In the character of Mary Bennet there existed a profound irony which was as follows: the only quality that saved her from being wholly ordinary was the extraordinary degree of ordinariness which she possessed.
It was an unfortunate truth that people who were ordinary of an ordinary nature would easily be forgotten by those who met them; but those who met Mary Bennet were often, in fact, liable to remember her, on account of her outstanding plainness.
"Do you remember that girl at Pemberley, Mrs. Darcy's sister, I believe, the one with the rather plain face?" Lady L- might remark to her acquaintance Miss T- over tea. And Miss T- would reply, "Yes, of course. Quite extraordinary, how rather unremarkable an impression her features made. And rather dull in conversation as well, if I am to remember correctly."
This was an irony that quite undeniably existed, but a consolation, perhaps, to these unpleasant circumstances was that their object was wholly unaware of it; and, in fact, of all those closest to her, this irony was only ever observed (in fond amusement) by her father, Mr. Bennet. It was only ever observed by him because his wife, Mrs. Bennet, would never deign to admit, even in confidence to herself, a plainness in any of her daughters. Of her sisters, meanwhile, the two younger were often too absorbed in themselves to engage in astute observations on the character of others; and for her older sisters, even the sharp-witted Elizabeth, if they ever did note her tendency to subscribe too much to academic pedantry, or her unfortunate eagerness to showcase her distinct lack of musical talent, it was always done through the slightly softening lens of sisterly affection.
It is often in the wake of great change where true character is revealed, and upon the surprisingly rapid succession of marriages of three of the Bennet sisters, there was certainly a great change that fell upon the Bennet family.
Not a month had passed but Mrs. Bennet was left with only Kitty and Mary with whose marriage prospects she might concern herself. It was with this abrupt departure of three of her daughters that a notable transformation was enacted upon Mrs. Bennet's character – not, of course, in regards to the ills of health which had so long plagued her, and which showed every sign of remaining a lifelong companion – but rather, instead of the tenacity with which she had intended to oversee each of her daughters' betrothals, there suddenly fell a lull, which, to the inobservant eye, might have implied that she was no longer in the act of seeking single men with good fortune.
This change was wrought at the precise moment the realization had come upon her, as she was seeing off the newlywed Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy, that once all her daughters were wed and settled, she would very suddenly be deprived fully of not only her daughters' company, but also, and more importantly, of the main activity which had occupied the bulk of her time and nerves.
Therefore, to the dismay of Kitty, who had been most eager to be shepherded around by her mother in search of suitable matches (or perhaps, in the footsteps of Lydia, even unsuitable ones), Mrs. Bennet became inexplicably reticent on the subject, which had previously been such a well-trodden path of discourse for her. It was due to this unexpected desertion that Kitty determined to take matters into her own hands, and thus was seen from then on to spend the vast sum of her time split between Jane and Elizabeth's residences, in the country and in town, until at last she met a handsome, young solicitor who wasted no time in proposing forthwith.
Thus was Mrs. Bennet left with only Mary, who on the whole made a poor companion to a woman as loquacious and nervous as her mother, but who nevertheless exerted an effort to make herself slightly more agreeable, though whether or not this effort was noticed by Mrs. Bennet, one could not say.
And what effects had been wrought upon Mary by this rapid succession of changes? They were, in fact, surprisingly agreeable. For with the absence of her sisters, Mary found not only the removal of that proverbial thorn in her side which was her sisters' beauty and charm, but also a quietude which was quite conducive to the pursuit of worldly knowledge, interrupted only by Mrs. Bennet's interludes of gossip and social outings.
If occasionally she became plagued by an unexpected pang of loneliness or isolation (for neither with her father nor her mother did she feel a sense of particular understanding), the feeling was quickly cast aside in the knowledge that she was bettering herself and her mind, and that such pursuits must inevitably be a solemn and solitary undertaking.
