by Mary Street
‘You are a strange creature by way of a friend! If my vanity had taken a musical turn you would be invaluable, but as it is….’
She had judged, correctly, that myself and Bingley and his sisters were accustomed to hearing some very fine musicians, a matter which brought on her own reluctance to perform.
Miss Lucas entreated, others joined in, all of them showing an expectation of pleasure when she yielded and sat down at the pianoforte.
Her performance was pleasing. She had not that degree of accomplishment which my sister Georgiana had attained, nor did she attempt any of the intricate pieces I had so frequently heard when Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst sat down to play. Yet she brought an additional quality to the performance, a musical expression which went beyond accomplishment. Elizabeth was not playing for the sake of exhibiting her virtuosity: she played for joy.
I abandoned thought and listened with pleasure as she sang until her glance happened in my direction jolting me out of my reverie. Some feeling had kicked under my ribcage and I turned away, shaken and astonished at my own involuntary response.
Something was happening to me: it had been happening, I now realized, ever since I had first seen Miss Elizabeth Bennet, and I was not pleased to discover it. I had no wish to find myself becoming attached to a lady, however pleasant, whose family would attract such derision and repugnance.
There was some consolation, I supposed, in my early awareness of it, for I knew I was master of myself: I could deal with any unwelcome emotions by the power of reason.
My reason was assisted when Elizabeth was succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, a young lady who was always far too eager to display her own accomplishment, and did so with an air of consequence which did not become her. She played a heavy concerto, not at all suitable for a neighbourly party and, perhaps realizing it had not been well received, later gave in to the entreaties of the younger Bennets to play airs to which they could dance.
I watched in indignation as Lydia and Catherine Bennet actually dragged some of the officers into a noisy, untidy set. Some of the younger Lucases joined the dancing. I was standing near them and since conversation was now impossible, I continued my reflections on my own instinctive reactions to Miss Elizabeth Bennet.
I felt I had had been fortunate indeed to discover my own inclination before it had progressed to love. I now resolved to keep my admiration in check.
Engrossed in my thoughts, I had not noticed the approach of Sir William Lucas until he spoke. He began with an observation on the dancing, and progressed with a compliment on my own prowess in the art. Then, without the least encouragement from me, he began to talk about the dancing at St James’s Court.
I had known he would: Sir William always turned the conversation to that subject. I made but short answer, hoping he would go away.
He did not. He was struck by a notion of gallantry. Having seen Elizabeth passing by, he halted her, asked why she was not dancing, took her hand and presented her to me as a very desirable partner.
‘You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure, when so much beauty is before you.’
I was astonished, not only by Sir William’s action but also by my own involuntary reaching for her hand. But Elizabeth, perhaps because she had been teasing me on the subject of dancing, was now thoroughly disconcerted.
She drew back. ‘Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner.’
Looking down into her discomposed face, I knew I could not refuse her again. Little as I relished the idea of joining that ungainly group of dancers, I begged her to allow me the honour of her hand.
She thanked me but refused and Sir William’s attempt to persuade her had no effect. After a few moments she excused herself and turned away.
Thus it was that Miss Elizabeth Bennet had the distinction of being the first woman ever to refuse to dance with me.
Far from being offended, I was, on the contrary, rather pleased with her for, had she accepted, she would have obliged me to join that noisy, untidy set and exhibit myself in a manner which would have afforded the most acute embarrassment.
I watched her across the room in animated conversation with her father. Given a sufficiently grand occasion, I reflected, it would be agreeable to dance with Elizabeth. I recalled how Bingley had made a promise of holding a ball at Netherfield, and allowed myself to fall into a reverie on the subject.
This time, my musings were interrupted by Miss Bingley. She said she knew exactly what I was thinking. ‘You are considering how insupportable it would be to spend many evenings in such society, and indeed, I am quite of your opinion.’
Miss Bingley was always telling me my own opinion – and affecting to share it. Now, I told her she was totally wrong in her conjecture. I told her I had been admiring the fine eyes of a lady and, upon her enquiry, I admitted the identity of the lady in question.
It startled her. ‘Miss Elizabeth Bennet? How long has she been such a favourite? And pray, when am I to wish you joy?’
I had known she would wish me joy and I said so.
‘I shall consider the matter as settled,’ she announced. ‘You will have a charming mother-in-law indeed.’
Thus she began the first of many attempts to provoke me into disliking Elizabeth by exercising her derisive wit on the subject of all my future relations.
Three
MY BRIEFLY EXPRESSED admiration of Miss Elizabeth Bennet had alerted Miss Bingley to the possibility of a rival for my affection. At breakfast the next day, I discovered she had enlisted the help of her sister. Mrs Hurst, no less than Miss Bingley, wished me to connect myself elsewhere.
