Poet of Pemberley Read online

  Poet of Pemberley

  “I have been used to consider poetry as the food of love.”

  ANNE HARLOWE

  Copyright © 2019 Anne Harlowe

  Published by Christopher Webster

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 9781797001388

  Poetry, not music, is the food of love.

  In that, Orsino, or the bard, was wrong,

  So give me excess of it, and I’ll prove

  I’ll tire not, as Orsino did of song.

  Mozart to thee is dear whose heavenly touch

  Upon the fortepiano thrills the sense;

  Cowper to me whose poetry is such

  An inspiration it needs no defence.

  Music can touch the feelings; move the heart,

  But cannot, like these verses, say your name,

  Elizabeth. See how the poet’s art

  Can move as much, and also bring you fame?

  And verse can do what music cannot do:

  Tell you in plain words that I love you.

  —THE PEMBERLEY POEMS

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Appendix 1

  Appendix 2

  By the Same Author

  About the Author

  Acknowledgements

  The main characters, Darcy and Elizabeth, are taken from Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Harper, Angela, Sofia and Boswell are my own creations, but there is also a large cast of Romantic poets who really existed, and whose characters I have tried to represent accurately. These include: Blake, Byron, Coleridge, Shelley and Wordsworth.

  Prologue

  The view from the topmost window of Pemberley’s East tower is unparalleled anywhere in England. It looks over a perfect English landscape of rolling hills and meadows, artistically combined with copses of magnificent oaks and elms. A small river winds its way through the valley and underneath an arched stone bridge. It is nature at its most beautiful – and most deceiving, for it is not nature at all, but the creation of one Capability Brown, who, in 1759, at enormous expense, tore up the beautiful landscape around Pemberley House, and replaced it with a landscape of his own design, based on the finest Italian models.

  All this was lost on the young man who had retreated to the tower for the peace and quiet required to write his poem, and because that particular room was known as “Poet’s Corner.” On the floor beside him was a leather-bound volume with the title Powder and Patch. It was one of those romantic novels that fashionable belles loved to read, and fashionable beaux pretended to despise. And the young man did despise it. However, when he had been taunting his sister for wasting her time on it, instead of reading a worthwhile book such as Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (all six volumes of it), he had accidentally read a page which caught his attention. On the page was this poem:

  TO THE PEARL THAT TREMBLES IN HER EAR

  Cette petite perle qui tremblotte

  Au bout ton oreille, et qui chuchotte

  Je ne sais quoi de tendre et de malin.

  A l’air a la fois modeste et coquin,

  Si goguenarde est elle et si devote.

  A regarder c’est toute une gavotte

  Ou l’on s’avance, se penche, et pivote,

  Lors que tu branles d’un mouvment fin

  Cette petite perle.

  C’est une etoile dans le ciel qui flotte –

  Un vif eclair qui luit dans une grotte –

  Un feu follet qui hors de mon chemin

  M’attire, m’eblouit, m egare –

  Enfin, Elle m’embete – saperlipopotte!-

  Cette petite perle.

  (from Powder and Patch, Georgette Heyer)

  He could read French, of course; his tutor had made sure of that – with the rod if necessary, though he prided himself on speaking it with a perfect English accent, considering it beneath his dignity to speak down his nose.

  He was much taken by the wit and elegance of the language, and particularly by the circularity of the form, which began with a short refrain, and kept coming back to it. He recognised it as a form called “rondo” – or was it “rondeau”? Never mind, he was determined to attempt the style himself. So up to Poet’s Corner in the East wing, with quill, paper, and his sister’s book. It was in vain that she called after him that she was in the middle of reading it. The muse had commanded, and she was a strict mistress who would brook no delay.

  The young man wasted much ink in false starts in imitation of his model:

  This pretty earring in her ear

  is the best I have seen for a year...

  “No, it doesn’t scan.”

  Is as pretty as my dear...

  “Oh dear, that’s just doggerel.”

  So attractive does appear...

  “That’s even worse! It’s no good, it’s a wretched task, trying to create a rondeau just to prove that I love her!”

  Reader! we are getting to the heart of the matter. One of the reasons this proud young gentleman, who usually scorned, romantic novels, poetry, drawing, and all the feminine arts, favouring instead manly things, such as hunting, shooting and fishing, was that he was in love! Amelia was the name that was written on his heart, his best friend’s sister. It was his first love, and as yet, she knew nothing of it. That was the reason for the poem. He intended to write a small masterpiece, and send it to her in a letter declaring his love.

  The young man imagined Amelia’s sweet face for a moment, and said to the face, several times: “I love you!” sighed, and added, “More than another man can do!” Then, in a burst of determination, or inspiration, or both, he declared out loud:

  “I’ll prove it! Here’s my pen – just wait!” and began scribbling on a clean sheet of paper with renewed enthusiasm. After five minutes of vigorous wrestling with the muse, he put his pen down, and grasped his sweating forehead with both hands.

