Three. Pride and Prejudice
Three
Pride and Prejudice
The Massachusetts Supreme Judicial Court
June 26, 1865
“Let’s commence with the title.”
The other five justices groaned in laughter at their chief justice’s opening remark, which did not bode well for a quick deliberation.
“ Pride and Prejudice ,” Chief Justice Adam Fulbright continued. “Such perfect alliteration.”
“Even better than A Tale of Two Cities or Love’s Labour’s Lost ,” agreed Justice Philip Mackenzie. “They say it’s from Burney, another lady author—‘if to pride and prejudice you owe your miseries, so wonderfully is good and evil balanced, that to pride and prejudice you will also owe their termination.’”
“I thought it Thomas Paine.” Justice Ezekiel Peabody possessed the finest memory on the bench and could recite many famous sermons by heart. “His urging our colonies to break away in Common Sense .”
“I doubt that,” Justice Roderick Norton scoffed. “Far more likely Austen borrowed the phrase from a women’s novel.”
“Not necessarily.” The chief justice lit his pipe. “Miss Austen’s father was a teacher as well as a man of God, and Paine’s writings were well circulated abroad. Remember, England was at war for most of Austen’s lifetime, and several of her brothers served in the militia or navy—the house would have been full of talk of revolution.”
“What does any of this have to do with Pride and Prejudice ?” Norton asked in frustration. “That harpy Mrs. Bennet running around like Chicken Little, acting as if the sky is falling down!”
“But it is ,” countered Justice Conor Langstaff. “With the death of Mr. Bennet, his entire estate will pass to a distant male relation—primogeniture again—and the women will be thrust from gentry to poverty in a trice. Look at what happened to Austen herself when her own father died.”
“How,” asked a bemused Mackenzie, “did this comedy of manners become our most contentious meeting yet? William, what do you say to it all?”
Justice William Stevenson had said little so far, the long walks and conversations with Constance—Connie, as he now called her—having left him confused. He remained convinced of the rightness in saving his daughters from harm, less so of his chosen means of protection. Keeping them at home, Connie argued, was as good as keeping a horse in blinders. There was no effort to fix the world around women and its dangers particular to them—how convenient for the men who ruled and enjoyed its spoils. This was Constance’s entire modus operandi: give women a say in the very doings of the world that held such power over them. She would not rest until each and every woman of age had the vote.
“What strikes me,” Stevenson finally answered, “is how Georgiana Darcy and Lydia Bennet could be parented so differently, and given such opposite degrees of liberty, yet both fall prey to Wickham. Austen’s reproof here is stinging: protect or ignore them all you want, but no young woman is safe from an irresolute cad unless the world around her does its job first.”
“Lydia’s a twit no matter what,” Norton argued.
“But Lizzy isn’t, and she, too, falls for Wickham’s charms,” Langstaff pointed out.
“They’ve none of them been educated to meet the real world,” posited William. “They’re like horses with blinders on—everything is fine as long as someone else holds the reins behind them.”
The other men in the room all stared at him in surprise.
“Women need reining in, man!” exclaimed Norton.
“And we need their civilizing influence in the home, given their natural role as mothers,” added Mackenzie. “Such great influence, as all we husbands can attest to”—this provoked laughter among the bench—“that suffrage would be a mere formality in the end.”
“Look at Mrs. Bennet,” added Peabody. “Her husband does give in and welcome Bingley to Longbourn, does relent on Lydia visiting Brighton unchaperoned, and Mrs. B does succeed in marrying off three of five daughters in one fell swoop. She rules the roost.”
William Stevenson shook his head. “No, she’s cleaning up after her husband. They’re in this financial predicament because of him—no wonder her nerves are poor. She has no legal rights over their estate to prevent the entail—something her husband neglected to fix when he could. All property is his —until he dies and it becomes another man’s. The children are his property, too.” Stevenson shook his head in self-reproach. “We regard property as a mere extension of ourselves, but each child is an individual, and their own unique needs should light the way. Lydia clearly needed occupation to release all that energy. Even Mary Bennet had her pianoforte.”
“Horseback riding, perhaps?” Mackenzie asked with a laugh.
“At least that would be something! But seriously, aren’t our own various pursuits how we learn about ourselves and what we desire?”
“Again,” Norton said with a sigh, “what does this have to do with the book at hand?”
“Elizabeth Bennet knows what she desires!” Conor Langstaff, the sleep-deprived new father, dreamily exclaimed. He poured himself more coffee from the large silver pot and began to pace about the room, cup in hand. “For that matter, so does her friend Charlotte Lucas, although it’s the very marriage of convenience that Lizzy rejects. She turns down two marriage proposals, in fact, something quite unheard of. She would rather be alone and poor than do what society and her family demand. Such authenticity, such awareness and pride in one’s self, is to be admired—along with those fine eyes.”
“But hers is a strong pride—strong as a man’s—which overasserts itself following a bruising. I believe this is what makes her susceptible to Wickham’s charms,” Justice Mackenzie countered. “Think of Darcy’s insult upon meeting Lizzy, so unforgivably harsh—‘she is tolerable, yes, but not handsome enough to tempt me . ’ He even waits until catching her eye to say it, as if unknowingly wanting to vanquish any attraction. The man has no notion of consequences for his actions.”
