Archive of Our Own

My dear Georgiana,

It is not my custom to describe a man in any detail to someone who has not, because they have not yet made his acquaintance, the ability to judge the truth of what I have said about him. However, you are quite right in your insistence that you be adequately forewarned of any personage staying at Pemberley, alongside whom you must live when you return for the summer. Thus, I shall endeavour to sketch as accurate a portrait of our visitor, or, more accurately, our charge, as it is within my power to do.

Still, I find myself at a loss for where to begin. The man in question is most singular. I had wondered, in an attempt to think charitably of a stranger, if the man's peculiarities could rightly be attributed to his origins in France; but, although it has been some years since my last sojourn to the Continent, I do not believe that to be the case. 

I begin out of order. Forgive me. I find he has somewhat of a disordering effect upon my thoughts.

Hercule Savinien de Cyrano de Bergerac—I shall call him M. Bergerac for the sake of brevity—is, as I had mentioned to you, a prisoner of war here held indefinitely. Given his position as a member of the gentry in his home country, he is afforded a stay upon the grounds of one of England's own noble houses. Given his uncouth behaviour, as I shall detail in a moment, I was astonished that he could belong to such a class. Col. Fitzwilliam informed me that, as M. Bergerac confessed of his own accord, he was raised neither with title nor the expectation of it. He inherited the title from some distant relation who passed without issue of his own.

No matter how the title was obtained, it led to M. Bergerac's placement at Rosings. I believe it entirely within your capability to imagine that our esteemed aunt Lady de Bourgh welcomed the opportunity to reform, as she might have thought of him, a wayward soul. She had invited Col. Fitzwilliam and myself to welcome her charge to Rosings. While I had obligations elsewhere, our cousin was able to grant her request. M. Bergerac's stay began unremarkably and remained so until Lady de Bourgh invited her rector, one Mr. Collins, to dine with her party.

I trust, Georgiana, that you know I supply such a personal detail as the one that follows only because it is crucial to understand the events that unfolded during that dinner party: M. Bergerac's nose is extraordinarily large. While Mr. Collins is not possessed of the most delicate manners, Col. Fitzwilliam does not believe him uncouth enough to make any remarks about M. Bergerac's countenance. The fact remains that his eyes were drawn there rather more often than they had reason to be. The scene would have come to blows if had not our cousin reminded M. Bergerac that he was a guest at the mercy of the Crown, who was under no obligation to make his stay in our country so pleasant. I need not say that our aunt demanded him removed from Rosings without delay. The very next morn found him in a carriage destined for Pemberley.

I could hardly be blamed for any predisposition to dislike this man after such abominable behaviour as he had shewn, and indeed, I was so predisposed. While I had not arrived home from London in time to see him settled at Pemberley, I sent a letter to my staff in which I instructed them not to endure any misbehaviour from our charge. I need not have worried. When I returned to Pemberley it was to the news that M. Bergerac had been nothing but a gentleman. He had kept largely to himself. Many of his days were spent entirely in the library. He was kind to the servants; many of the younger women had been charmed by a wink and the gift of a flower found somewhere on the grounds, given without presumption.

If I could not be blamed for my predisposition to dislike him, no more could I be blamed for my curiosity about a man of such extremes. I resolved to learn what I could of M. Bergerac before seeing him for the first time. 

I began my research in the library. My staff had said his taste was varied: they had seen him in the sections for science, especially astronomy; religion; philosophy; and poetry. On a table in the poetry section I found neat stacks of books I surmised that he must have formed, for who else at Pemberley would read poetry, and leave it unshelved when they had finished? Among the books were volumes in both English and French. One of the volumes in French caught my eye for no other reason than this: it had been written by Savinien de Cyrano de Bergerac. With no little surprise did I lift the book from the table and flip through the pages. I thought, at first, that he might have brought it with him from France; but as I read the poems, I began to recall reading them in this very library some years before.

I am not in love. I do not know if ever I have been. His poems stirred in my breast the feeling that I was—a passion without subject!—and the wish that I could be. I had intended only to read enough to ascertain that he had talent. I found myself sinking into the chair and reading each and every one. Some stole the breath from my lungs and They were beautiful poems. 

