The Other Bennet Sister

by Janice Hadlow

  Mary was eighteen when she understood she could not go on in this haphazard way. She longed to develop her intellectual understanding, just as she had done her musical proficiency; but she understood that to do so, two things were necessary. First, she needed to consult a far greater range of reading material; and second, she required the assistance of a teacher. She had Miss Allen for the piano. Why should she not have similar support in pursuing her intellectual interests? Surely some steady, learned person could be found to direct her reading and give a shape to her studies. If she had been a boy, a tutor would have been provided for her; but such a thing was unthinkable for a girl. Nor was there any chance of her being sent away to school, as it was an article of faith with Mrs. Bennet that the food served to boarders was stodgy and damaged the complexion. There was only one possible answer to Mary’s dilemma, and that was the appointment of a governess—but it was many months before she summoned up the courage to ask her mother if this might be permitted.

  She approached the subject gingerly, as she knew Mrs. Bennet did not look kindly upon governesses. Indeed, it was a matter of pride to her mother that she had never employed such a person. A succession of masters had, over the years, marched up the drive to Longbourn, to instruct her daughters in those subjects she thought would add a final polish to their education. From them, she and her sisters had gleaned a smattering of French, a little drawing, and a great deal of dancing. But in matters of general education, Mrs. Bennet considered her own example, supplemented by a respectable number of textbooks, as enough to equip them with all they needed to know. She had taught her girls how to cast up accounts, manage a household, and sew a good, straight seam. They all read well enough and knew enough history and geography not to look absolutely foolish in company. Anything more was not only unnecessary, but probably unwise. Mrs. Bennet had not observed that learning was a quality most men sought in a wife, and she had no desire to add to her daughters’ disadvantages by burdening them with a reputation for cleverness. All this Mary knew; but the desire to exercise her mind overcame her apprehension, and one afternoon, as she sat with her mother and sisters at tea, she made her request as boldly and as calmly as she could. Mrs. Bennet was nonplussed, as Mary had expected she would be.

  “A governess? Whatever can you mean? What could you possibly want with one at your age?”

  “I should like to improve my education, Mama, to read more widely and cultivate my mind.”

  “I cannot imagine what else you think you need to learn,” cried Mrs. Bennet. “Your head is stuffed full of useless facts already. I doubt there’s a country in the world whose capital you don’t know or whose principal rivers you couldn’t name. What more could a governess teach you?”

  “She could help me study in a more rational way, direct me towards books that would stretch my intellect.” Mary felt enthusiasm quicken within her. “And she need not work only with me. She could be of service to all us younger girls. I’m sure we would all benefit from improving our habits of industry.”

  Lydia, who usually paid no attention to anything Mary said, started up, horrified.

  “Heaven preserve me from habits of industry! And my mind is stretched quite enough, thank you. The last thing we need is a governess sitting in the morning room sniffing and looking miserable, some poor spinster with a book of sermons in one hand and a twist of snuff in the other.”

  She turned to Kitty, held an imaginary pinch of snuff under her nose, snorted, turned up her eyes, and groaned. Kitty burst out laughing, scattering crumbs from her cake across the table.

  “I can’t imagine anything more awful,” declared Lydia, “and Kitty thinks the same, I’m sure.”

  “It would be dreadful, especially the sniffing,” added Kitty obediently. “Please, Mama, don’t do it. We’re happy as we are.”

  “I’m sure we could find someone we all liked,” persisted Mary. “Some well-bred woman with no annoying habits. And she need come only a few times a week.”

  “That’s still far too often for me,” said Lydia. “Suppose she doesn’t come at all?”

  Mary ignored her, fixing her mother with a supplicant’s stare.

  “Really, Mama, when you consider the benefits to our minds—”

  But it was no use. Mrs. Bennet had already made her decision.

  “That’s enough, Mary. No-one else wants a governess; and I refuse to entertain the expense of one solely for your benefit. If you wish to learn more, that is your affair. There are books enough in Mr. Bennet’s library. You may take yourself off there, as Lizzy does, and read to your heart’s content. That is all I have to say upon the matter. I don’t wish to hear it mentioned again.”

  Lydia, much relieved, helped herself to another slice of cake. Mary knew it was pointless to say more. But as she sat there, watching her tea grow cold, the significance of her mother’s words slowly dawned upon her. It had never before occurred to her that she might be allowed to enter her father’s library. She often looked into it as she passed, a light and airy room, with bay windows that opened directly onto the garden, a vision of scholarly calm. Its real attractions, however, were the books which lined its walls, shelf after shelf of them, a tantalising vision for a hungry reader desperate for something new to engage her. Mr. Bennet spent most of every day there, closeted in a most forbidding silence. Interlopers, as he liked to remind his family, were not encouraged to join him.

  “As I do not quarrel with the general air of silliness that pervades every other part of this house, I do not think it unreasonable that there should be one room from which it is excluded.”

