Mary Bennet

I could scarce believe my ears. To learn that the discerning part of my family considered me stupid was mortifying. And my father undoubtedly shared this view of my abilities! My first reactions were passionately contradictory. I would prove them wrong if it were the last thing I ever did, confound them all with a dazzling display of genius. In the next breath I resolved to be completely idle—leave off my studies, drown my book. Since I was so stupid, what did it matter?

But I have not yet related the last part of the conversation. It was every bit as hurtful as the first. Aunt told Jane and Elizabeth she believed I was lonely, that I lived too much apart from my sisters: “It must be hard for Mary, situated as she is. You two are exceptionally close and Lydia and Kitty are inseparable, but she has nobody. It must be very hard.”

After a short pause Elizabeth spoke in a tone that was uncharacteristically serious: “What you say is very true — I wonder it has not occurred to me before.”

“But Aunt, whenever Lizzy and I ask Mary to come on walks with us or to join in games with the younger ones, she nearly always refuses.”

“That is to say whenever you ask her,” said Elizabeth. “The truth is I never do. I find Mary’s company tedious.”

“My dear Lizzy” Aunt’s tone was both amused and disapproving. “If Mr Knowles is as you describe and Mary is with him for the chief part of every day —”

“I know, I know, I have been abominably selfish, I see that now. I have not been kind to her. But I shall try to do better. I shall make amends.”

Eavesdroppers often hear unpalatable truths about themselves: traditionally, that is their punishment. Even so, my punishment was surely harsher than I deserved. For if I had not known that Elizabeth found my company so tedious, I might well have responded differently when she sought me out. And we might have understood each other better; we might even have become friends.

Because she did try to make amends, unquestionably: for several weeks not a day passed without her inviting me to join her in some pursuit or other. She would ask me to walk to the farm with her, to accompany her to the circulating library, to practise duets with her, and on several occasions — with real heroism — she offered to accompany me when I sang. She lent me her books, mended my pens, and made me a present of an old and much loved doll I had coveted when I was seven but now no longer wanted.

But I could not allow myself the luxury of loving Elizabeth; I could not respond to friendly overtures when I knew my company was so irksome to her. Also, it struck me that she herself was rather lonely at this time and less likely to be discriminating. Jane was beginning to put away childish things and to gravitate towards the adult world and adult company.
Like most such transitions, it was uneven. One day she would be happily playing at hopscotch with her skirts tucked up, the next would see her blushing and looking conscious when a clerk from Uncle Philips’ office stared at her. Jane had always been a remarkably pretty girl with a great sweetness of expression but she was now becoming quite beautiful. When we walked into Meryton people would look at her so, it was embarrassing—and not men merely; she had the sort of face that also charmed women.

My mother of course took a vicarious delight in this admiration, prophesying to Lady Lucas that Jane would marry a duke some day: “There’s no denying she has a higher claim than most by virtue of her sweet face, and I’ve not the least doubt she would make a charming duchess. And then, you know, she would be waited on by liveried footmen and I daresay dine off gold plate every day. Not that I would wish her to marry without affection of course.”
Absurd as it might seem, I believe Elizabeth too saw Jane as somehow set apart from the generality of girls — if not destined to be a duchess then certainly deserving homage as a superior being. But for whatever reason —loneliness, boredom, disgust at Mama’s vulgar aspirations for Jane — Elizabeth at this time began to read and study a great deal more; masters were engaged to teach her drawing and the Italian language, and she practised her music assiduously. And she also persevered with Aunt Gardiner’s work for the poor families in the parish, as indeed did Jane.

Meanwhile, the Gardiner family continued to increase — there were now two little girls, Susan and Eleanor — and perforce their visits to Longbourn became less frequent. But Jane and Elizabeth had both been to stay with the Gardiners in London, and more recently Jane had visited there on her own.

It was on this last visit when Jane had just turned fifteen that she met a very eligible young man who — if Mama is to be believed — fell in love with her. (The incident is briefly alluded to in Chapter Nine of Pride and Prejudice.) The young man’s name was Richard Stanley and although he was not, alas, a duke, he was heir to a baronetcy and stood to inherit a sizeable estate in Gloucestershire.

I never heard the full story of Mr Stanley — I knew that his uncle the baronet had disapproved of the connection and I also knew that on leaving London Mr Stanley had sent Jane some verses — but Jane seemed her usual serene self when she returned home, and I remember thinking she could not have been very much in love because she laughed when Elizabeth made fun of Mr Stanley’s poem.

The poem had at least half a dozen verses but I can only recall one of them:

I remember Elizabeth laughing as she read out this verse. (Jane had given her leave to show me the poem and Elizabeth had come up to my room directly after breakfast — she had not yet given up trying to make amends.)

“Dear Mary!” she exclaimed when she had finished. “Have you ever heard such stuff?”

“What is a kirtle?” I wanted to know.

Elizabeth started laughing again. “Oh! It is just an archaic word for a gown — and Jane doesn’t even own a pink gown! It is the most ridiculous thing.”

I was about to ask her to read the poem again — I did not think it at all bad — when she jumped up to go. “Mama plans to visit Aunt Philips this morning, and Jane and I are to go with her.” Her hand was on the doorknob and then she turned back to look at me: “Do you care to come with us, Mary?”

I shook my head and averted my eyes — I wanted very much to accept but still I could not trust her. And her scorn for poor Mr Stanley had unsettled me; it reminded me of her earlier attitude towards myself. “I’m afraid I have a great deal of work I must attend to,” I said.

She said nothing for several seconds and then opened the door: “Just as you choose.”

It would be one of the last times Elizabeth ever asked me to go anywhere or do anything with her, and I wish now that I had accepted. If the two of us had been better friends it might have made a difference later when Netherfield Park was let — not, I hasten to add, to Mr Bingley; we have not yet come to Mr Bingley — but to a very personable, clever and amusing man called Jasper Coates.

Elizabeth conceived a violent infatuation for Mr Coates — she was fourteen at the time — and if I had been in her confidence, she might have been spared a deal of heartache. For I knew a thing or two about Mr Coates that she did not.