I went down to dinner with the images he had created still in my mind's eye. It was in that state of mind, then, that I met M. Bergerac for the first time. 

Darcy stood before the closed doors of the dining hall. His heartbeat, elevated after reading Cyrano's poems, came slowly back down; but still he saw the imagery Cyrano had painted across the insides of his eyelids. He was unsure that he could comport himself with dignity around someone who had, in just a few words, shown Darcy facets of his heart with which he had been wholly unfamiliar.

The doors swung open in front of him. A serving girl startled at the sight of Darcy.

"Oh, sir! I was sent to find you."

"Here I am," Darcy said, blinking rapidly and hoping to clear his mind. He smiled at her and swept into the room. An introduction was made and he inclined his head to Cyrano. He had an unusual face, to be sure, but not so much as Darcy might have imagined from Col. Fitzwilliam's account of the events that unfolded at Rosings. If Darcy was going to have trouble keeping his eyes on his plate, it would not be for the man's features, but for wondering at the astonishing talent of his mind. 

"Thank you, Mr. Darcy, for opening your home to me—it could not have been easy to open it wide enough to accommodate my nose." Cyrano's bright eyes flashed as he inclined his head in return. He spoke English well, although accented. Darcy wondered what kind of education he had had that would enable it, if not the education afforded to a boy from a noble family; and what kind of education that would allow him to make a remark of such cheek!

"Our doors open to the same width for everyone," Darcy said, taking his seat, "or, at least, for everyone who enters them while facing forward, as is the custom." He raised an eyebrow at Cyrano. Cyrano's eyes merely widened a fraction before conversation continued on a more ordinary tack. 

Ordinary was only the right word in comparison to the sentence with which it had been opened, for conversation with Cyrano was anything but. Darcy began to wish that he had more time to spend in the library that he might keep up with Cyrano's knowledge of any topic they lit upon. For each, Cyrano had both witty jests and real insights.

It is difficult to communicate the exact degree to which he is learned, Georgiana. I had no complaints with my own education till that first conversation with M. Bergerac. I have spent some mornings in the library since, studying the topics on which we conversed the night before; but each dinner brings new topics that expose previously undetected gaps in my knowledge of the world. 

That first week, I took every opportunity I had to observe the gentleman. As a prisoner of war, he had not been permitted weapons, yet I saw him practicing the movements of fencing with an empty hand. If he had desired to injure anyone at Pemberley, I had no doubt that he could and would have done so with whatever he could find. He did not seem so inclined. Accordingly, I ordered a sword to be left in his room with a note granting him my permission to use it. It was not until some days had passed that I had the pleasure of seeing him practicing his art. Never had it been more clear that fencing is, indeed, an art than when I saw M. Bergerac putting his borrowed sword through its paces.

Even with an unfamiliar sword, Cyrano and his weapon almost seemed to be part of the same body. Darcy watched from the shadows as he grew in confidence and fluency, speed and accuracy, until, to Darcy's eye, it looked like Cyrano had used that sword forever. At last he put down the sword and turned to get a drink of water. His eyes narrowed as he spotted Darcy in the shade.

"Come to spy on me, have you? To tell your government what threat I may or may not pose?"

He was jesting. Darcy was fairly certain he was jesting. "You do not yet have an accurate picture of my character. Perhaps in time you shall learn that I would not have provided you with a weapon if I believed you to pose a threat."

Cyrano smiled. "Ah, but you do not yet have an accurate picture of my character, either. How are you to know what I intend?"

Darcy inclined his head. "I could only learn by observing." He watched as Cyrano gulped water from a skin, his throat bobbing. "I have no intentions to report my findings to the Crown."

"Hmm." Cyrano put the skin aside and wiped the back of his hand across his mouth. "Perhaps I shall have to observe you to discover whether you tell the truth in that."

Darcy blinked. Discomfited by the frankness, and by the thought of being so observed, he could not immediately come up with a response. He sat down on a bench in the sun and watched as Cyrano lifted his weapon once more. "I cannot imagine it would take you long to discover that I tell the truth in everything."

Cyrano looked over his shoulder at Darcy. His eyes glanced over Darcy's face before he said, "We are birds of a feather, then, you and I." Darcy barely caught a flicker in Cyrano's gaze as he turned to look forward once more. "Rare birds, it seems, now-a-days."

