He’s not quite my type, this hero of Jane Austen’s, but somehow one doesn’t have to long for him, to empathise with his dark, brooding, taciturn admiration of the brightest of the Bennet sisters.
In olden times, once one knew one admired one, and one reciprocated one’s admiration, the marriage proposal scurried hot on the heels of the first professions of undying love.
Darcy had one rather abortive attempt at asking Elizabeth Bennet to marry him, during which she gave him short shrift.
He knew he loved her, but he did not help himself into her good books. The moment he stepped into her social circle he was rubbing people up the wrong way and stepping on all the wrong toes.
At his first appearance at a local ball, he condescended to dance with two women, and spent the rest of the evening talking to no-one except his own friends.
In fact he told his friend Bingley that he felt it would be a punishment to dance with anyone the room except his friend’s sisters.
Add to his awkward social manner the fact that he caused a friend and admirer of hers- Wickham- to be disinherited: and you will understand why Elizabeth was truly disenchanted.
By the time she realised her friend was a ne’er do well, and Darcy was indeed a good catch, the proposal was a whisper in the wind.
It took an old busybody to bring the two together, as we always knew they were destined to be.
Darcy’s Aunt, Lady Catherine, glimpsed regard on both their parts, as the old and wise (if occasionally cantankerous) are wont to do. She moved in to quash the deal, tipping Darcy off that Elizabeth’s feelings had changed radically.
His good deeds, done without hope of recognition, came to light and when he ventured his second proposal, she agreed.
I love Austen’s description of Darcy at this moment of realisation as ‘violently in love’. There is nothing tempered about his regard for Elizabeth Bennett. If you and I knew them personally I suspect we would be cheering without decorum.
There is one prince who seemed, a little sadly, to doubt the violence of his love.
I have to ask whether Britain’s Prince Charles had that intensity of emotion which dogged Mr Darcy to declare himself a second time.
Princess Diana was often very good at managing the press. She had an excellent grasp of how to make the public look her way, and they did, every time.
It was during her biography, written by Andrew Morton, that she tells how he took her to the nursery at Windsor Castle to propose.
When he asked her, she says she thought he was joking, and agreed in the same playful spirit.
But he was serious. And when she agreed to marry him, she told him she loved him, her biography relates.
He answered with that phrase, one which rang false even on the day they first faced the cameras together: “Whatever love means….”
Poor man. Poor girl. Wrapped up in ceremony and pomp and circumstance and unable to see, any more, what it means to be violently in love.
When I was a reporter I used to float around in my own world. My head was constantly in the clouds and I never picked up social nuances and politics.
My office was like a living soap opera. There was the young highly intelligent loudmouth whose one ambition was to get to The Sun, our lowbrow but well written British comic-for-the-masses.
Eventually, he got his wish.
There was the long suffering editor who never made a deadline any more terrifying than it really had to be.
Two grounded deputies, each in their own way: and a motley crew of journos, just starting in the profession, learning how to get a story and make it behave.
I sat on the same desk as Phil, whom I ignored for some considerable time, not because he was not an attractive proposition, but because I could never imagine how someone like me could end up with someone as odd, and glamorous and clever as he was.
It was a typical Darcy regard/ Elizabeth oblivious scenario. We simply never dared investigate.
Our offices were in a humble, provincial town centre just down the road from Sainsbury’s.
Every morning, someone would send a list round to find out who was peckish and what they would like from the supermarket.
And generally, because I marched then, and always will march, on my stomach, the list compiler was me. I’d send a dog-eared piece of copy paper round, and I can still remember some of the orders.
My editor loved potato and frankfurter salad. Even when I make that today, I think of him.
My deputy would generally order a diet drink. She was getting married and needed to ensure she would fit into her dress, which I may add, she did, superbly.
Fast-reporter always liked crisps. And so on and so on.
One day I sent round the list, and just to be sure I read it out loud so people could check their orders.
A pot of pot and frank sal.
Diet coke.
A packet of crisps.
Half a pound of love and a packet of desire.
It wasn’t until I had read it out loud with my usual thoughtless flourish that the analytical part of my brain kicked in, and I thought, Pardon?
Phil, knowing I would be the sole reader of the list, had made his intentions clear. And then I had loud-hailed them to our small but seething community.
I paid for that piece of tactlessness. A predatory female journo made her move with alacrity, and it took months to de-extricate the man I wanted to investigate from her (engaged to somebody else) talons.
I dashed up north to two close friends, both girl journalists, and presented them with the list. I asked, seriously and with earnest puzzlement, did it mean I had a chance with Phil?
Half an hour later, they had begun to stop laughing, just enough to tell me to investigate further.
Which I did: and here I sit, waiting for the subject of my investigations to return so we can take our daughter out to her latest open evening, ready for secondary school.
Auspicious, colourful beginnings: they don’t guarantee happy endings. But it does help if you know whatever love is.