“Until he meets his match in Elizabeth Bennet!” exclaimed Langstaff again. “She will make him pay the consequences—not all women would, in light of his wealth and social standing. What is it he says at the end, by you I was properly humbled ?”
“Darcy and Lizzy must each humble themselves to receive love,” announced the chief justice, and his associates prepared themselves for one of his romantic exhortations. “Elizabeth’s keen intelligence keeps her at a remove from others, much like her father’s—Darcy’s situation in life does, too. They both need to develop those qualities in life and marriage so critical to their success, and at which Mr. and Mrs. Bennet have each failed so miserably. Generosity of spirit—trust and respect—engagement and activity. We must all be the romantic hero in our own lives to realize its full potential.”
William Stevenson spotted Constance Davenish’s gloved hand waving from the waiting carriage, and these last words of the chief justice hit home again.
“I suppose there was a general air of infatuation in the room over Miss Eliza Bennet,” Connie greeted him, making room next to her on the plush velvet seat.
“There was much serious discussion on the folly of pride.”
She made a gesture of demurral. “Pride is not inherently a failing—little would get done in this world without it. Look at our country’s wonderful can-do attitude. But pride engaged wholly in the self— that’s where the dragons lie. Superiority, smugness, solipsism…”
William had to smile. “I knew you would have a few choice words to say on the matter—even without finishing the book.”
She gave that wonderful throaty laugh of hers in response and patted his arm. William felt as carefree as he had in years, then immediately guilty for it. His daughters were gone, separated from him by a deadly, storm-tossed sea. How could he possibly be happy?
Connie noticed his expression change—she never missed a thing. “William, what is it?” He slowly pulled the letter out from his waistcoat pocket. “Oh, I see—you’ve had word, then?”
He passed her Nash’s letter dated five days into the journey on the SS China as it headed east to England. It had been delivered to Boston’s Custom House by the RMS Neptune , a mail steamer traveling west from Liverpool that same week. Connie scanned the postmark and contents with impressive speed.
“But how wonderful to have news so soon! And the girls sound quite well and occupied by this Dickens charity production.” William missed the interesting look that Connie gave him with her next words. “Nash gives the very account one would expect from him.”
“There might still be some danger ahead—he penned it from the middle of the Atlantic, after all.”
“You’ve had the letter since Saturday, though? You should have called on me. You always can, you know.” She hesitated, patted his arm again, this time slowly. He had almost forgotten the feeling that swept over him at the warmth of her touch. It had all the excitement of fear, and none of the worry. Intoxication: that was exactly the word for it.
They traveled together in comfortable silence until reaching the double curved entrance to her home. The horses came to a sudden stop, giving the carriage a jolt of arrival. Connie fell against his chest with her easy laugh, then lingered.
“You will come in? You’re not as late tonight—I suppose Pride and Prejudice the easiest to dispose of the lot?”
“Certainly the most lighthearted,” he replied, choosing his words carefully as he always did. “We’re not even attending to Northanger Abbey —half the court considers it too derivative and derisive for serious study.”
He followed her up the stone steps and through the arched front door being held open by her manservant. William had never before entered Connie’s house at such a late hour. He was thinking of Samuel and Mrs. Pearson back home, how they would be worrying and waiting up for him, when his attention was caught anew by the grandness of his surroundings.
“Connie, I must say, you live like an empress.”
“Why shouldn’t I? I have no one else to please.” She threw her fan and evening gloves onto the table in the foyer. “The theater was crowded for such a hot night. La Traviata —oh, but you don’t care for opera, as I recall.”
She led him into the rococo white-and-gold drawing room where she held her famous weekly afternoon salon. He had attended the last one and stayed behind long after all the other guests had gone. Constance had remarked on how quiet he had been, and only then did he realize he had not come to talk but to assess his rivals, who appeared to be many. It turned out his horizon was not that clear when it came to her, and the notion had given him a much-needed jolt of his own.
She sat down on a small settee and patted the place next to her. She was always leading him closer to her, he understood at least that—telegraphing her permission, should he be brave enough to take it. He seated himself a slight but purposeful distance from her. “I suppose the opera is too large for me.”
“You do like your fine delicacy—your Miss Austen.”
“I wish you would try to read her again.”
“I am happy with my French authors and their healthy dose of realism. You are getting something from Austen, but realism it is not.”
William closed his eyes in mock grimace. “Please don’t say romance.”
“Never! That word is blasphemy around here.”
“Justice, then?”
“Why, yes, of course, William—how fitting.”
“Connie.”
“Yes, William.”
“There’s something I’ve been wanting to ask.” He turned to face her on the settee next to him, the dozens of rules of courtship etiquette dissipating like a young man’s game. “May I kiss you?”
Constance tilted her chin toward him in ready response, as commanding as a queen. “Oh, my boy, remember what the physician said…”
She reached forward to stroke his cheek at the edge of his beard and he pulled her hard against him, forgetting where they were, neglecting every last rule.
“What?” he heard himself ask, then just as quickly forgot his own question.
“… you must confront what terrifies you most.”
And then William Stevenson, to his own surprise, forgot it all.