Work Text:
The evening at Pemberley was quiet, yet Mr. Darcy found little comfort in its tranquility. He stood near the window of the small sitting room, his countenance unusually severe, while Elizabeth watched him with attentive concern.
“My love, you should not be so upset,” she said at last, breaking the silence.
Darcy turned toward her, though the agitation in his expression had not entirely subsided.
“Disguise of every sort is my abhorrence,” he replied gravely, “and I cannot comprehend why anyone should attempt to destroy my character in so despicable a manner. To misrepresent a man’s actions is unjust enough; but to attribute to him motives and conduct entirely foreign to his nature—such treatment exceeds even the bounds of folly.”
Elizabeth regarded him calmly.
“You must remember,” she said, “that not everyone who speaks of a character has the capacity to understand him. Some write without the least regard for sense, history, or propriety. They imagine they know a person merely because they can place his name upon a page.”
Darcy shook his head with restrained indignation.
“The result, then, is a collection of absurdities—situations so inconsistent that no rational reader could believe them.”
“Exactly so,” Elizabeth replied. “And yet those who compose such tales appear entirely persuaded of their own ingenuity.”
She paused, her eyes reflecting both amusement and gentle sympathy.
“There are some,” she continued, “who rely almost entirely upon Artificial Intelligence to produce their stories, though they possess little understanding of character themselves. They mistake the appearance of words for the presence of thought.”
Darcy’s brows rose slightly.
“And such people presume to describe lives and sentiments they scarcely comprehend?”
“Indeed they do,” Elizabeth answered. “They imagine that reading a sensational novel is sufficient preparation for explaining the human heart. Some even suppose that a young and foolish maiden, merely by perusing a fashionable book, might suddenly acquire the experience and knowledge of a worldly woman—and conduct herself as if she were a courtesan.”
Darcy’s expression revealed equal measures of disbelief and irritation.
“That is scarcely credible.”
“And yet,” Elizabeth said with a faint smile, “such absurdities are presented with the utmost seriousness. One inconsistency requires another explanation, and soon the entire story becomes a collection of contradictions.”
Darcy began pacing slowly across the room.
“You are correct, my love,” he said after a moment. “But it is difficult to witness one’s character so grossly distorted. The reasoning is so confused, the situations so improbable, that one scarcely knows whether to feel insulted or amused.”
Elizabeth rose from her chair and approached him with quiet composure.
“You should laugh at the folly of such people,” she said gently. “They do not understand the world we live in, much less the one they attempt to portray. Their judgments are guided by their distorted imagination rather than common sense.”
Darcy stopped and regarded her thoughtfully.
“And perhaps that is why,” he said, “most readers avoid such works. Few possess patience for stories filled with glaring contradictions and explanations so ridiculous that they only reveal the author’s confusion.”
Elizabeth smiled.
“Precisely. Readers may tolerate an occasional error, but they cannot long endure a tale in which common sense must be abandoned at every page.”
She laid her hand lightly upon his arm.
“So you see, my love, you need not concern yourself with such attempts at defamation. Their own absurdities betray them more effectively than any criticism could.”
Darcy’s expression softened, and some of his former composure returned.
“You believe, then, that such distortions will not endure?”
“I am quite certain of it,” Elizabeth replied. “For there will always remain authors who truly understand you—those who possess both judgment and respect for history, who comprehend the customs of our era, and who don’t require the use of Artificial Intelligence to make their stories interesting.”
Darcy looked at her with renewed warmth.
“And those authors,” he said quietly, “will treat us with greater fairness.”
“Not necessarily with greater kindness,” Elizabeth answered with playful seriousness, “but at least with honesty.”
Darcy laughed softly.
“In that case, I must be satisfied with honesty.”
“And perhaps,” Elizabeth added, her eyes bright with amusement, “you may even learn to laugh at the others.”
He took her hand affectionately.
“With such counsel, my love,” he said, “I believe I shall.”