Kate Shrewsday 
i so much enjoyed this. thank you kate. once upon a time – my life was filled with heavy conversations regarding the use a colon and avoiding the “widow.” life as an editor was such a fulfilling period. the stories i recall – the writers being the lowest of the low in magazine publishing and having to sit cubie to cubie with the pretty sales girls who pitched their saunter and laugh. we, the writers and editors, developed this kind of scowl and sour-mouthed pout based on the gaping reality: beauty reigns and good composition is always the first to go.
Oh, uglyearring, good to hear a fellow hack’s take on it. I had forgotten the sales girls! There is nothing quite like an old-fasioned newspaper office is there? Your experience explains a lot….you cram so much into a few words and a perfectly chosen picture….
the things that shaped my early maturity are disappearing: the darkroom, the world poets, and an old-fashioned newsroom. i had so much fun in that world.
and what a good observation.
🙂
are you and the other half still writing professionally? i read somewhere in your blog you went into teaching and then motherhood… and then?
for me, it went from editor to marketing – sometimes i ask how did that happen? i confess: i miss writing, researching, hacking the words on a daily basis. you?
That happened to Phil: most of the time he’s in internal comms now. I’m back to teaching but it feels so good to write 1000 words a day I’m thinking of trying to take it somewhere…see what happens…..
What a lovely, witty, sweet post. You’ve brightened my Monday. I saw a TV piece on Prince Charles last night, and he seems, on the surface at least, much happier and content these days with his second wife. Perhaps he got a second chance and found “whatever love is.”
You know, Susan, you are absolutely right. he has indeed found contentment and happiness. And it is good to see.
Hi Kate
“Whatever love means” is also the title of a novel by David Baddiel which I read a while back. The story starts on that fateful day at the end of the summer in 1997 when a car crashed in a Paris tunnel. Good book – I certainly seemed to like it (as per my blog post back in March last year!)
Miff x
Ooooh, two projects: 1) read your blog post and 2) read Baddiel’s book. You are always a fund of literary info, Miff:-) Thanks. Hope work is behaving itself…
“Half a pound of love and a packet of desire.”
An eccentric AND a romantic AND a man who knows what love is. AND a poet. This is a great post. Thank you.
You are welcome Kathy. And your inscrutable cat.
Oops. That comment with the yawning cat was from me. I was logged in to the newsletter I (loudly) edit but had forgotten where I was. I’d also forgotten the cat was there–he’s highly inappropriate for a bunch of mystery writers and readers.
Oh, I don’t know, I think he has a deeply inscrutable look about him. He can even yawn mysteriously. Very talented animal.
Love the story, Kate.
Of course I know it well, and the whole sequel !!!
Just to show you we are still reading the blog, even if we don’t always answer.
We get busy, you know!
Love Dad
Nice to know you are still there, Dad. I think your absence of comments ifs affecting my ratings. You’re a feature, you know. People like bloggers’ Dads to comment. It adds a certain quirky eccentricity.
You could comment in morse if you felt more comfortable.
I adored this from start to finish, Kate. I am, and always will be, a romantic at heart. Good on ya, girl.
Nothing wrong with the odd bit of schmaltz, is there James? 🙂
Glad it hit the spot. Now go and have some chicken soup (I guess bean will do if you’re vegetarian) and get well…..
Love it, love it , love it. There’s a story in there. Oops! It’s been done.
Someone said the other day that Phil is a keeper – I second that most heartily.
The best I got from my dear departed was ‘Do you want to share toothpaste?’
Well, Liz, it has a comforting utilitarian ring about it…the gift of the gab is so very highly prized. But there is still no handle on my back door and yesterday my mother in law couldn’t let the cat in.
Ew, how loverly, a romantic tale. Loverly, loverly.
Reminded me of my first dance with Cyclomaniac!
Right, everyone over to Pseu’s for a really romantic haiku! Last one there’s a wilting rose!
This is the best thing I’ve read all day. What charm! And oddly, I’ve just reread that famous Austin piece. I love this beginning with Phil and that together you’ve woven a life. I sat next to my dh on a long flight and decided that I should set him up with my sister due to his youth. Ahh 18 years ago.
Funny how things coincide, isn’t it, Tammy? I’m reading it to my daughter right now.
And you have very Elizabeth-like leanings, I see: you set out with the idea of settling someone around you with the right person; and ended up becoming settled yourself.
Lovely:-)
http://pseu1.wordpress.com/2010/10/08/all-those-years-ago-2/
Not a haiku today!
My mother’s name is “Darcy.” I’m sure you can imagine the jokes that ensued when I watched the Pride and Prejudice episode of Wishbone. I was young though so I think it was excused.
Oh, my goodness, now I know someone who is related to someone called Darcy. That in itself is quite romantic.:-D thanks….