Chapter 13
The next morning, once breakfast was over, Mary made her way to the library.
She was glad to find Mr. Bennet was not there; it would be easier to search for what she wanted without his sceptical eye upon her.
She passed over the volumes of philosophy and history which usually detained her, consigning Locke, Hobbes, and Rousseau to some future period.
She had decided to begin with more practical and direct works of instruction.
It took a while before she found them. But eventually, tucked into a corner, she discovered a collection of little books whose titles suggested they were exactly what she sought.
She picked up A Letter of Genteel and Moral Advice to a Young Lady and An Enquiry into the Duties of the Female Sex and laid them on the table where she usually read and worked.
Both were very dusty; it was a long time since anyone had taken them from their shelf.
She took out her handkerchief, wiped off the worst of the dirt, and smiled as she imagined what Lydia would say if presented with them.
But what was that to her? They might not please her sister, but they would do very well for her purposes.
She added a few more similar works to her pile and took them away to examine them in private.
Most did not detain her for long. Even in her present low-spirited state, Mary was not much enamoured of writers who insisted that a woman unfortunate enough to be in possession of any learning had better do all she could to conceal it.
That savoured too much of her mother’s opinion to please her.
Perhaps, wondered Mary, it was Mrs. Bennet who had acquired the books in the first place?
That thought did nothing further to recommend them, and she began to feel impatient with her haul.
Finally, just as she was about to give up, she came upon a small book of sermons.
Mary had never heard of its author, a Dr. Fordyce; but as she turned its pages, she quickly discovered that his ideas were far more to her taste.
Unlike his fellow authors, he thought it a sad thing for a woman to remain in ignorance, her intellect neglected and unformed.
For him, an inclination towards serious reading was an excellent quality in a female, a habit to be cultivated rather than concealed.
It was much to be regretted, he added, that so many ladies read only novels.
Such works could not add to the stock of their knowledge and offered instead a false and misleading picture of the world.
Mary paused at this. Mrs. Bennet was a great reader of novels.
Dr. Fordyce made some excellent points. She decided she would read on.
As she did so, she discovered that Dr. Fordyce took a dim view of many of her mother’s ruling passions.
In his opinion, the hours spent on female fripperies such as dress, hair, and other adornments was time thrown away; these were empty distractions with which no sensible woman should concern herself.
True beauty, he declared, had nothing to do with outward appearance.
It came from within, the product of a well-regulated mind and a properly formed understanding.
These qualities, and not a pretty face, are the real measure of a woman’s worth.
Mary took her pencil and carefully underlined this sentence.
It was so much the opposite of everything her mother believed that it could not help but please her.
However, continued Dr. Fordyce, it was regrettably the case that for some foolish people, good looks remained the only standard by which a woman is judged; but those of more discernment understand that a steady, informed character is a prize of incalculably more value.
Theirs is the only good opinion worth having.
Those who value more superficial qualities need not be attended to.
The woman who grasps this important point will not bother herself with the pursuit of the empty trappings of fashion.
She will use her time more sensibly, seeking to absorb any knowledge that will help her make the correct choices in her journey through life.
Mary closed the book, elated. She had found what she wanted.
In Dr. Fordyce’s words, she heard Mrs. Bennet’s vision of the world entirely rejected, whilst her own passions were thoroughly and completely vindicated.
For the first time since the ball, her despondency lifted a little.
Through her bedroom window, the garden sparkled with the first frost of winter.
A pale sun shone in a sharp blue sky. Mary saw none of this, indifferent to everything but her new sense of purpose.
She pulled a sheet of paper from her drawer and began to transcribe those passages from Dr. Fordyce which she had found particularly satisfying.
She had been right to think that study was the answer.
Study, hard work, and Dr. Fordyce would keep her from going wrong again.
For weeks, Mary worked tirelessly in the library, making notes on everything she read, covering page after page in her neat handwriting.
Once she had exhausted Dr. Fordyce, she moved on to other writers of whom he approved; and from them, she was handed on, via footnote and reference, to yet more of similiar inclination.
There was rarely anyone in the library except herself and her father; but he never enquired what she was doing.
His indifference was nothing new; but now that she felt herself embarked on something of real importance, it began to provoke her.
She longed to know what he would think of the task she had set herself.
He was a reading man, the only Bennet, besides herself, with an appetite for scholarly works.
If anyone was to understand the urgency of her desire to find a rational way to live, surely it would be him.
