A public ball was held at the Meryton assembly rooms several times a year. Anyone with any pretensions to taste affected to despise these simple entertainments – the rooms were too small, the music too loud, the refreshments scarcely to be borne – but there was never any question of not attending. The first ball of the season was anticipated with the greatest excitement, the more so because, although it always took place in the autumn, the exact date of the event was rarely decided upon until almost the very last moment. As the leaves fell from the trees and the evenings grew darker, expectation mounted, especially amongst the younger people who longed for an opportunity for dancing; but for many weeks, no definite information could be obtained of when it might be held. Inevitably, it was Lydia, on one of her dallying, gossiping trips to the village, who was the first to hear incontrovertible evidence of the day at last being fixed, which she bore back to Longbourn in triumph. Tearing into the hall, with Kitty hurrying in her wake, she ran straight to Mrs Bennet.
‘The ball is to be held on the first Saturday of next month! I had it from Mr Thompson himself. I was passing the rooms and there he was, so I asked him, and he told me he had just this minute contracted the musicians, so I am the very first to know.’
She perched on a chair, still wearing her hat, desperate to impart all she had discovered.
‘The supper is ordered, the rooms are to be swept, and the floor newly sanded to save the dancers’ feet. The notice is to go into the paper tomorrow.’
Mrs Bennet, almost as excited as her daughter, clapped her hands.
‘Well done, Lydia, how clever of you to have found that out. Did you hear that, Mr Bennet? The Meryton ball is settled for three weeks this Saturday.’
‘Is it indeed? As I shall not be attending myself, my joy cannot be as unconfined as your own. But I am no enemy to harmless pleasure. Shall you go, Lizzy?’
‘I may do,’ replied Elizabeth, ‘if Jane will come with me. I am not yet sure.’
Lydia looked at her with frank astonishment. ‘“Not yet sure”? Lizzy, how can you be so annoying? I’m sure I should die if I wasn’t there. I should do away with myself from mere frustration.’
‘You must endeavour to compose yourself, then,’ said Mr Bennet calmly, ‘for I have not yet decided if you are to go. Jane and Lizzy may attend, they have been before, and I have no fears for their good behaviour. Mary too may go if she wishes – she is old enough and steady enough to be trusted. But you and Kitty are another matter.’
Mary, who sat in the corner with her book on her knees, had never expected her name to be mentioned in the context of a ball. She could not quite believe that her father had praised her – faint praise, it was true, but she felt herself warm with pride.
Meanwhile, Kitty and Lydia set up a great wail of protest.
‘You can’t mean that, Papa,’ cried Lydia. ‘You wouldn’t really prevent me from going?’
‘Really, Mr Bennet,’ declared his wife, ‘I am sure neither Lydia nor Kitty would do anything to make us ashamed.’
‘I wish I shared your confidence,’ he replied. ‘Neither could possibly be described as discreet or modest. And Lydia is especially headstrong.’
Lydia stood up, tears springing into her eyes. ‘Papa, you are very unkind. You must let me go! You must!’
Mary usually knew better than to tangle with her youngest sister when she had been denied something she wanted, but, emboldened by her father’s approving remark, she ventured to speak in his support.
‘A young woman’s first venture into society cannot be attended with too much care. There are many snares and temptations to overwhelm her, if she has not the judgement or experience to resist them.’
Lydia removed her hat, untying the ribbon deliberately and slowly pulling out the pins.
‘Is that so?’ she replied coldly. ‘Well, you may be the right age to go into society, but you need not worry about snares and temptations. Just put on those spectacles and you will be quite safe, I assure you.’
With that, she flung down her hat and fled the room, pursued by Kitty and their mother, who said all she could to calm her – her father was only joking – she knew it was his way – he would change his mind, she was sure of it.
‘That’s what happens when you poke an angry beehive with a stick,’ Mr Bennet observed to Mary dryly. ‘You must expect to get stung.’
Mary rose with as much dignity as she could muster and went upstairs to her bedroom. There she sat in front of her dressing table and pulled her spectacles out of her pocket. Carefully, she placed them on her nose and stared intently at her reflection in the mirror. She turned from side to side, scrutinising herself from every angle, making no attempt to compose her features into a smile. Her eyes filled with tears. It was just as Lydia said. The dark metal frames looked heavy on her small face, and the lenses gave her an owlish, blinking look. No one could say she was improved by them.
She was still seated there when Mrs Hill knocked at her door some twenty minutes later. She came in with an armful of clean bedclothes, but Mary knew that was not the real reason for her visit.
‘I heard what passed between you and Miss Lydia.’
Mary, silent, did not look away from the mirror.
‘She has a sharp tongue on her when she’s thwarted,’ said Mrs Hill, ‘but you know that already.’
She put down the bedclothes, pulled up a chair and sat as close to Mary as she could.
‘I hope you won’t take it too much to heart,’ she said in a low voice. ‘That was anger and wilfulness speaking. It doesn’t make it true.’
