Tales of Disturbance

Reaping and Weeping

Mary Bennet looked with longing at her Papa. She wished there was some way she could get his attention. He was so aloof these days; absorbed only in his books, his accounts, and his private jokes about his neighbors. It felt like she barely existed to him. Elizabeth was his favorite of course; and she, Mary was not.  Mary had accepted this fact, without much drama. She reflected, sadly, yet, quite accurately, that she would probably live out her life complete without being anybody's favorite. She was not  jealous exactly, for jealousy was a futile, self destructive emotion as the ancient philosophers and apostles postulated. (And if Mary loved anything, she would inwardly joke, it was surely a postulating Apostle).

But returning to the point, Mary only longed to be noticed by her papa. Especially on this day when everyone, even her sisters, were feeling ill at ease. Even, if any of them would admit it, she - being an honest and quite insightful person - was just a little bit afraid! A little acknowledgement, a little reassurance from Mr Bennet would not go unappreciated.

The weather had turned. Thick fog had descended, rolling over Meryton like a rude guest on a Pemberley sofa, obscuring the surrounding fields as the rude guest would obscure a floral fabric. It was cold. The fingers of some unwelcome icy wind were straying under Mary's collar. She realised she was inappropriately dressed for the cold. A failing? She thought not. It was March, not January. But as she looked at some of her sisters, decked out in three furs, and being served something hot and glowing in a silver vessel from the thin, yet capable hand of a trusty underfed servant, she reconsidered that March could be bitter in England. As Mary was adjusting her thoughts, there were some urgent steps, running steps, and without warning, the thin servant who'd been happily distributing the small silver vessels containing the welcoming berry hued liquid, was suddenly and dramatically, - pushed! Little silver goblets scattered over the solid mud of the Meryton Road. The tray on which they had been positioned, clanked and banged before coming to rest next to the supine servant, (Andrew was his name); his eyes grew large, his thin face, white, his countenance locked in shock. (No matter how much of a tedious chore it was to work for Mrs Bennet, nothing could have prepared him for this. Mrs Bennet was pushy in an entirely different way.)  

Elizabeth and Jane exchanged glances and immediately helped him up,  the poor thin manservant, clutching his hand. And it transpired that not only had he been pushed, his hand had been stamped on. Lizzie looked in the direction of the militia, her fine dark eyes flashing fiercely. The bright scarlet uniform was the only detail that anybody had noticed as none of them had really been paying any attention to the servant, only his delicious hot berry flavoured liquid, soothing the throats of the gentry. The pusher-stamper had disappeared. His uniform had eased into the other militia uniforms like a single red drop in a sea of bright blood. Mary looked at the fallen silver goblets and watched their dark red liquid flow together and form a wobbly crescent before sinking dark into the earth. 

They were far from the drawing room now.

It was at this moment that Mary noticed something of some interest, something that revived her,  for the mood had become something quite different, darker within a matter of seconds with the unexpected pushing of an innocent. 

But now. Here was something. Something that would perhaps not only revive the unsettled company, but also garnish her with her father's love and attention. A little notice would be enough. But then she flattered herself that he may bestow a kind look. Even a pat on the head. Who knew? 

Mary was not insensible to the events of the Netherfield Ball when her father had humiliated her in front of more than a hundred guests. But it would be different this time, for she had been practicing. Six solid hours one Sunday, she had devoted to the ivories belonging to her aunt Philips. Her voice had matured now. It was much improved! 

Let us come to the point. Mary had seen there on the street, a piano-forte. She had not excepted to see it naturally, one didn't expect this on the street, but yes, it seemed a piano forte had indeed been dragged out into the street where it rested invitingly; the chestnut-colored stool still preserved its shine. She stared at it for several seconds.

'Stay where you are, child' 

Mr Bennet had spoken without lifting his eyes from the page.

 But it was too late. The determined Mary had moved forwards and had seated herself at the piano stool, arranging her hands across the ivories. The keys felt cold beneath her hands.

'You will enjoy it, papa!' she called back in a hopeful voice that rang out through the awkward silence of those waiting to have their fate determined by the hand of Caroline Bingley. 

Mary pressed the first chords with cold fingers. A penetrating wind was picking up and her inadequate scarf twisted out behind her with the stormy gust causing her to choke a little - and it was with this that she decided against singing. The opening of a Mozart piece came flooding back however - the general rhythm anyway - the piano was very out of tune and nobody could tell what she was playing. Mary, tone deaf herself, was only very pleased she could remember it without the music. 

It sounded like an evil omen through the ascending fog. Mary could not tell that it was bad. But she found that the flow (she was still going) lifted one. Mary was lifted, and, perhaps - dare she think it - gifted? She tried out her new identity in her head. Mary: the gifted who lifted. The misunderstood musician of Merton. This is why Mr Bennet had such trouble. She didn't know much, but she did know prodigies are notoriously difficult to connect with.

She repeated one of Mozart's refrains and was about to open her mouth to sing the second time, having negotiated with the scarf, loud and proud, like a happy seagull, when the warm-angry voice of Mr Bennet came thundering across the heads of the several Meryton villagers who stood between them.

'That will do well enough, child. You have - delighted us - long enough.'

Mary could not believe Mr Bennet had used this exact phraseology. The words that had wounded her so deeply the night of the Netherfield Ball. Long enough? She'd only played for about fifteen seconds! 

'Hardly the time for showing off.' Mr Bennet continued. 'We can do quite without your mediocre talents on the pianoforte on a day like today. You may be slaughtering your fellow man soon enough, but it won't be with one of your concertos.'

Mary wound her inadequate scarf about her neck and started to cry. She was suddenly overwhelmed with the realities of life: not only did her father have no love her, but at least one, probably two of all the people standing here nervously: gentry or peasant, lord or laborer, servant or sire was probably going to die!

Lydia, having heard it all, was suddenly revived from her sickness. 'HA HA HA HA HA' she shouted 'Slay them with your concerto! I was about to say you wouldn't last more than half an hour in the Hunger Games Mary. But actually you have at least one weapon:  your dreadful voice.  

'HAHAHAHAHA!'

Lydia's laughter rang out like gun shot and Mary nestled her face in her scarf. And as she wept, she secretly prayed to the God of Fordyce's sermons that Lydia would be the chosen tribute.