Just as before, she spent the predominance of her time on reading, but unlike Mr. Bennet or her sister Elizabeth, she partook neither of the venerated classics nor of the pleasurable novels – her literary interests were limited only to those tomes of a most serious and severe nature, which were concerned with the tenets of theology or philosophy. In particular, she pored over those texts which examined the human condition and which provided insight, however vague at times, upon the imperatives of morality.
Even from a young age, Mary had always felt a heavy burden set upon her shoulders – that of puzzling out and answering the fundamental questions which by necessity plagued all people, even if they were not aware of it. It was these fundamental questions which she pondered while she read, and between reading as well, with the unquestionable sense that she must come to a definitive conclusion on all of these points. Mary could not explain from where this sense of duty had been born – it had simply existed within her from birth, just as had her brown hair and her bony frame.
It was undoubtedly from the contemplation of these unknowable truths, and the lack of progress in their contemplation moreover, which often led to the sulkiness and resentful moods to which Mary's temper was prone and with which her family had long grown accustomed. What maddened her at times was that no one seemed to particularly care – all the people in the world, save the philosophers and the clergymen, seemed perfectly content with living out their lives in blissful ignorance of the governing laws around them, and sometimes even in brutal violation of the moral conducts which Mary held so dear. The world seemed plagued by the disease of frivolity, and all her attempts to cure her closest kin from it were wasted and often rebuked. It was this turmoil and responsibility that had circled within Mary's head since she had been a child, and it was this turmoil with which she was left at the departure of all of her sisters.
But youth is a tempestuous and overly feeling time of one's life, and all emotions which spring into the bosom with violent passion at a young age must eventually either consume one or begin to die down.
Fortunately, in the case of Mary, it proved to be the latter, and as the months went by, the turmoil began to somewhat quieten, the sense of duty began to possess less urgency, and on the whole, though the self-importance and occasional pangs of bitterness remained, she became more forgiving on the part of her fellow human, more accepting of shortcomings, and even deigned to pardon Lydia for what she previously deemed a most unforgivable, contemptuous transgression.
Mr. Bennet was even made to grow fonder of her in his old age, for now there were times that there sprang from her, between her usual tired and trite phrases, truly interesting or novel thoughts; and it was much pleasure and flattery that Mary felt on those occasions when Mr. Bennet would take a seat beside her after dinner in the study and speak with her on such topics which she previously had no one with which to discuss.
It was on one such night that, having just finished a lengthy discourse on the existence of free will (heated on Mary's side, amused on her father's), that Mr. Bennet brought up most unexpectedly a topic which he had never broached with her before.
"Seeing as we are on the topic of will – should it perhaps be yours to go to town this next season?"
Mary was quite startled at this, and did not immediately know how to make a reply. "I cannot imagine what attractions a stay in London might have for me."
"Perhaps you might use the experience for your first treatise on the modern corruption of the urban populace," said Mr. Bennet, who, though fonder of Mary, was nevertheless too set in his ways to alter his glibness towards sanctimony (one of the few traits which Mary and Mrs. Bennet had in common).
Mary had come so far as to now recognize when a joke was being made at her expense, and reddened appropriately.
"It's only that your aunt and uncle were kind enough to send us a letter offering to have you stay with them for several weeks' time, and I thought it only fair to pass the proposition on," Mr. Bennet continued. "And while you may not agree, I cannot imagine that a few weeks among London's layabouts would do you such immeasurable harm as you might think. You ought to meet people of your own age, even if it is only to form a hearty dislike of them."
"I do know people my own age," Mary said stiffly. "And from the ones I do know, I hardly have desire to know more. Most girls my age are concerned with their hair and their dress, and most boys with their drink and property, and altogether they prove to be unbearably dull and morally lax."
"Then when you marry, perhaps you'd be best to find yourself an esteemed old Judge, whose bones rattle when he walks, and who oft cannot remember the location of his glasses, but who will undoubtedly not be concerned with his hair or dress, and will join you in the upholding of all that is good and proper."