‘Really?’ replied Mary. ‘I have been looking at myself this half hour, and I cannot find it in my heart to disagree with her.’
‘I cannot in all honesty tell you that the spectacles do you many favours,’ confessed Mrs Hill, ‘but you aren’t obliged to wear them all the time. And without them, you look as well as most women.’
Mary turned towards her with a sceptical frown.
‘I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. Your skin is clear, your figure is decent, neither too thin nor too fat. When you can see them, your eyes are tolerable and your hair is a pleasant-enough light brown, for all it won’t take a curl.’
‘You are very kind, Mrs Hill, but you don’t need to indulge me. The mirror cannot lie.’
‘Perhaps. But in truth, I don’t think you see yourself at all clearly, miss. Your sisters get in the way. A daffodil seems quite ordinary when planted between lilies. But looked at without them, it has its own kind of beauty.’
‘Yes, I suppose I may be said to be tall, thin, and yellow-looking.’ Mary smiled bleakly. ‘But if you’re saying I don’t bear comparison with my sisters, I have known that for years.’
‘I wonder whether you would be happier if you spent less time with them, if you were to find friends who were remarkable for things other than their looks.’
‘Lizzy is as much admired for her wit as for her beauty.’
‘Yes,’ admitted Mrs Hill, ‘she is very lucky to be both clever and handsome. But I think if you went into the world a little more, you would see how very unusual it is to be blessed as she has been. Most people are far more ordinary, you know, as you would discover if you met some new company and went out now and again.’
‘I don’t think I have much inclination for either. I have my piano and my books.’
‘I’m not sure that’s enough for a girl of your age. Come now, what about the Meryton ball? I hope you’ll be going along to it. If Miss Lydia is to go, I can’t see why you should not.’
‘Our father has not yet pronounced upon that question,’ began Mary; but Mrs Hill’s expression suggested she thought Mr Bennet’s objections would not long withstand the determined assault mounted against them by his youngest daughter and his wife. ‘I haven’t made up my mind either,’ she continued. ‘I’m not sure I should enjoy it.’
‘Why ever not? It may not be the grandest affair, but there’ll music and dancing, lots of laughter and high spirits. You’ve never been to a ball. Wouldn’t you like to see what one’s like?’
‘I don’t know. I should have to consider it.’
‘You could have a new dress if you decide quickly. I could come with you to pick out a nice muslin, and we could get it made up in a pretty style, nothing too bright or gaudy. I could do your hair for you too – not as your mother likes it, but in a way that might suit your taste. What do you say?’
‘I don’t know. I should be afraid … What if no one danced with me?’
‘Then you’ll eat lots of ices and laugh at them for their silliness! Why don’t you think about it overnight? It’s a hard thing to see a girl as young as you set her face against pleasure and good fellowship. There’ll be time enough for that in the future, believe me.’
When Mrs Hill had gone, Mary lay on her bed, looking at the ceiling and brooding on what she had heard. Mrs Hill’s enthusiasm had piqued her curiosity, and she began to question her resolution not to attend the dance. Perhaps she was wrong to stay at home. It might be exciting to go out into the cold autumnal darkness, squeezed into the hired carriage with her sisters, bumping along the road to Meryton. She had never seen the assembly rooms at night, lit up and garlanded with paper flowers and the first of the winter holly. She thought she might like to hear the orchestra scrape out the old familiar airs and jigs and watch people enjoying themselves. Really, why should she not go? It was only a country dance. Other girls of her age had been and lived to tell the tale, and not all of them were beauties. And was it not said – although she could not, at this precise moment, recollect by whom – that, to the thinking mind, no experience was wasted? In half an hour, she had almost persuaded herself it was her duty to attend. And if she did go, then surely she was obliged to have a dress suitable for the occasion? If one went into society, it was only proper to abide by its rules. For the first time she could remember, she allowed her imagination to run away with thoughts of beautiful fabrics and elegant clothes, of colours, styles, and trimmings. Just before she fell asleep, she finally concluded that Mrs Hill was quite right. It made no sense to deny herself this opportunity. She would see a little of life, and moreover, she would make an effort to present herself as neatly, as smartly, and as becomingly as she could. She would go to the dance and and have a new dress for it too. For once, she would try to enjoy herself, as she had seen others do.
At breakfast the next day, it was clear to everyone that Mr Bennet had delivered his judgement; and Lydia’s triumphant bearing made it plain that he had decided in her favour. She could barely contain her excitement, which interrupted but did not entirely prevent her rapid consumption of hot rolls and butter.
‘Thank you, Papa, thank you, thank you. I swear I shall love you forever now.’
Mrs Bennet, entirely satisfied, smiled broadly at her favourite daughter; but her husband looked grave.
‘Your gratitude gives me more pause for thought than your petulance ever did. I am not at all sure I was wise to give in to you.’