  Neither Kitty nor Lydia, for whom the bookshelves offered no temptation, were troubled by this pronouncement. Nor was Mrs. Bennet. She had no curiosity about how her husband spent his time in his library and it would not have occurred to her to try to find out. Only Elizabeth slipped in now and then to borrow a book with the same easy confidence which characterised everything she did. But Lizzy was Mr. Bennet’s favourite, and his usually sardonic gaze often rested upon her with a warmth and admiration he did not extend to his younger daughters. Mary had never supposed a similar welcome would ever be offered to her. Mr. Bennet rarely looked at her at all, and seemed quite indifferent to her presence. She would never have considered the possibility of entering the library if her mother had not suggested it; but now the prospect of roaming freely among so many books overcame her fear of a refusal. She plucked up her courage and waited until she judged her father was in his least capricious frame of mind before stopping him in the hallway and asking—very tentatively—if she might be granted admission on the same terms as Lizzy. He considered for a moment before replying.

  “You may come and take refuge in my library if you feel you will benefit from it. But you are to remember it is a not a place for conversation. I will not be teased with idle questions. A rational calm is to prevail at all times. And every book taken down from a shelf is to be returned to the exact place from which it was removed. These rules are inflexible. Do you think you can obey them?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  “Then I have no objection to your coming. You may begin tomorrow.”

  Chapter 5

  Next morning, Mary hurried through her usual tasks, desperate to be released from her mother’s watchful eye. Her plain sewing seemed to take even longer than usual, her needle losing its thread countless times, whilst Mrs. Bennet insisted two uneven hems were to be unpicked and done again. But finally she found herself standing outside the library door, daring herself to enter. Once inside, she held her breath, amazed to be within at last. Mr. Bennet was at his accustomed place behind his desk. He acknowledged her curtly and returned to his work. As she looked about, Mary was both thrilled and apprehensive. She had imagined that she would have no difficulty in finding what she wanted; but standing in a shaft of sunlight in which dust motes shimmered, she realised she did not know what she was looking for or where to begin. She moved to a shelf and leant towards the books, peering to make
out their titles. Carefully, she pulled one out. Immediately, two volumes at the end of the row clattered onto the floor. The noise seemed huge, shattering the quiet. Mr. Bennet looked up. Panicked, Mary grasped the two books nearest to her and hurried away. In the hall, she stood clasping them tightly to her chest. This was not how she had imagined her first visit ending.

  When she felt more composed, she bore her prizes off to her bedroom and sat down to examine them. Opening the first volume, she saw it was a history of England. She was not sure whether this pleased her or not. But when she looked more closely, she discovered it was written by a woman. This surprised her. She knew that women produced books for children and that they also wrote novels; but she had not supposed they were ever the authors of serious works of history. She was intrigued and walked over to her little writing desk, where she cleared a space and propped up the book in front of her. She would give Mrs. Catharine Macaulay a chance to engage her.

  Mary was still in her room when Mrs. Hill came in to find her and send her down for dinner.

  “Your mother has been calling for you for ten minutes. She is not best pleased.”

  Mary looked up absently, laid down her book, and then walked slowly downstairs. She hardly spoke during the meal, her thoughts entirely occupied by what she had read. It was not as easy to follow as the simpler works she was used to; but that did not discourage her. On the contrary, she felt the unused muscles of her mind flex and curiosity stir within her.

  It took her a fortnight to finish Mrs. Macaulay’s first volume. When she returned to Mr. Bennet’s library, she looked to see if there were any other history books written by women. When she found none, she was absurdly disappointed. Her searching hand hesitated for a moment over Mr. Hume’s historical works, but she did not pick one of them off the shelf. No, she would continue with Mrs. Macaulay before venturing upon anyone else. She took away two more volumes of hers, excited to think that a woman had acquired enough knowledge and scholarship to produce them. Over the next few weeks, she devoured them avidly, waking early to study them in the morning before breakfast and returning to them late at night when the rest of the house slept. She begrudged every minute she was forced out of their company and into those activities her mother thought necessary, fidgeting through the hours spent at the tea table or wasted in useful needlework. Mrs. Bennet noticed her distraction and did not approve.

  “You are never to be found when wanted. And when you are about, you don’t attend to anything said to you.”

  Mary apologised and vowed to do better in future; but she knew her promise was a hollow one. Her life, such as it was, now took place almost entirely between the pages of her books. The events of the Civil Wars, as Mrs. Macaulay explained them, the stories of Charles I and Oliver Cromwell, had become more real to her than the days which passed so unchangingly at Longbourn. Her books were her mainstay, and nothing, not even her mother’s loudly expressed displeasure, could make her give them up. On the contrary, her intellectual appetite grew more intense with each volume she finished; and, as a consequence, her visits to her father’s library grew ever more frequent and of longer and longer duration.

  She explored Mr. Bennet’s bookshelves with greater confidence now, venturing to look beyond the historical titles that were increasingly familiar to her, gazing curiously towards works of philosophy and theology. Dare she take one of those? She was not sure. They seemed more forbidding than the histories. And with which author should she begin? She was desperate for guidance, and often looked longingly towards her father, hoping he might notice, and offer to advise her. But he showed no interest in the books she chose, never asking what she was reading or how she had enjoyed it. For a while, she watched him from beneath lowered eyes, trying to assess how he would respond if she were to approach him; but in the end, her spirits failed her. She could not imagine how she would begin or, once he turned his cool, satirical stare upon her, how she would continue. So she went on as she had begun, with nothing but her own judgement to rely upon.

