The Other Bennet Sister

by Janice Hadlow

“But don’t you want to cultivate your gift? It seems a great shame to waste it.” “I’m not sure it is wasted if it pleases me.” Lizzy allowed her fingers to trace a simple scale. “I sometimes wonder if you might enjoy yourself more if you applied yourself a little less.” “But if I don’t apply myself, how will I play anything correctly?” “Perhaps,” remarked Lizzy, “correctness and application are not the only measures of success.”

“You are teasing me, Mr. Bennet, but you know the truth of what I say. A man may wear spectacles, I suppose, even a young man, especially if he is a lawyer or a clergyman or suchlike, and no-one will speak ill of him. For a young woman it is quite a different thing. What do you think people will say when they see Mary in them? Who will want to marry her then?” Mr. Bennet looked thoughtful. “Perhaps one of those very men you have just described will offer for her, a wearer of spectacles himself, boldly indifferent to the scorn of all the neighbourhood. Indeed, it may be the very thing that brings them together.”

Dr. Fordyce says novels are very unsuitable for women to read; their morals often leave much to be desired, they have nothing of worth to tell us, and they convey no proper instruction.” Elizabeth sat up straight, serious now. “For me, that is one of their chief recommendations. I do not care to be told what to think at every turn of a page. And I do not agree that they have nothing to tell us. Is Charles Grandison to be thus dismissed? Tristram Shandy? Tom Jones? Works in which the most thorough knowledge of human nature is displayed? The greatest powers of the mind described? No, I cannot sit by and leave the novel undefended.”

“Dr. Fordyce says books of history and philosophy are more useful for a female mind. They enhance our understanding, whilst novels only arouse our passions.” “I cannot see why a woman of sense shouldn’t enjoy both. I should consider it an insult to be denied the pleasures afforded me by Miss Burney because it might make me less receptive to those of Mr. Hume. Dr. Fordyce, however, I leave to you. I shall not compete for his company.” Mr. Bennet, who had been watching the conversation with interest, laughed out loud at this. “Well said, Lizzy! Well said, indeed! And you are quite right about Fordyce. Milk-and-water stuff. All cant and obsequiousness, not worthy of serious notice.”

“He is no doubt hard-pressed to choose an outfit that will suggest both his high opinion of himself and his readiness to flatter his superiors at every possible opportunity,” observed Mr. Bennet smoothly. “It is a considerable requirement to ask of a coat and shirt. We may be here for quite some time.”

“Whatever possessed me to agree? I can’t imagine what I was thinking.” “I dare say,” said Charlotte consolingly, “that once on the floor, you will find him very agreeable.” “Heaven forbid! That would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find agreeable a man whom one is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an evil!”

“But I think there is another difference between you and me. I have never hidden from you that I am unhappy in my circumstances and planned to do all I could to change them. But it is my situation I dislike, not myself. I’m not sure the same is true of you. It’s hard to persuade anyone, especially a man, that your regard is worth having if you have none for yourself.”

How, she mused, are we to understand happiness, and the ways in which it is brought about? Is it determined by inherited temperament? Or is it all a matter of chance, a quality arbitrarily bestowed on some but not on others? Do our circumstances matter? Are beauty and wealth more likely to produce happiness than goodness and self-sacrifice? And is there anything an individual can do to improve their own sense of contentment and satisfaction?

Only when we know ourselves—when we have examined and understood our strengths and weaknesses, when we have been honest enough to admit what we really desire from life—only then do we have any chance at all of attaining it.”

Sometimes the very best stuff can seem quite plain, until one examines it closely. It is only then that one sees its true quality.”

I know you’ve always been told a woman’s worth can be measured only by her beauty, by the way she presents herself to the world. But please believe me when I say there is a middle way between an obsession with one’s appearance and an absolute denial of its importance. I do not consider myself a vain woman, but I admit it pleases me to be smartly turned out. And I would like you to feel the same.”

It was only now that she finally grasped how it was done; as she saw, with a flash of comprehension, that Aristotle had a far better idea of how happiness was to be achieved than Mrs. Bennet. The happy contentment which defined life at Gracechurch Street was not the product of beauty, wealth, or luck.

the difference was that the Gardiners worked hard at the business of happiness, exerting themselves tirelessly to coax it into being. They did not consider happiness a matter of chance or destiny. Instead they did everything in their power to cultivate it, prizing generosity over petulance, preferring kindness to umbrage, and always encouraging laughter rather than complaint. The result was the happiest home Mary had ever known.

The most important habit to conquer was the habit of misery itself. Nothing was so inimical to happiness as the settled conviction it was not for her. It was a conviction that ran very deep in her; but she knew she must fight to rise above it.

“Now I’m thankful I understood my limitations so early. If I don’t have the genius to create a thing of beauty myself, at least I have the judgement to appreciate the art of others. It is better to accept what I can do, than to yearn hopelessly after what I cannot. ‘Know thyself,’ as the Greeks tell us.” Mary murmured a phrase, quite low, almost to herself. “Really, Miss Bennet, that sounded very like Greek,” remarked Mr. Hayward. “Could it have been? It isn’t a language with which young ladies are usually familiar.”

“That is the power of poetry,” he said simply. “It allows us to imagine ourselves anew, if we will permit it to do so. It reveals to us the hidden wishes of our hearts.”

“It seems to me,” he went on, “that, in the real world, it is impossible to be guided solely by either the impulses of feeling or by rational calculation. Neither is likely to make us happy. In my own view, we have need of them both. Wisdom, I suppose, lies in knowing when to call upon one and when on the other.”

Tiredness washed over her. She had no more energy to reflect on Mr. Hayward. For as long as she could remember, it had seemed as if she was a player in a game whose rules she did not understand, in which all the dice were weighted against her. She had done her best to learn what she was supposed to do, but somehow, she always stumbled. As she looked into the distant hills, she realised how she longed to be free of it all, to leave behind the posturing and falsity, the niceties and stratagems.

From you, I have learnt it is not enough simply to experience feeling. You showed me that one must find the courage to act upon it. There are times when happiness must be fought for, if we are to have any chance at all of achieving it.”

She had gradually discovered that the best response to glorious, unexpected happiness was not to seek explanation for its appearance but simply to embrace it and be glad.