Mr Bennet was a man of considerable natural perception, and there were few situations in which he did not understand what was required of him; but exertion bored him, and he could rarely be bothered to act, even upon what he knew to be right. He found it far easier to mock his daughters than to take the trouble to correct them. Only for Lizzy did he feel any real respect, which was perhaps why she alone felt able to challenge him.
‘Then, Papa, why do you do so?’ she asked. ‘A little firmness on this occasion might impress upon Lydia that not everything is to be had by making a fuss.’
‘Really, Lizzy,’ cried Mrs Bennet, ‘you sound just like Mary! And what, pray, has it to do you with you anyway? I shall be there to look after Lydia and Kitty and make sure they behave exactly as they should.’
Mr Bennet laid down his knife and regarded the table with bitter satisfaction.
‘You see, my dears, there is no need for concern. Your mother, with her usual decorum, will ensure that neither silliness nor self-indulgence will prevail.’
Mary saw Elizabeth catch Jane’s eye and watched a glance pass between them – of anxiety, regret, pain – a whole host of emotions in one brief look. Her younger sisters were oblivious. Lydia had quite recovered her usual confidence and was blithely helping herself to more tea and more jam.
‘Kitty must come as well,’ demanded Lydia. ‘If I am to go, it would be monstrously unfair if she did not.’
Kitty nodded furiously, her mouth full of roll. But before she could utter a plea in support of her case, Mary decided to make her own announcement.
‘I think I should like to go too, Papa, if there is no objection to my doing so.’
‘You want to go?’ exclaimed Lydia, genuinely surprised. ‘Whatever for?’
‘I think it is time I saw something of the world.’
Mary had resolved to say no more than this. She had no intention of being teased by Lydia into offering a fuller explanation of her decision. Nothing on earth would have forced her to admit that she had actually begun to look forward to the ball.
‘Of course you may go,’ replied Mr Bennet testily. ‘Everyone may go who wishes to go, providing I am obliged to hear no more about it. But, Mrs Bennet, you are to understand there is no point in applying to me for funds to buy new outfits. I will underwrite a few fripperies, ribbons and feathers, I suppose, but that is the limit of my generosity. There will be no incontinent purchasing of gowns, shawls, shoes, and the like.’
Lydia, Kitty, and their mother were equally distraught to hear this; but Mr Bennet was implacable.
‘No, no, not another word. I have already been persuaded once to act against my inclination. On this subject, I am immoveable.’
‘I have some little money saved,’ said Mary thoughtfully. ‘I never spend my allowance, so I think I shall have enough for a dress, if it can be made in time.’
Lydia glared from across the table. ‘Lord, you really are the most annoying prig!’
‘That may be true,’ said Mary, quite calm now. ‘But at least I shall have the satisfaction of being a prig in a new dress.’
Later that morning Mary and Mrs Hill walked into the draper’s shop at Meryton, and there they found a figured muslin of the palest cream – white would be too harsh for Mary’s complexion, insisted Mrs Hill – shot through with a faint gold thread. Mary thought it the most beautiful stuff she had ever seen, fingering its delicate weave with a respectful touch. Once wrapped up, she refused to hand over the bulky parcel to Mrs Hill, but carried it home herself, both proud and a little fearful that she had taken such a huge step.
In her bedroom, she discussed with Mrs Hill how it was to be made up. It was impossible to ask advice from her sisters. With Jane or Elizabeth, she would have been too self-conscious; and it was far too late to attempt such a conversation with Kitty or Lydia. They would have laughed at her uncertain attempts to find a style that suited her. Besides, her taste did not run towards the flounces and ruffles that delighted Lydia. On her they would look false and wrong. She would be most at ease in a simple dress that did not announce itself too loudly. Perhaps, she thought, a plain dress was the best ornament for a plain woman?
In ten days, it was ready. The dressmaker brought it at dusk, delivering it as she had been asked directly into Mrs Hill’s hands – Mary had no wish for her sisters to see the gown before she did. Hurrying up the stairs to her room, with Mrs Hill following in her wake, she was breathless with excitement. Once inside, she lit a candle while Mrs Hill locked the door. Her hands fumbled with the string of the parcel, but she soon had it open. When she held up the dress, it tumbled over her arms, the gold thread catching the gleam from the candlelight. It was as airy and delicate as a cloud, utterly unlike the well-scrubbed grey and beige cottons which she usually wore. Yes, it was plain, with no decoration to distract the eye; but there was a purity in its plainness, an elegance in its simplicity.
‘It has turned out very well,’ said Mrs Hill. ‘Very well indeed.’
Mary held the dress up in front of herself, and peered into her mirror.
‘Is it too fine for me, do you think? Shall I look ridiculous?’
‘No, you will not. I believe you’ll look very handsome in it.’
Mary looked shyly at her reflection. She would not go as far as handsome, but she thought she would not stand out as awkward or strange; and that was enough for her.