All their liking had been done away with at a stroke. They commented disparagingly on Elizabeth’s appearance; her manners, which had previously been pleasing to them, were now considered impertinent and her performance on the pianoforte, which I had enjoyed, was slighted by these ladies who had achieved a higher standard of virtuosity at the expense of musical expression.
‘Really, I cannot think her playing was at all remarkable,’ said Mrs Hurst. ‘I cannot understand why it was so well received. But, of course, country people rarely have the opportunity of hearing more polished performers.’
‘Then you two ladies must exert yourselves to educate their taste,’ I said smoothly.
The conversation was halted by Mr Hurst joining us, surly because his horse had thrown out a splint. The subject was allowed to drop, to my relief, and horses became the new topic of conversation.
In admitting admiration for Elizabeth, I had hoped to discourage Miss Bingley’s ambitions by implying that her own exertions were having no effect, that she was wasting her time.
She had judged differently: in the days that followed, she paid me even more attention. Clearly, she thought the prize was worthy of greater effort.
Mrs Hurst, meanwhile, attacked Elizabeth’s weakest point. The defects of her relations were often mentioned. Jane Bennet continued to be a sweet girl, but I was hearing too much about their mother’s vulgarity, and already there was gossip in the neighbourhood about the flirtatious behaviour of the younger sisters with the officers of the regiment.
Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst might have spared themselves the trouble of recounting all this gossip to me, for I had very quickly formed my own opinion of the Bennets: none save the two eldest girls seemed to have any notion of propriety, and this was quite enough to repel any thought of connecting myself with them. Though I admired Elizabeth, I did not mean to fall in love with her: I did not consider her a suitable bride.
On Tuesday, Bingley, Hurst and myself were invited by Colonel Forster to dine in the officers’ mess. It was a day of frequent heavy showers and, upon our return to Netherfield, we discovered events had taken a most unexpected turn.
Miss Jane Bennet was with the ladies, and she was feeling unwell. ‘A consequence, I suppose, of my getting wet through on the way here,’ she said.
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sp; She had been invited to dine with the ladies and had made the journey on horseback. Now it was raining again: clearly she could not be sent home.
Bingley, in an agony of solicitude, demanded warming pans for her bed, hot cabbage leaves to place on her sore throat, and the immediate attendance of a doctor.
‘No, no, I thank you. Please, do not be alarmed on my account. I am sure I shall be well again in the morning.’
Miss Bingley ordered her maid to attend Miss Bennet and the lady, having expressed gratitude for their kindness, retired for the night.
The morning produced no improvement. A note was sent to her family and Bingley sent a servant to summon the apothecary.
Before the apothecary came, we were surprised by another visitor. Miss Elizabeth Bennet, flushed with exercise, muddied and bedraggled, had walked the three miles from Longbourn to enquire after her sister.
The ladies received her politely, incredulous as they were at her having walked so far in such dirty weather. I, myself, doubted the circumstances had justified her coming, though I could not help but admire her. The exercise had given greater brilliancy to her eyes, her complexion was heightened, and if Bingley’s sisters were scandalized by the mud on her petticoat, it did her no injury with me.
‘It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing,’ said Bingley reprovingly, when his sisters’ derision was at its height. I agreed with him, although I did not say so. I was persuaded Elizabeth understood the ladies and cared nothing for their opinion.
We gentlemen had an engagement to join a shooting party and I had expected Elizabeth to be gone before our return to the house. She was not, for during the day her sister had become feverish. Since the invalid could not bear to be parted from Elizabeth, Miss Bingley had, reluctantly, I suspect, invited her to remain at Netherfield.
The Bennet sisters stayed four days and, during that time, I discovered too much for my peace of mind.
Miss Bingley and Mrs Hurst had learnt more about the Bennet family and their relations. Indeed, I realized this had been their design in inviting Miss Jane Bennet to dinner. They had quizzed her on the subject and now they relayed their information to me without scruple.
I noted their unkindness, but I could not help noting their information, also. It was worse than I thought, for although Mr Bennet was a gentleman, he had married beneath him. Mrs Bennet’s sister, Mrs Philips, was the wife of a country attorney who practised in Meryton. Even worse, they had a brother who was in trade and lived in Cheapside.
If the repugnance I felt for Elizabeth’s closest family was not enough, the knowledge of such low connections must strengthen my resolve to keep my admiration under control.
That first evening, our enquiries after Jane Bennet met with no favourable response. At dinner, Bingley was considerate towards Elizabeth, but his sisters ignored her and directed their attention to me, giving me little chance to look at her and none to speak.