  “But now I’m in a hopeless state!” he declared, thinking of the rhyme-scheme he had begun. “For eight lines have to rhyme with ‘-ate’, and five lines have to rhyme with ‘-oh’: a wretched task!”

  He looked at Cette Petite Perle again, and saw with a sense of hopelessness what he had to do next:

  “And that’s not all – there’s a refrain, as well, to contemplate!”

  He began to think he was just not up to it. After all, his highest essay mark at Cambridge had been a pitiful 6/10 – so why did he suddenly think he could write in one of the most difficult forms known to poet.

  “Just think what agonies must go into creating a rondeau!” he exclaimed. “Perhaps I should just send the letter.”

  But his muse, whoever and wherever she was, wouldn’t hear of this. She put another spark into his mind, hoping it would ignite something this time.

  He thought: “Yes, I’ll just send the letter. Writing a rondeau’s a wretched task... a wretched task – that’s it!”

  He picked up his quill, wrote the title, and the rest of the poem poured out as easily as if it had already existed inside his head:

  A WRETCHED TASK

  A wretched task, trying to create

  A rondeau, just to demonstrate

  That I’m your poet, and I love you


  More than another man can do.

  I’ll prove it! Here’s my pen – just wait!

  But now I’m in a hopeless state!

  For eight lines have to rhyme with ‘-ate’

  And five lines have to rhyme with ‘-oh’:

  A wretched task!

  And that’s not all – oh what dire fate!

  ‘Refrain’ as well to contemplate!

  Just think what agonies must go

  Into creating a rondeau!

  And this one’s been (though it’s not great)

  A wretched task!

  He sighed with satisfaction: the satisfaction of having completed a poem, a feeling akin to winning a difficult game of chess, and the satisfaction of thinking how Amelia would swoon with emotion when she read it. She would be overwhelmed by the love it expressed and throw herself into him arms.

  The young man stared out over Capability Brown’s finest creation and saw himself walking hand in hand with his beloved over the arched stone bridge... until his mother’s voice disturbed his reverie.

  “Fitzwilliam! Come here at once, and give Georgiana her book back.”

  Chapter 1

  It is a truth universally acknowledged that the most certain cure for love is marriage, and that was what was worrying Elizabeth as she took her regular Sunday afternoon stroll through the gardens of Pemberley. She had determined before they set out that she would broach her concern to her sister, and as soon as their was a lull in their conversation about diurnal matters, she began, though not without some trepidation:

  “I am worried about Fitzwilliam.”

  “Why so?” replied Jane, surprised.

  “Because he spends all his spare time in his study.”

  “Like many other men,” she replied consolingly. “Father used to do the same, do not you remember?”

  Elizabeth frowned. “I remember all too well, and I remember the reason. It was the only way he could avoid the annoyance of – shall we say, the giddier members of his family.”

  “But you are not giddy, Lizzy.”

  “Let me speak plainly. I fear that perhaps Fitzwilliam has become weary of my company, and prefers to spend his time alone.”

  Jane was shocked. It was part of her gentle nature that she could never think ill of anyone, and on this occasion she preferred to look for less hurtful explanations. “Perhaps there is some pressing business matter that is demanding all his attention.”

  Elizabeth considered this for a moment. “Well, if that is the case, why has he not spoken to me about it?”

  Jane laughed. “You know what men are! They think we are too empty-headed to care about such matters.”

  Elizabeth shook her head. “No, Jane. Whatever else I may accuse Darcy of, he has never thought me empty-headed. Indeed, he has often said that my intelligence – and, if I may say so without appearing boastful – my fine eyes – are the qualities that most recommended me to him.”

  “Then perhaps it is a matter he does not wish to trouble you with. Perhaps financial or family troubles.”

  “If it is a matter of that kind he really should tell me – after all, he promised to marry me ‘for better or worse, for richer or poorer’ and he should know that I am strong enough to share his troubles.

  “In that case,” said Jane, “why do not you approach him and ask him to make a clean breast of it?”

  Elizabeth considered this advice carefully, then said with decision. “I will speak to him directly.”

  Jane gave a pleasant laugh. “I am sure you will find that it is nothing at all to be worried about.”

  About an hour after this conversation, Elizabeth tapped apologetically on the door of her husband’s study.

  “Come,” he said absent-mindedly, expecting it to be John, his manservant, but as soon as he realised it was his wife, he shuffled his papers with some embarrassment. Indeed, it seemed that he had deliberately placed a leaf of paper under a pile of other papers so that it should be out of sight. Elizabeth’s heart missed a beat, for this certainly smacked of secretive behaviour – was it a billet-doux to a mistress, perhaps? But no, she reassured herself. She had no need to fear that – unless his mistress had access to his study by a secret passage.

