I met this man: Proud, grave and handsome
And I never knew his first name was Fitzwilliam,
Until that tumultuous morning in Kent,
When he handed me a lengthy letter before he left.
"Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?"
He asked, full of sarcasm, as usual.
It was a stately envelope,
Carrying two sheets of letter paper,
Written quite through, in close hand,
With no aristocratic pretensions,
Displaying few traces of the despicable pride
That always marked his disposition and demeanor.
Too many words,
The ink was not snobbish however.
You could tell by merely touching it,
The quill must have burnt with passionate fire,
Fire of resentment and anger.
But Love was the colour of the ink.
Furious love, that makes one's soul shrink to the core.
Fiery love, that eats up all prejudice and falsehoods.
The paper bore his peculiar scent;
That alluring fragrance of his expensive perfume,
Often mixed with his luminous sweat;
The same bewitching scent I had smelt
When we danced together the first time,
When I had asked him to comment upon the size of the room
Or the number of couples.
Well, he didn't speak much,
That was against his character.
But I talk by rule while dancing, you know,
Just as I listen to people's conversations while reading books.
He didn't get his eyes off me.
I recollected I was not handsome enough to tempt him.
So I thought he was counting the flaws in my facial symmetry.
But he smiled at me!
By Christ! He smiled, without pride, without restraint, with feeling.
I tell you, coming back to the letter,
The gaps between sentences and words were meagre.
As if he was tired of distances, of separation;
As if he wanted to rip apart all the spaces between us;
Yes, he was yearning to come closer, nearer.
O why did I learn that awful letter!
How much I adored the idea of spurning him, despising him forever!
But that was how I learned his full name,
'Fitzwilliam Darcy',
Remember to always prefix it with 'Mister'.
In vain had he struggled, it won't do.
He must admit to me his affections,
Despite my inferior connections,
Despite the meanness of my rank
By birth and circumstance.
So he asked me for my hand,
Against his better judgement, against his rationality.
Damn! What an ingenious design to insult me!
But love is obstinate, untameable and blind.
He still admires me for my impertinence,
Which he slyly calls "the liveliness of your mind".
And I never knew his first name was Fitzwilliam,
Until that tumultuous morning in Kent,
When he handed me a lengthy letter before he left.
"Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?"
He asked, full of sarcasm, as usual.
It was a stately envelope,
Carrying two sheets of letter paper,
Written quite through, in close hand,
With no aristocratic pretensions,
Displaying few traces of the despicable pride
That always marked his disposition and demeanor.
Too many words,
The ink was not snobbish however.
You could tell by merely touching it,
The quill must have burnt with passionate fire,
Fire of resentment and anger.
But Love was the colour of the ink.
Furious love, that makes one's soul shrink to the core.
Fiery love, that eats up all prejudice and falsehoods.
The paper bore his peculiar scent;
That alluring fragrance of his expensive perfume,
Often mixed with his luminous sweat;
The same bewitching scent I had smelt
When we danced together the first time,
When I had asked him to comment upon the size of the room
Or the number of couples.
Well, he didn't speak much,
That was against his character.
But I talk by rule while dancing, you know,
Just as I listen to people's conversations while reading books.
He didn't get his eyes off me.
I recollected I was not handsome enough to tempt him.
So I thought he was counting the flaws in my facial symmetry.
But he smiled at me!
By Christ! He smiled, without pride, without restraint, with feeling.
I tell you, coming back to the letter,
The gaps between sentences and words were meagre.
As if he was tired of distances, of separation;
As if he wanted to rip apart all the spaces between us;
Yes, he was yearning to come closer, nearer.
O why did I learn that awful letter!
How much I adored the idea of spurning him, despising him forever!
But that was how I learned his full name,
'Fitzwilliam Darcy',
Remember to always prefix it with 'Mister'.
In vain had he struggled, it won't do.
He must admit to me his affections,
Despite my inferior connections,
Despite the meanness of my rank
By birth and circumstance.
So he asked me for my hand,
Against his better judgement, against his rationality.
Damn! What an ingenious design to insult me!
But love is obstinate, untameable and blind.
He still admires me for my impertinence,
Which he slyly calls "the liveliness of your mind".