Sunlight flashed off his blade and glittered in Darcy's eyes. "Would you do me the honour of a duel?"

The sword stopped mid-slash. Cyrano didn't turn to look at him as he acquiesced. 

It was clear, too, that M. Bergerac had, in the past, fenced to kill. Things are done differently in France, it seems. I asked him for a duel in part to learn just how different they may be.

Once a sword had been fetched for Darcy and his stiffer outer layers removed, it was time to fence. 

Cyrano looked with disdain at the tips they placed on the blades. "Fencing is not truly fencing with such safeguards."

"We cannot fence without them," Darcy said, focused on stretching his legs.

"Would you play the pianoforte to an audience with cotton wool stuffed in their ears?"

Darcy looked up. "Indeed, if a missed note was a species of poison."

"Ah, if Claudius had killed old Hamlet with an unmelodious song!" Cyrano laughed. "If Romeo had used his last breath to sing a fatal tune, and Juliet complained that he had left none for her."

Darcy smiled as he picked up his own sword and they began to fence.

Their skills were mismatched in more than one way. Cyrano was certainly the superior fighter, not just in artistry and technique, but in passion. Besides that, he was trained in the French school and with the goal of injuring the other party. Darcy had trained in the style of Domenico Angelo, an Italian, with an emphasis on fitness and well-being. Once they had found their rhythm, however, Darcy found that he loved dueling Cyrano. His immense skill challenged Darcy to fence better than he ever had before. His ferocious love for the art enhanced Darcy's own appreciation for sword fighting. 

There is no doubt that he could have defeated me earlier than he did. I can only surmise that he was enjoying the duel, as I was enjoying the duel. Sometimes, Georgiana, I find myself resolute in my ways to the point of stagnation. There is good reason for that, no doubt, and in the normal course of my life I have no complaints. Yet, sometimes, I am reminded that there are other ways I could spend my time. There are other ways I could feel. He has shewn me just what it is that I miss in living my life such as I do. I felt thoroughly alive.

Finally, Darcy found himself with the blunted tip of Cyrano's sword under his chin. He let his sword drop and held up his hands, careful not to let his chin waver. Cyrano's eyes glittered.

Indeed, I imagine he must have enjoyed himself. If not, it would be an unusual form of torture to which he subjected himself over the following weeks: he undertook the project of instructing me in the art of fencing à la française. He began by declaring me a middling swordsman. I could not dispute the truth of the statement, much as I wished I might.

“Am I unworthy, then, of your instruction?” Darcy asked, trying and failing to swallow his pride. 

“On the contrary, it makes you an ideal student. I may shape you into a swordsman cast of my own mould.”

An odd shiver ran down Darcy’s spine at the words. 

Let it not be said that Cyrano made any part of his instruction easy: Darcy worked hard, and more than once one or both of them left a lesson in a temper. Darcy grew tired of finding the point of Cyrano’s sword at his throat or chest. But he improved in leaps and bounds, and the pride he felt upon the first occasion he held his own sword to Cyrano’s throat was unmatched by any pride he could remember feeling before. Admittedly, Cyrano had just stumbled over a pebble; but while it was not the first time he had stumbled, it was the first time that Darcy had managed to press Cyrano’s mistake to his advantage. If the thrill he felt as their eyes met, Cyrano's filled with begrudging respect, and as Cyrano extended a hand to shake and their hands met, sweaty through their gloves, and as Cyrano wiped a handkerchief over his face, bordered on the unseemly—well, that was for Darcy alone to know. To wonder over in the evenings after he'd gone to bed, as though the draw he felt to his guest, as inexorable as the pull of one magnet to another, was a fascinating puzzle.

However, I believe you will find me much improved upon your return to Pemberley. I may coax M. Bergerac into a demonstration of our skills for your entertainment. 

I trust I have satisfied your request for information about the man with whom we shall share Pemberley for some indefinite period of time. Indeed, I fear I have provided far more information than you required or desired. I begged your forgiveness at the start of this letter; I must do the same here at the end. I trust, Georgiana, that your kind character will allow you, as it always has, to overlook the foibles of—

as I will remain—

your loving brother,

Fitzwilliam Darcy