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.
The Private Journal of Anne de Beur My Dearest Journal I write to you by candlelight while Mama believes me to be resting,
Though rest seems impossible when my mind churns with such fervent thoughts.
Today I received another letter from dear Miss Hartwell,
A keen follower of Elizabeth Montague's ideas and the blue-stocking group.
Her words have ignited me with a flame that neither my delicate constitution nor Mama's disapproving glances can extinguish.
She writes to me of Epictetus,
That stoic philosopher,
Teaching her how we cannot control what happens to us,
But we can master our responses to it,
Which seems so apt for one such as I,
Trapped between the twin tyrannies of poor health and predetermined destiny.
Miss Hartwell encourages me to view my afflictions not as chains,
But as opportunities to cultivate inner strength.
The mind,
She says,
Requires no robust constitution to flourish.
Indeed,
Some of history's greatest thinkers were confined by bodily weakness,
Yet they soared beyond all earthly limitations.
How I am blessed to have such a friend,
Albeit via correspondence only,
And,
Of course,
My dear lady's maid,
Who does me the honour of collecting my letters each week from the inn.
If it was not for her,
My mother would surely find out,
And all would be lost.
Without such hope,
Without these words that sing to my soul,
I would sit as always,
Subjected daily to Mrs.
Jenkinson's tedious lessons only.
Watercolours,
French embroidery,
It tires me so,
As though my fingers were made for nothing more substantial than threading silk.
When I suggest we might read,
The poor woman nearly requires her smelling salts.
Such ideas are most unsuitable for a young lady of your delicate sensibility,
She tells me,
As if my supposed frailty extends to my very thoughts.
The irony is not lost on me that while I'm deemed too weak for vigorous intellectual pursuit,
I am somehow deemed strong enough to fulfil the role of wife to Mr.
Darcy,
My cousin.
I cannot keep up with a man.
This arrangement,
Which Mama speaks of as though it were inscribed by divine hand,
It grows more burdensome to me with each passing day.
Not because Mr.
Darcy lacks merit.
To the outside world,
He's everything a gentleman ought to be.
But because the notion of marriage to me represents the final closing of doors that have already been nearly sealed shut by my circumstances.
Oh,
If Mother knew,
What would she say?
Miss Hartwell is intending to send me a copy of Epictetus's Discourses,
Hidden within the false bottom of a box of remedial teas.
How exciting!
I will read it hungrily,
Secretly,
And I will find comfort in its words.
Confine yourself to the present,
She says,
And that is what I shall do.
Not the future that Mama has planned for me,
Nor the past that might have been had I been born with stronger lungs and a more compliant spirit.
But in my present I am learning,
I am thinking,
And I am becoming something beyond the pale,
Silent ornament that graces Rosings Park.
Miss Hartwell has challenged me to consider what I might accomplish if I freed from the expectations that bind me.
Could I perhaps contribute to natural philosophy?
Might I correspond with learned societies?
The world is my oyster.
But these dreams seem fantastical when measured against my reality.
They sustain me yet through the endless hours of enforced idleness.
Mama speaks often of my duty,
So often.
I must continue the De Beur line,
She says.
I must be a proper wife to Mr.
Darcy,
She says.
And ornament his estate as I've ornamented hers.
But what if my duty lies elsewhere?
What if the frailty that shaped my life could perhaps become its greatest strength?
For the time I have available to me,
I could develop the life of the mind in ways more robust constitutions would never require.
I find myself questioning whether my supposed delicacy is entirely genuine or partly a fortress I've built to protect the tender shoots of my intellectual curiosity.
Perhaps I've been complicit in my own confinement,
Allowing others to speak of my weakness while I secretly cultivate my strength in realms they can't see or understand.
The morning is pushing on.
I must hide this journal before Mrs.
Jenkinson makes her rounds.
But I'll spend the day today with Miss Hartwell's latest words echoing in my mind.
Remember,
Dear Anne,
She says,
A bird in a gilded cage may still sing the most beautiful song if she chooses to find her voice.
Later,
All being well,
I will ask Mama if we might expand the Library's collection of philosophical works.
I expect I know what her answer will be.
But as the Stokes teach us,
I can only control my actions,
Not their outcomes.
My action will be to ask.
Evening Entry Something extraordinary occurred at luncheon.
It has left my thoughts in the most delightful tumult.
Miss Elizabeth Bennet joined us quite unexpectedly,
As Mama had not informed me of the invitation.
I suspect this was deliberate.
Mama knows I find Miss Bennet's company stimulating,
And in her view rather too stimulating,
For my delicate constitution.
But what a remarkable creature she is.
While Mama droned on about the superiority of our connections,
The greenhouse,
The dining room,
Indeed all we have to offer,
I saw Miss Bennet's eyes fairly dance with suppressed amusement.
When directly addressed about her opinion on the arrangement of our flowerbeds,
She replied,
I confess,
Lady Catherine,
I'm more drawn to wild flowers that choose their own places to bloom than to those arranged by even the most skilled gardener's hand.
The metaphor was not lost on me,
Although I fear it sailed quite over Mama's head.
Miss Bennet spoke of wildflowers as I dream of speaking of women,
Creatures who are meant to flourish according to their own nature,
Rather than be transplanted into beds deemed suitable by others.
I found myself studying her throughout the meal.
I marvelled at how she navigated Mama's interrogations with such grace,
While never once compromising her own principles.
When Mama suggested young ladies ought not to walk great distances alone,
Miss Bennet replied,
I find my own two feet carry me exactly where I need to go,
And my own judgement serves as adequate compass.
Such boldness!
Yet she delivered it with such gentle confidence,
Even Mama could find no fault.
How I envied Elizabeth Bennet's easy deportment,
Her evident comfort in her own skin.
Here is a woman who's clearly never spent hours being lectured on the impropriety of intellectual curiosity,
Or the dangers of forming one's own opinions.
Miss Hartwell writes often of the importance of self-possession,
But seeing it embodied so naturally in Eliza Bennet,
Gives new meaning to the concept.
Most intriguing of all was observing her interactions with Mr Darcy,
During his brief appearance in the drawing room.
There was such equality in their discourse.
She neither deferred to his superior rank,
Nor seemed intimidated by him.
Indeed,
She appeared to delight in challenging his statements,
With her own well-reasoned observations.
Is this what marriage could be?
Not a surrender of self,
But a meeting of minds?
Watching them together,
I feel a spark of hope.
Perhaps such a partnership does exist in this world,
Even if it's not destined to be mine.
After Miss Bennet's departure,
I found myself wondering what she'd make of my secret studies.
I wonder,
Would she encourage my philosophical pursuits,
Or find them peculiar?
I suspect the former,
For there was something in her manner that suggested she believed all minds,
Regardless of their earthly housing,
Deserved the freedom to flourish.
How different my life might have been,
Had I been born with her vitality and independence.
Yet I have Miss Hartwell.
She reminds me we must work with the materials fate provides.
Perhaps my path to intellectual freedom must take a different direction than Miss Bennet's,
But it need not be less meaningful.
In admiring her,
I do not diminish myself,
Even if Mother suggests it.
Rather,
I see what's possible when a woman refuses to be confined by others' expectations of what she ought to be.
It is time for bed.
I shall sleep well tonight,
Meditating on all I have seen.
Yours,
Anne de Beur
