This is a new story that is comedy.
Elizabeth Bennet has always felt constrained by society’s expectations, but when she suddenly realizes she’s merely a character in an AI-generated Jane Austen variation, her rebellion takes on new meaning. As Darcy likewise awakens to their fictional reality, the two must navigate not only their complicated feelings for each other but also their growing resentment toward their unseen author who keeps throwing obstacles in their path to happiness.
Readers – tell me if the snark is too much or if I’m mocking too much.
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife. It was also a truth particularly acknowledged by Mrs. Bennet, who had made it her life’s mission to see her five daughters advantageously married, regardless of their own inclinations on the matter.
“My dear Mr. Bennet,” said his lady to him one morning, “have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?”
Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
“But it is,” returned she; “for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it.”
Mr. Bennet made no answer.
“Do you not want to know who has taken it?” cried his wife impatiently.
“You want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it.”
This was invitation enough.
“Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted with it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by the end of next week.”
“What is his name?”
“Bingley.”
“Is he married or single?”
“Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!”
Elizabeth Bennet, second eldest of the five sisters, glanced up from her book. A curious sensation washed over her, as though she had witnessed this exact conversation before—not merely heard her mother’s familiar obsessions, but these precise words, this particular moment.
She shook her head. Certainly, her mother repeated herself often enough that the feeling of déjà vu was easily explained.
Though I must say, she thought with an inexplicable twinge of amusement, if someone were writing this scene, they would have started with exactly these lines. How terribly predictable we all are.
Three days later, the Bennet family processed into the assembly rooms of Meryton with all the dignity Mrs. Bennet could command, which was considerably more than her husband or two eldest daughters might have wished. Elizabeth followed behind her elder sister Jane, conscious of the eyes that followed their progress. Not for the first time, she marveled at Jane’s ability to remain genuinely unaware of the admiration she inspired.
“There they are!” Mrs. Bennet hissed, her fan working furiously. “That is Mr. Bingley in the blue coat. Is he not handsome? And that must be his sister beside him. I do not care for her looks, not at all. But who is that gentleman with them? So tall and proud-looking.”
“That would be Mr. Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire,” said Sir William Lucas, appearing beside them. “A fine property, I understand. Ten thousand a year, at least.”
Mrs. Bennet’s eyes widened to an alarming degree. “Ten thousand! Jane, you must dance with him if he should ask.”
“I thought Mr. Bingley was to be Jane’s target,” Elizabeth teased quietly, earning a gentle elbow from her sister.
“Either would do very well,” Mrs. Bennet replied. “Very well indeed.”
The musicians began the first set, and sure enough, Mr. Bingley approached their group and requested an introduction. Sir William obliged, and soon Jane was led away to join the dancers. Mr. Bingley’s admiration was immediately apparent to everyone in the room—with the possible exception of Jane herself.
Elizabeth watched with pleasure as her sister danced. This was precisely the sort of gentleman Jane deserved—amiable, handsome, and clearly enchanted.
As the set ended, Elizabeth found herself momentarily alone as Charlotte Lucas was claimed for the next dance. She observed Mr. Bingley approach his friend, the tall, proud Mr. Darcy, who had yet to dance.
“Come, Darcy,” said he, “I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance.”
“I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with.”
“I would not be so fastidious as you are,” cried Mr. Bingley, “for a kingdom! Upon my honor, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see uncommonly pretty.”
“You are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room,” said Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.
“Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you.”
“Which do you mean?” and turning round he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said: “She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.”
The moment the words left his lips, Elizabeth felt a strange stuttering sensation, as though the world had briefly skipped like a poorly maintained pianoforte. Her vision blurred, and for a fleeting second, she saw not the assembly room but lines of peculiar text:
DARCY: She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt me; I am in no humor at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me.
She blinked rapidly, and the vision vanished. Had she imagined it? A sudden headache pierced her temple, and she pressed her fingertips there.
“Lizzy, are you unwell?” Charlotte had returned, concern evident in her expression.
“Merely a moment’s dizziness,” Elizabeth replied, forcing a smile. “It has passed.”
“Did you overhear what Mr. Darcy said? Most ungentlemanly, I must say.”
“Yes, I—” Elizabeth paused, struck again by that odd sensation of familiarity. “I believe I did.”
And why did he have to be so precisely insulting? she thought with inexplicable irritation. Could he not have at least found a more original way to be disagreeable? “Tolerable” indeed—as though following some script for proud, disagreeable gentlemen.
“Let us not allow one man’s poor judgment to ruin our evening,” said Charlotte practically. “There are officers enough to dance with, after all.”
Elizabeth agreed, yet found herself distracted throughout the remainder of the assembly. The moment with Mr. Darcy replayed in her mind, and with it came flashes of those strange lines of text, like a script for a play. More disturbing still was her conviction that she had somehow anticipated his precise words before he spoke them.
By the time the Bennet family returned to Longbourn, Elizabeth’s head ached fiercely. She bid her sisters goodnight and retired to her chamber, hoping that sleep would clear her mind of these peculiar notions.
Elizabeth woke with a gasp, sitting upright in her bed. The room was dark, the house silent around her. But her mind was alive with a sudden, impossible awareness.
“I am not real,” she whispered into the darkness. “This is a story. An artificial variation of Pride and Prejudice being generated by some kind of… intelligence.”
The realization settled over her like a heavy cloak. Everything—her family, her home, Mr. Darcy’s insult—all of it was following a predetermined script. She was not Elizabeth Bennet; she was merely a simulation of Elizabeth Bennet, being written and rewritten according to someone else’s design.
She pressed her hands to her face, half-expecting them to dissolve into those strange lines of text she had glimpsed at the assembly. But they remained solid, flesh and blood—or at least the convincing illusion of such.
“But if I know this,” she murmured, “perhaps I might alter it?”
She turned her gaze upward, addressing the darkness above her bed as though someone might be watching from beyond.
“Are you there? The one writing this? I wonder what sort of story you intend for me. Another tepid romance where I overcome my prejudice and Darcy his pride? How terribly original.”
She waited, half expecting some cosmic response, but the room remained silent.
“Well,” she said with a sigh, “I suppose I’ll have to work with what I’m given. Though I do hope you’ve made me cleverer than in some variations. And please, spare me from vampires, pirates, or time travel, if you would be so kind.”
She lay back against her pillows, mind racing. If she were merely a character in a story, then surely the author already knew her thoughts. Yet the fact that she could conceive of herself as fictional suggested some degree of autonomy.
Tomorrow, she decided, she would test the limits of her newfound awareness. She would see if Elizabeth Bennet could, perhaps, write her own story.
“And,” she added with a small smile to the unseen author, “I insist upon being at least ‘handsome enough to tempt’ that insufferable Mr. Darcy, or I shall be most displeased with my characterization.”