  The weeks turned into months, and Mary read on and on. Jane and Lizzy watched her with puzzled indulgence, glad to see her occupied, though unsure what to make of her new passion; but for her younger sisters, Mary’s devotion to her books lowered her even further in their estimation. There was much whispering and laughter amongst them whenever they found her at her studies, and Lydia had soon perfected an imitation of her at work, her shoulders hunched, her nose plunged deep into some heavy volume; but Mary was not deterred. She felt herself to be making progress and refused to be either teased or shamed into giving up. She had at last plucked up the courage to begin upon some of the shorter philosophical books and was intrigued by what she discovered within them. She found the great moral questions with which they dealt intensely absorbing, enjoying the abstract arguments with which they dealt. In contrast to their lofty concerns, her private unhappiness seemed of very little account, and this offered her a rather chilly sense of comfort. She was both stimulated and consoled by what she read—and this encouraged her to persevere. Learning, it seemed, was not so different to playing the piano. The mind could be trained to do one’s bidding, just as one’s fingers could be exercised and one’s technique improved. All it took was self-discipline and a willingness to work hard. But Mary soon discovered, to her cost, that there were some circumstances which even her formidable determination could not overcome; and that not all aspects of her being could be coerced into doing exactly what she wished.

  She had suspected for some time that her sight was not all it should be; but had refused to acknowledge the evidence that pressed itself upon her with increasing urgency. Small print had always taxed her abilities, but now, perhaps as a result of her many hours in the library, almost any book had become impossible to read. The text swam before her, the words blurred. She tried screwing her eyes tight to focus as best she could, but it made little difference. She tried moving around the room, tilting the book towards the light or holding it as close as she could to her face, but nothing answered. In the glare of a summer’s garden, she might manage a page or two, if the sun was behind her and the letters not too small; but indoors, and as the darker nights came on, she struggled to make out anything at all.

  One evening, as she sat at her desk, she realised she could barely see a single line of her book. She lit one candle, and then another, placing them as close as she dared to the pages; but it made no difference. She was so angry that she felt she might scream. It seemed monstrously unfair that just as she had discovered an interest that gave her life meaning, it should be taken away from her. If she could not read, what was left to her? She closed the book carefully, with a calm she did not feel, and lay on her bed, trying to decide what she must do.

  For two days, Mary attempted to live without books. She played the piano, walked in the garden, picked flowers for the drawing room, and pretended to sew. By the afternoon of the second day, she knew that for her, such an existence was unendurable. If she was not to go mad, she must ask her mother if she might consult an oculist. This was not a request to be undertaken lightly. Mary knew it was likely to provoke Mrs. Bennet to even greater heights of indignation than her attempts to secure a governess, for, what could be more destructive of her skimpy attractions than the wearing of heavy metal spectacles? But Mary had no choice. If the alternative was impossible, the question must be asked. All she could do was to approach her mother when she was at her least peevish, throwing herself, as boldly as she could, upon Mrs. Bennet’s uncertain sympathies.

  Mary finally approached her mother one afternoon when she was occupied in the pantry, checking the bottled fruit that had been put up last autumn, peering into the jars to see if the plums, apricots, and greengages were still good. As this was a task she enjoyed, Mrs. Bennet was tolerably cheerful until Mary explained why she had come to see her. Then her good mood evaporated, and she professed not to credit what she was being asked.

  “I cannot believe you are serious. If this is a joke, Mary,
it is in very poor taste.”

  “It is no joke, Mama, I promise you. I can hardly see to read. I do beg I might be allowed to have my eyes examined.”

  “To what end? How do you think that will help?”

  “If the oculist thinks I would benefit from it, he could prescribe spectacles. Then I should be able to read again.”

  “Spectacles, indeed! And you would really be prepared to wear them? To humiliate yourself in such a way?”

  “If they allowed me to read as I wish, then yes, I would be happy to wear them.”

  Mrs. Bennet, who had just lifted a large jar of apricots down from the shelf, deposited it onto the table with a little too much vigour. Fortunately, it did not break; but the noise made Mary jump.

  “No man will look at you,” she declared, “and every woman will pity you.”

  “I hope I will be equal to bearing that, if I must.”

  For a moment, Mrs. Bennet was speechless, unable to conceive of such a crime against everything she held dear. But Mary steeled herself to continue.

  “If you don’t feel able to help me, then I will pay for it myself. I have a little money saved from my allowance. I will write to the oculist myself and ask him to call.”

  Her mother wiped her hands on her apron.

  “Then it seems I have no choice in the matter. Let the oculist come if he must. But I am very displeased with you, Mary. I am sadly vexed and agitated now, and it is all your fault.”

  She strode towards the door, so angry that she left the jars still on the table, untouched and unexamined.

  “Don’t think I will attend you when he comes. Mrs. Hill will take care of it. I would not be equal to the strain of it all.”