She put down her pen and stared into the still library air, imagining how it would be if that were to happen.
She saw herself explaining her plans to him, calmly and steadily, with none of the flustered self-consciousness that usually afflicted her in his presence.
He listened, neither mocking nor belittling her.
And as she spoke, she grew gradually more confident, blooming in the warmth of his approval.
A bridge had been crossed, a bond formed between them—they had become partners in a shared endeavour.
From then on, the library was no longer silent, but was full of lively conversation, as father and daughter shared their ideas.
Mr. Bennet asked for her opinions of writers she had read, and suggested names of those she had not.
Slowly but steadily, Mary was invited, not only into the private world of her father’s intellectual domain, but also into his affections, both of them places where, until now, only Lizzy had been admitted.
Far away in the depths of the house, a door slammed, a servant called out, and Mary was shaken abruptly from her daydream.
Back in the real world, her father’s expression, as he turned a page of his book, was as sardonic as ever, and just as unreachable.
Only in her dream would Mary have the courage to approach him directly.
Attempting it here—in the library, face-to-face—no, she could not do it.
She would not know how to begin. She saw herself retreating in confusion under the power of his merciless smile.
And yet, she could not resign herself to giving up.
The dream in which he became her intellectual confidant was too seductive to abandon.
If she could not trust herself to speak to her father, she must find some other way of making her ambitions known to him.
The answer finally occurred to her one morning as she walked into Meryton.
She had not wanted to leave the library, but Mrs. Hill had harried her until she agreed to put on her coat and go out into the fresh air.
She went alone, dawdling along the quiet lanes, her thoughts directionless.
It was not until she was at the outskirts of the village that she was struck by a thought that was both exciting and terrible—what if she were to see John Sparrow there?
She stopped and stood motionless amongst the nettles, considering.
If their paths crossed—if he saw her—perhaps he would ask how she did—she would reply—he would speak again—and somehow, perhaps, she might get out an apology, an explanation for what had happened—and then he would—But no, she told herself, this was foolish.
This was precisely the kind of silliness in which she had resolved not to indulge.
It would not do. If they were to meet, all she could expect was a curt raising of his hat as he walked on. He would not stop to talk.
Her eyes filled with tears. Perhaps she should turn back?
But that would prove she was even more fainthearted than she had already shown herself to be.
She wiped her face and pulled up her collar against the cold.
She would go into Meryton—but not for one moment whilst she was there would she allow herself to think of John Sparrow.
She walked bravely down the single street, looking neither to the left nor the right; but when she came to its end, she had no further idea what she was to do there, for she had left Longbourn without any object in mind beyond her arrival.
She supposed she might look at the shops; that was what her sisters would do, but the haberdasher’s where Kitty and Lydia spent their allowances was of no interest to her. Instead, she headed to the stationer’s.
Staring through the shop window, she looked longingly at the thick cream paper, fine sharp pencils, and perfumed sealing waxes.
Beautiful writing things always made her mouth water, and these were particularly attractive.
How satisfying it would be to have some useful occupation on hand for which they could be used.
They would be the perfect materials to use in composing a little book, for example; the different coloured inks could be used very prettily to illustrate favourite sayings.
As she regarded them hungrily, it occurred to her that such a book would be the perfect gift for her father, demonstrating to him not only the strength of her affection, but also the extent of her reading.
She could choose extracts from her favourite authors, copying them onto its pages and presenting them in a way that was sure to intrigue and impress him.
It would say what she could not, displaying the range and depth of her interests.
Her work was sure to be a better advocate for her ambitions than anything she could say to him.
She grew more and more excited as she thought about it.
The intellectual challenge, deciding which passages to include, came first of course.
But there would be a great deal of pleasure in making the little book as pleasing to the eye as it would be to the mind.
She would buy the best book she could afford, with a soft leather cover and good quality paper for its blank pages.
She would need a new set of pens, some coloured inks, and perhaps an ebony ruler; she had always wanted one of those.
Her manner was positively jaunty as she entered the stationer’s shop to make her purchases, and her cheerfulness lasted all the way home, as she began to plan how the title page might look.
It was only when she sat down at her desk that she realised she had left Meryton with no sighting at all of John Sparrow.
She felt a sharp pang of regret; but before it could take hold, she stiffened her resolve.
She opened the new book, took out her ruler, gathered her pens together, and began to write.