Mr. Bennet was only indulging himself in his usual sardonic humor, but Mary had thought on this point a great deal, and was prepared with an answer which had the effect of surprising Mr. Bennet in its firmness and surety. "I do not plan to wed, papa. I have the venerated examples of clergymen and philosophers before me, who in seeking the profound enlightenment of their professions, have rejected the distractions of frivolous attachments. I am quite determined to follow in their footsteps, and to see marriage as only a rather silly excursion which women use to gain either occupation or fortune, or both."
"Might I remind you, my dear," Mr. Bennet said mildly, "that while you certainly do not lack in the former, you may rather want in the latter once I am no longer of this earth."
But to this Mary had reply as well, just as swift and sure. "I am quite confident, papa, in the good conscience of our cousin Mr. Collins, that upon taking over Longbourn in due course, he will allow me to continue my residence here, as I am intellectually to him a kindred spirit, and that he could take no possible issue with the occupation to which I have dedicated my life."
Mr. Bennet did not at all share this confidence – the memory of the man's pomposity and oddness still quite fresh in his mind; but Mary, who could be sufficiently impressed by the title of clergyman alone, and who was prone to mistaking (even in her own case) the trait of pomposity with the trait of competence or accomplishment, would have been hard-pressed to accept a lower view of him.
"Still, it would be best if perhaps you were not of need to rely on Mr. Collins' good conscience."
Mr. Bennet, though certainly not the zealous proponent of matrimony that was his wife, nevertheless felt a pang of solicitude at Mary's stalwart decision, and was reminded, not necessarily unpleasantly, of Lizzy and her immovability in the face of injustice. However, in this case, it was perhaps a more direct threat, because, seeing as he did how Mary lived, it was quite a severe likelihood that if she were, in fact, determined not to wed, in all probability there would be no external challenges to her decision on the matter.
Despite Mary's insistence on the point of marriage, she was not quite as immoveable on the point of a stay in London as her words might have led one to believe. As any true academic, Mary was afflicted often with that incurable misfortune of curiosity, and despite all signs pointing to a stay in town being of the utmost frivolity, she was nevertheless intrigued by what specific frivolities she might find there.
However, Mr. Bennet was not inclined to press her on the point any further, and Mary would not stoop to resurrect the issue herself, so the matter was dropped.
A consolation to this was that in not too distant a future, Mary was set to visit Pemberley.
Having been already once before, the previous year, during their Christmas festivities, she had been left with a very favorable impression of the stay, not so much due to the celebrations, but due largely to the extensive collection of books in their sprawling library. It was a collection so vast that she could read voraciously during each of her stays for twenty years to come and would still fall short of completing it.
To add to this attraction, Mary found the grounds to be surprisingly pleasurable for strolling as well, and as someone who did not generally allow herself to be stirred by trivial things such as prettiness or splendor, it spoke to Pemberley's remarkable beauty that she felt the first flutters of romantic longing in her heart while exploring its grounds.
It was to these not insignificant pleasures which she looked forward, and when a letter from Elizabeth arrived a month or so before her departure, it was with a new sense of sisterly affection that Mary read its contents.
Things seemed all in order, they were all awaiting her eagerly. She would not, unfortunately, overlap with Kitty, who was just tomorrow departing for the Bingleys' residence in London. They were to have several entertainments for her during her stay, one being a dance that Pemberley was to hold (though, as Elizabeth wrote in good humor, she suspected that Mary might find her occupation elsewhere). She would undoubtedly be able to meet with some of the neighboring families, which she had not as much chance to do at last Christmas; Elizabeth hoped that some of these might make suitable acquaintances for her. Also, there was a respected botanist, a Mr. James Crawford, an illustrator of some sort, who was staying in the Pemberley cottage and who had been reserved to illustrate the Darcys' collection of exotic plants, and file them away in some botanical compendium – perhaps he might provide some interesting discourse on his profession.
They all sent their love, and awaited her eagerly:
Etc, etc,
With fondest affection,
Lizzy
The following month passed with little consequence, the issues of marriage and London were no more brought up by Mr. Bennet, and so it was with pleasant anticipation (if not an excessively hopeful one) that Mary bid goodbye to her father and mother (her mother being most tearful and affectionate) and set upon her way to Pemberley.
