“‘He shouted: nor his friends had fail’d
To check the vessel’s course,
But so the furious blast prevail’d,
That, pitiless perforce,
They left their outcast mate behind,
And scudded still before the wind.’”
Her intonation soared ridiculously on ‘fail’d’ and ‘wind,’ as though each word carried the weight of the cosmos. She placed a hand over her brow, mimicking a swoon.
“‘Some succour yet they could afford;
And, such as storms allow,
The cask, the coop, the floated cord,
Delay’d not to bestow.
But he (they knew) nor ship, nor shore,
Whate’er they gave, should visit more.’”
On ‘bestow,’ Elizabeth made a grand sweeping gesture, her hand trailing through the air like the flight of an imaginary raven. Darcy exhaled audibly, the closest he would allow himself to come to a laugh.
She finished with a final flourish, lowering her voice to a whisper as though concluding a great soliloquy:
“‘He long survives, who lives an hour
In ocean, self-upheld;
And so long he, with unspent pow’r,
His destiny repell’d;
And ever, as the minutes flew,
Entreated help, or cried—Adieu!’”
She snapped the book shut and turned to Darcy with an impish grin. “There, how was that for poetry? Did I capture its essence?”
Darcy, at last, gave a soft exhale that might have been a laugh had it escaped with more force. “You are mangling the meaning entirely.”
Elizabeth feigned shock, clasping her hand to her chest. “Mangling it? Why, Mr. Darcy, I read the words exactly as they were printed, changing not a single syllable.”
“Yes, but your emphasis is all wrong. You contort the intent and have entirely undone the rhythm.”
“I thought I was giving it life! Surely you appreciate a little… creative interpretation.”
“Interpretation?” he repeated, stepping closer and plucking the book from her hand. “What you were giving it was melodrama. Poetry is meant to be felt, not paraded about like a stage performance.”
Elizabeth’s eyes gleamed with challenge. “Then, by all means, show me how it is done properly.”
Darcy hesitated. He knew her game, but something about her challenge—and the undeniable curiosity in her gaze—made itimpossible to refuse. With a resigned breath, he took the book from her hands and opened it to the same poem, his fingers resting lightly on the worn edges of the pages. Without theatrics or flourish, he began:
“‘At length, his transient respite past,
