Author's note: Mr. Darcy (along with my help) has compiled a collection of his favourite literature, only slightly changed to suit his fancy. It was a job to get him to let me post the collection, let me tell you- but I believe overall, he seems quite pleased with the idea. Please send your comments to me, and I will relay them to his sector, as he does not have the privilege of e-mail yet.

Call me Fitzwilliam.

No- on second thought, please don't- I rather dislike the name.

Call me Darcy. Some years ago- never mind how many precisely- having just scads of money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me in Derbyshire, I thought I would go abroad a little and see the Hertfordshire part of England. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen, and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before pianofortes, and looking drearily out of every window I see; and especially whenever my Bingleys get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately going to country dances and slighting young women--then, I account it high time to go to Hertfordshire as soon as I can. This is my substitute for the Carolines and Louisas of the world. With a philosophical flourish Cato throws himself upon his sword; I quietly return to my Lizzy. There is nothing surprising in this. I certainly hope that no men, in their degree, some time or other, cherish very nearly the same feelings towards that lady as me.

Mr. Darcy was beginning to get very tired or riding with Mr. Bingley over the hills, and of having nothing to do: once or twice he had peeped into the house Bingley was buying, but it had to streams or lakes in the vicinity, "and what is the use of a manor," thought Darcy, "without streams or lakes to dive into?"

So he was considering, in his own mind, (as well as he could, for the hot day made him feel very sleepy and stupid), whether the pleasure of going hunting would be worth the trouble of getting off and fetching his rifle, when suddenly a lovely lady with fine eyes ran close by him.

There was nothing so very remarkable in that; nor did Darcy think so very much out of the way to hear the lady say to herself, "Oh dear! Oh dear! I shall be too late!" (when he thought it over afterwards, it occurred to him that he ought to have wondered at this, but at the time it all seemed quite natural); but when the lady dirtied her boots in the mud, and looked at them, smiled, and went on, Darcy started to his feet, for it flashed across his mind that he had never before seen a lady who would walk three miles so early in the day in such weather, or get her petticoat six inches deep in mud, and, burning with curiosity, he ran across the field after her, and was just in time to see her pop in the door of Netherfield.

This one Darcy read directly after he was rejected by Lizzy at Hunsford: it still makes him a little misty-eyed.

Heart, we will forget her!
You and I, to-night!
You may forget the warmth she gave,
I will forget the light.
When you have done, pray tell me,
That I my thoughts may disperse;
Haste! lest while you 're lagging,
I may remember her!

This is Darcy's favourite one.

The scene- Jane, Charlotte, and Mrs. Gardiner sit in the garden. Lizzy sits hidden behind some shrubbery. The former three are aware of Lizzy's presence, although she is not aware that they know of it.

Mrs. Gardiner: Come hither, Jane. What was it you told me of today? That your fiancé's friend, Darcy, was in love with your sister Elizabeth?

Charlotte: O, ay! [In a low voice to Mrs. Gardiner] Stalk on, stalk on; the fowl sits. [In full voice] I did never think that man would have loved any lady.

Jane: No, nor I neither; but most wonderful that he should so dote on Lizzy, whom he hath in all outward actions seemed ever to abhor.

Lizzy: [Aside] Is it possible? Sits the wind in that corner? Even after I rejected him?

Jane: By my troth, Mrs. Gardiner, I cannot tell what to think of it, but that he loves her with an enraged affection, it is past the infinite of thought.

Mrs. Gardiner: Maybe he doth but counterfeit.

Charlotte: Faith, like enough.

Jane: O God, counterfeit? There never was counterfeit of passion came so near the life of passion as he discovers it.

Mrs. Gardiner: Why, what effects of passion shows he? How, how, I pray you? You amaze me! I would have thought his spirit invincible against all assaults of affection.

Lizzy: [Aside] I should think this a gull, but my aunt speaks it. Knavery cannot, sure, hide itself in such reverence.

Mrs. Gardiner: It were good that Elizabeth knew of it by some other, if he will not discover it.

Charlotte: To what end? She would make but a sport of it and torment the poor man worse.

Mrs. Gardiner: Well, we will hear further of it by Mr. Bingley. Let it cool a while. I love Elizabeth well, and I wish she would modestly examine herself to see how much she is unworthy of so good a gentleman.

Charlotte: [Softly as they walk away] If she do not dote on him upon this, I will never trust my expectation.

Lizzy: [Advancing] This can be no trick, the conference was sadly borne. They have the truth of this from Bingley. They seem to pity Mr. Darcy; it seems his affections have their full bent. Love me? Why, it must be requited. I hear how I am censured. They say I will bear myself proudly if I perceive the love come from him. I did never think to marry; I must not seem proud. They say the man is handsome-'tis a truth, I can bear them witness; and virtuous-'tis so, I cannot reprove it, and wise, but for loving me; by my troth, it is no addition to his wit, nor no great argument of his folly; for I will be horribly in love with him.

To be read after the marriage.

It was the best of times, it was the best of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of wonder, it was the season of Light, it was the season of happiness, it was the spring of hope, it was the summer of love, we had everything before us, we had nothing behind us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going to a happier place --in short, the period was so. Far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for better, in the superlative degree of comparison only. Yada, yada, yada.

There were a king with a pointed jaw and a queen with a sweet smile, on the throne of Netherfield; there were a king with dark hair and a queen with fine eyes, on the throne of Pemberley. In both houses it was clearer than crystal to the lords of the State preserves of loaves and fishes, that things in general were settled for ever.

Many thanks to Herman Melville (Moby Dick),
Lewis Carroll (Alice in Wonderland), Emily Dickinson (Heart! We will forget him), William Shakespeare (Much Ado About Nothing), and Charles Dickens (A Tale of Two Cities.)

Darcy and I are sure that there are many more amusing literary conversions out there, and if anyone would like to take a stab at one, you may do so and send it to me. Darcy will approve it, and I will put together another collection, with credit where credit is due. Thank you.