  “I am sorry to disturb you, Fitzwilliam, but...” she knew not what to say next without sounding prying.

  Luckily Darcy came to her aid. He rose from his seat, crossed the room and embraced her warmly. “Ah, Elizabeth, my love! You do not need to say you are sorry! It is I who am at fault. I realise that I have been neglecting you woefully these past weeks!”

  Elizabeth almost cried with relief. Whatever the trouble, she knew that his love for her was undiminished. “But...what is it...why...?” she still could not find words to express her concern.

  “Just business, my love,” he reassured her.

  But having got this far, Elizabeth was determined to get to the bottom of it.

  “What business? The estate? Money? Or perhaps a family problem?”

  Darcy laughed. “No, no, nothing like that! Nothing to worry about!”

  “Then tell me.”

  “It is a mere trifle,” he said evasively.

  Elizabeth took a deep breath, “Then what was that paper I saw you hide just now?”

  Darcy shook his head, considered for a moment, then said, “Very well, I’ll show you – if you promise not to laugh.”

  “Laugh?” Elizabeth was mystified.

  “Yes, laugh. I know what you think of poetry.”

  “Poetry?”

  “Yes, I have not forgotten what you said on the subject a few years ago. At the ball at Meryton. Do you not remember?”

  Elizabeth looked puzzled.

  “I said that poetry was the food of love, and you replied, and I quote: ‘Of a fine stout love, it may. But if it is only a vague inclination I'm convinced one poor sonnet will kill it stone dead.’”

  “I did?”

  “Yes. That’s why it makes it difficult for me to show you that paper.”

  “Why so?”

  “Because it contains a sonnet that I have written to you, and I am rather afraid that it may be a poor one.”

  Elizabeth was astonished. “To me! Oh my love! Why did you not say so!”

  “Because I thought you would laugh. You see, writing poetry is not easy. It is like giving birth. One pours out one’s soul, wrestles with rhymes – and they can be so stubborn, and if...and if it should be mocked, ah! it would be like a knife in the heart!”

  “But darling! Silly! The ball at Meryton! That was before we came to understand each other! I didn’t mean it! I was only fencing with words. Please show me.”

  Darcy went to his desk, picked up the paper, and handed it to her.

  “No,” she said, “it is better if you read it to me.”

  He did as she requested:

  How can I extol thy perfect beauty?

  And what is there that I can say to thee

  Now we two are left alone together

  And words of love you long to hear from me?

  Shall I compare thy beauty to a rose?

  Or to the declining sun at even?

  Or to the glory of the rising moon

  As it climbs, solitary, into heaven?

  Nay, though thou art more beautiful than these,

  I shall not spoil this precious hour with speech

  But tell my love for thee straight from my soul;

  In language higher than mere words can reach.

  The wordless poetry of my loving soul

  Is perfect for thy beauty to extol.

  Tears sprang to Elizabeth’s eyes. “You wrote that – for me?”

  “Yes,” said Darcy. “I have been struggling with it for weeks!”

  “But – it is beautiful, wonderful!”

  “And it has not killed your love stone dead?”

  Elizabeth laughed. “Ah! but mine is a fine stout love! – and all the stronger for that sonnet!”

  “Thank you my dear!” s
aid Darcy gravely. “Thank you for taking it seriously. But I’m afraid it is neither beautiful nor wonderful.”

  “But,” said Elizabeth, “it is the most wonderful compliment a woman can have!”

  “Thank you,” said Darcy, “but a compliment is not poetry.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Elizabeth.

  “Well it is better than anything I have written before...”

  “You have written others!” said Elizabeth in astonishment.

  “Yes, I have been writing since my Cambridge days – on and off – but meeting you was the real inspiration.”

  “How wonderful!” she exclaimed.

  “That’s just it,” said Darcy. “My poetry is far from wonderful. When I was at Cambridge there was a fashion for writing rondeaux – a light-hearted French form; more of a word-puzzle than poetry. I got quite good at that. But just recently I’ve been trying to do something better, and what I have read to you is the result.”

  “It’s a fine poem! It’s as good as anything Cowper wrote, and you know he’s my favourite poet!”

  “No it isn’t. It’s old-fashioned and derivative. The form I have used is the old sonnet form of Shakespeare’s, not the Petrarchan form used by modern poets, and look – it’s imitative of his language and style.”

  Darcy pointed out the offending lines.

  But Elizabeth didn’t even look. Instead, she said, “but you wrote it for me. That’s what counts!”

  Darcy seemed pleased – and perhaps somewhat readier to forgive himself for his plagiarisms.

  “You said there were others,” said Elizabeth gently. “Will you show me?”

  At this, Darcy took a sheaf of papers from a drawer, riffled through them, and selected one to show her. “I wrote this soon after we first met.”

  Of such fine eyes of brown, and you,

  I often dream the whole night through.