl infers too much.

Final thoughts on the fourth evening, after an anxious day deep in contemplation of unwelcome subjects.

My dear Miss Bennet, can't you see
    beyond this face I hide behind
    and hear the thoughts inside my mind?
You need to love a man like me.

I sit and watch for hours and hours
    just hoping for a chance to speak
    and knowing that within the week
you will have left these dreary towers.

You grow within me more and more,
    your subtle wit so warm and wise,
    the saucy way you tilt your eyes.
Why didn't I perceive before?

The light is dim, the fire is low,
    the evening's late the clock declares.
    Your sister needs your help upstairs,
but I can't bear to see you go.

Forgive the way my mind is led,
    obsessing over what would be,
    if you could live your life with me
and come upstairs to me instead.

But heavens, how I do drone on
    when really there's so little hope
    of sliding down that Bennet slope
    to hang myself with Longbourn rope.
My life to come is quite foregone.

The road ahead is not my own.
    I must respect my ancient name,
    achieve some sort of great acclaim,
    become what other men became.
My future course is set in stone.

You're like a wind that comes along
    to stoke until my passions burn
    and threaten ruin at every turn.
    A lesson I still need to learn.
My ramparts must continue strong.

How close you came you'll never know
    to snuffing out my brilliant flame,
    to tarnishing the Darcy name
    and dooming me to lasting shame.
To have you here confounds me so.
    I only have myself to blame.
How close you came you'll never know.