The untold journal entries,
Pride and Prejudice in a blue stocking style,
Humorous takes on a much-loved classic,
Written and performed by Stephanie Poppins.
21 October 1812 The Journal of Georgiana Darcy What a remarkable afternoon I've spent with dear Elizabeth.
I confess each conversation with my brother's beloved wife leaves me more impressed by her wisdom and gentle strength.
Today's discourse has given me much to contemplate and I find myself filled with both hope and a curious sense of purpose I'd not felt before.
Elizabeth spoke to me of something called the Blue Stocking Society,
A circle of learned ladies who gathered to discuss philosophy,
Literature and the cultivation of reason.
She explained these women embrace what the ancient philosophers call stoic principles,
The masteries of one's emotion through rational thought,
The acceptance of what cannot be changed whilst acting decisively upon what can be influenced and above all the development of an inner fortress that no external circumstance can breach.
Georgiana,
She said with that knowing smile of hers,
You possess a naturally reflective mind.
These principles might serve you well in navigating the complexities of society,
Particularly upon encountering those who would prey upon gentleness and inexperience.
Her words struck me profoundly for they brought to mind that dreadful summer at Mrs Young's establishment.
How differently I might have comported myself had I possessed such philosophical amour.
When George Wickham appeared with his practiced charm and calculated intentions,
I was utterly defenceless.
I mistook manipulation for genuine affection,
Flattery for sincere regard.
My emotions roared entirely,
Clouding my judgment until I could see nothing but his handsome countenance.
Elizabeth listened to me today with such compassionate understanding as I related,
Perhaps for the first time in full,
How Wickham had played upon my youth and loneliness.
How he convinced me my brother's protectiveness was mere tyranny,
That only he truly understood my nature.
I see now he identified every vulnerability and exploited it with precision.
My desire for independence,
My fear of being thought childish,
My romantic notions of love conquering all obstacles.
You were not weak,
My dear,
She assured me.
You were young and trusting,
Qualities that should be treasures,
Not sources of shame.
But wisdom can teach us to preserve these virtues while strengthening our defences.
Elizabeth has been so kind to me.
She spoke at length of how stoic principles might have served me,
The discipline to pause and examine my emotions before acting upon them.
The wisdom to distinguish between genuine character and mere charm,
The strength to trust my own judgment over the whispered urgencies of another.
Most remarkably,
She explained how such philosophy teaches us our peace of mind need never depend upon the approval or affection of others.
This is a lesson I desperately needed then and I still strive to learn now.
I find myself tremendously intrigued by these blue stocking ladies.
Elizabeth has promised to introduce me to some texts,
A translation by Elizabeth Carter,
Discourses by Epictetus,
It's called.
The thought both thrills and intimidates me to participate in discourse about ideas rather than merely weather and fashion.
Yet I believe Elizabeth is right.
I do possess a contemplative nature.
Perhaps it's time I used it more deliberately.
If I can learn to meet the world with greater equanimity,
To respond rather than react and judge situations by reason as well as feelings,
Might I not become the sort of woman who could never again be so easily deceived?
I think often of what Fitzwilliam endured on my behalf,
The scandal he prevented,
The pain he bore.
Perhaps this philosophical study might be my way of ensuring his sacrifice was not in vain.
I cannot undo my past folly,
But I can prevent its repetition through greater wisdom.
I rejoice.
Elizabeth has given me a wonderful gift,
Not merely knowledge,
But hope.
Hope I might grow into a woman of substance and discernment,
Who meets life's challenges with compassion and strength.
Evening entry.
I find I cannot sleep,
For my afternoon conversation with Elizabeth has stirred memories I thought I had carefully buried.
Perhaps it's time I examine them more honestly,
If I'm truly to embrace the stoic principle she described.
The evening at Mrs.
Young's,
When George Wickham made his attentions plain,
Returns to me with uncomfortable clarity.
I'd been so worried about Elizabeth's so pleased my companion,
My supposed protector,
Had encouraged his visits,
Had praised his attentions as quite proper for a young lady of your station.
But how naive I was not to question why Mrs.
Young so often found urgent business elsewhere in the house during his calls,
Leaving us unchaperoned in ways that would have scandalised proper society.
That particular evening she retired early with a convenient headache.
Such a charming gentleman deserves your full attention,
My dear,
She said.
I shall be quite occupied with correspondence until the morning.
I remember feeling so sophisticated then,
So trusted with this adult confidence.
Wickham had sat closer that night.
He had taken liberties with my hand that made me uncomfortable,
Yet I confess I was flattered.
When I hesitated at his talk of elopement,
He grew more urgent,
More persuasive.
He spoke of how Mrs.
Young had assured him of my feelings,
How she'd suggested I was merely being modest in my affections.
This woman I trusted so to guide me had apparently been reporting my every word and gesture,
Helping Mr.
Wickham to craft his approach.
Your brother keeps you like a child,
He said.
His hand was upon my arm in a manner that felt more possessive than tender.
Mrs.
Young sees your true maturity,
He said.
She knows you are ready for a woman's happiness.
How thoroughly they had orchestrated it all,
She to remove all barriers,
And he to press his advantage when I was most vulnerable.
Even now the memory fills me with such anger,
Not merely at Wickham's calculated seduction,
But at Mrs.
Young's betrayal.
She,
Who was paid to protect my reputation,
Instead sold it for whatever sum George Wickham had offered her.
This is precisely what Elizabeth spoke of today.
This burning resentment serves no purpose save to torment me.
The Stoics would say my anger harms only myself,
That Wickham and Mrs.
Young go about their lives untroubled while I carry this poison within me.
Elizabeth quoted something to me.
How much trouble he avoids who does not look to see what his neighbour says or does,
But only to what he does himself.
I now understand.
I must focus my energy only on what lies within my control,
My own thoughts,
Choices and responses.
I cannot control what Wickham did and I cannot undo Mrs.
Young's treachery,
But I can choose whether to let their actions continue to disturb my peace.
Elizabeth said true strength lies not in the absence of such feelings,
But in acknowledging them without being ruled by them.
Feel the anger when it comes,
She said,
But do not let it choose your actions.
Observe it as you might observe a storm from a safe harbour,
Present but unable to wreck you.
I must study these teachings more thoroughly.
If I am to encounter Wickham again in society,
As I surely will given his connection to Lydia,
I cannot afford to be governed by this fury.
It clouds my judgment and makes me vulnerable in ways.
A woman who reacts from anger is as easily manipulated as one who acts from naive trust.
Perhaps the greatest victory over those who would use us is to become unshakable,
To meet their schemes with clarity rather than passion,
Wisdom rather than impulse.
This,
I believe,
Is what Elizabeth meant when she spoke of inner strength.
I shall begin my studies tomorrow with renewed purpose,
Not merely for self-improvement,
But for true liberation from the power that others have held over my peace of mind.
