My name is Fitzwilliam Darcy. Allow me to set the record straight before this absurd narrative grows even more ridiculous. Somehow, despite my best intentions, I’ve been tragically misunderstood by everyone involved in this county-wide debacle. Public favor? I’ve never sought it, nor do I require it—especially not from those who think a man’s worth is determined by his ability to endure insipid dances and conversations about the weather. And yet, here I am, cast as the villain. Truly, this county has no grasp of perspective.

Let’s begin with the Meryton ball. Yes, that ball. Bingley, my eternally optimistic friend, dragged me along despite my repeated assurances that I would rather be anywhere else—Pemberley, preferably, where the company was far more agreeable and asked fewer inane questions about hunting. The man actually finds joy in watching people make spectacles of themselves, twirling about in a ballroom as though they’re all auditioning for a very poor production of Romeo and Juliet. Personally, I prefer not to watch people move about like startled chickens, but alas, I was there, standing as close to the exit as possible without actually fleeing. Balls are, after all, little more than opportunities for people to twirl about while exchanging meaningless pleasantries. I stood on the periphery, enduring it all with the patience of a man sentenced to hard labor.

And then, the infamous incident—Elizabeth Bennet. Yes, I refused to dance with her. But let’s clarify: I didn’t insult her. I simply stated a fact. I said she was “tolerable.” And frankly, that was me being kind. I could have said “adequate” or, heaven forbid, “passable,” but I thought I was being charitable. Little did I know that my casual remark would spark a county-wide scandal. Honestly, society must be more fragile than I realized.

Now, I’ll admit, Elizabeth Bennet lingered in my thoughts longer than I expected. At first, I thought it was because she had an irritating way of ignoring my every word, as though she were unaware of my stature. I am Fitzwilliam Darcy, after all. Most women would stumble over themselves to catch my eye, and yet here was Elizabeth, treating me as though I were the room’s least interesting piece of furniture. Naturally, I was intrigued—who wouldn’t be fascinated by such defiance in the face of obvious superiority?

But before we continue, let’s address her family. Mrs. Bennet, in particular, is a force of nature—like a tornado in lace, tearing through conversations with the singular focus of marrying off her daughters as if they were commodities at auction. At any moment, I half-expected her to pull out an auctioneer’s hammer and start calling out bids. “Three thousand pounds for Jane Bennet, going once, going twice!” And then there’s Lydia—well, Lydia is the sort of girl who could get lost in her own house or wander into traffic while daydreaming. If she ever met a mirror, I’m sure the two would get along famously.

And dear Bingley, poor unsuspecting Bingley. The man fell headfirst into infatuation with Jane Bennet, and, as his friend, it fell to me to save him. I mean, he’s like a golden retriever with a trust fund—well-meaning, but completely oblivious to danger. He couldn’t see the disaster awaiting him in the form of Jane’s family. The wedding would have been held in a barn, with Mrs. Bennet arranging the seating and handing out porridge like some kind of deranged innkeeper. I couldn’t let that happen. I had to protect him—from himself, really.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Now we must discuss Wickham. Ah, Wickham. The man is a walking disaster with dimples, capable of charming the stockings off a nun while simultaneously selling the convent for gambling money. That Elizabeth believed anything that came out of his mouth is a testament to the power of good grooming. But somehow, I’m the villain of the piece for not throwing Wickham into the nearest lake the moment I had the chance. Instead, I’m branded a scoundrel, and Wickham goes about flashing his teeth and winning hearts like a snake oil salesman.

But let’s move on to the proposal—my crowning moment of confusion. I approached Elizabeth with all the logic and reason one could expect from a man of my standing. Her family, I explained, was—let’s be charitable—eccentric at best, but I was willing to overlook this minor detail out of my overwhelming affection for her. I expected her to be overcome with gratitude, perhaps to swoon in the manner of heroines from novels, but instead, she rejected me as though I’d offered her a half-eaten sandwich.

I’ll admit, I was stunned into silence. And then, of course, it began to rain. A torrential downpour, as if the heavens themselves were mocking me. I couldn’t imagine what Elizabeth was thinking, rejecting me like that. I mean, me? Did she not notice the estate? The horses? The coat that probably cost more than her entire village? But no, she was too busy lecturing me about my pride. Pride! As if I’m supposed to apologize for being the one person in this county with a functioning brain.

For days afterward, I reflected on Elizabeth’s refusal. Was I too blunt? Perhaps. Too honest? Possibly. But too generous? Absolutely not. What woman in her right mind would turn down me? The estate, the fortune, the horses. And yet, she focused entirely on my so-called “pride.” Ridiculous.

And then, of course, there was Lydia Bennet’s spectacular display of poor judgment. The girl had been hurtling toward disaster since the day I met her, so I can’t say I was entirely surprised when she eloped with Wickham—predictable as the changing seasons. Naturally, I stepped in. I arranged the marriage, paid off Wickham (a revolting task, let me assure you), and restored what little dignity the Bennet family had left. And did anyone thank me? Of course not. It’s a thankless job, being the silent hero, but someone has to do it.

Eventually, Elizabeth came to her senses, as I always knew she would. She realized that she had misjudged me, just as everyone seems to, and we were married. I could claim that her influence changed me, but why lie? I am, and always have been, perfectly rational, principled, and entirely correct. The only difference is that now, Elizabeth finally recognizes it.

But if there’s a lesson to be learned from this whole ordeal—and I’m generous enough to share it—it’s this: Sometimes people need time to recognize greatness. Sometimes, even the brightest of minds take a little too long to understand what’s truly important in life—namely, marrying well, avoiding scoundrels like Wickham, and, of course, learning to appreciate a man like me.

You see, the true moral of this story is simple: First impressions are often wrong. Elizabeth thought I was arrogant, cold, and distant—and in fairness, I was—but that was simply because I wasn’t interested in impressing the masses. Why waste energy on the undeserving? Over time, she came to understand that behind my reserved nature lay a man of deep integrity, intellect, and charm. Or, as I prefer to think of it: She realized I was always right.

And so, dear reader, if you take anything away from this, let it be this: Pride is only a problem when it’s unwarranted. When you’re Fitzwilliam Darcy, it’s simply an acknowledgment of reality.

The end.