I was vexed at being included in their incivility. When Elizabeth had returned to her sister, I contrived to turn their conversation to some of our more notable acquaintances in London. This was not difficult, for Bingley’s sisters liked to associate with people of rank and it gave me the opportunity I wanted.
‘Such people cannot be blamed for doubting the sincerity of those who fawn upon them whilst slighting those of lesser consequence,’ I said.
I kept my eyes on the cards, for it was my turn to deal, and I avoided any suggestion of directing reproof at them. I knew my words would have the desired effect, for the sisters always made a point of agreeing with me. ‘Oh, certainly! Such conduct cannot but be noticed!’
Elizabeth herself, quite unwittingly, undid all my good work. She came downstairs after her sister had fallen asleep, and the conversation somehow turned upon those attributes a lady should possess to be considered accomplished.
I had been about to express my own ideas, but Miss Bingley forestalled me: she declared a woman could not be considered truly accomplished unless she had a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing and the modern languages.
‘And besides all this,’ she went on, ‘she must possess something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions.’
Miss Bingley had been reciting those recommendations which she believed she herself possessed.
Knowing Miss Bingley rarely read anything other than fashion journals, I said, ‘She should also add something substantial to the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.’ I saw my words register and wondered how soon I was to have the privilege of seeing that lady with a book in her hand.
Elizabeth, who had been reading, now set aside her book. ‘I never saw such a woman,’ she declared. ‘I never saw such capacity, and taste and application and elegance such as you describe, united.’
This innocent wisdom did not endear Elizabeth to Miss Bingley, who began abusing her as soon as she had excused herself to check on her sister.
I now wished I had left my admiration unspoken, for by expressing it I had done Elizabeth no service with Miss Bingley.
Elizabeth came downstairs only to tell us that Jane was worse and she could not leave her.
I saw real anxiety. I remained silent, wishing I could suggest some remedy. Bingley said he would send immediately for the apothecary, whilst the ladies said we should send an express to fetch one of the London physicians.
‘I thank you, but no,’ she said to this. ‘I know my sister,’ she added, with a smile that robbed her refusal of any offence, ‘and I will spend the night in her room in case she needs me. Perhaps we may send for the apothecary again should there be no improvement by morning.’
‘You may be certain I will,’ said Bingley. Elizabeth thanked him and left. Bingley instructed his housekeeper to attend to the needs of the sick lady. I spent the rest of the evening willing Jane Bennet to recover, if only for her sister’s sake.
Happily, there was an improvement by morning. The lady was by no means recovered and remained in her room, but we were thankful to hear she was beginning to mend.
That morning, Mrs Bennet came to see how her sick daughter did. She brought her younger daughters with her and the visit confirmed me in all my worst opinions of them.
Mrs Bennet was obvious, silly and shrill. She expressed opinions which she contradicted moments later, flattered Bingley and his sisters with excessive regard, snubbed Elizabeth in front of everyone and took vehement exception to some remark of mine.
Bingley’s sisters were smirking in a way that I felt was almost as reprehensible as Mrs Bennet’s conduct. Bingley kept his countenance and contrived to make agreeable conversation, but my own exertions seemed to excite Mrs Bennet to greater nonsense.
The two younger girls spent the visit whispering to each other. When their mother was ready to leave, one of them put herself forward in the most unbecoming way, reminding Bingley of his promise to hold a ball at Netherfield.
‘When your sister is recovered, you shall name the day of the ball. You would not wish to be dancing while she is ill.’
Lydia Bennet agreed it would be better to wait until Jane was well because by that time Captain Carter would most likely be at Meryton again. ‘And when you have given your ball, I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not give one, too.’
They then took their leave, leaving me with the impression that the prospect of a ball was of greater importance to all three of them than the safe recovery of Miss Jane Bennet.
Throughout the visit, Elizabeth had been blushing for her relations. Now, she returned to her sister, and I did not see her again until dinner-time.
Mrs Bennet’s visit reminded me, most forcibly, that I must not let admiration for Elizabeth get the better of me.
That evening, I chose an occupation which would allow me to ignore her without incivility. I seated myself at the escritoire, saying I must write to my sister, Georgiana.
Miss Bingley was even more teasing than
usual. She seated herself beside me, remarking on the evenness of my hand, the length of my letter, desiring me to pass on her own messages to Georgiana and offering to mend my pen. Her attempts to distract me did not succeed: I continued writing.
I could not accuse Elizabeth of attempting to distract me: she was engaged with some needlework and spoke hardly at all.
Then, with the design of impressing her, Bingley began to show off and he did so in a way that vexed me, by holding up to ridicule my meticulous style of writing.
He went on to make a virtue of his own carelessness. ‘My ideas flow so rapidly I have not time to express them – by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all.’
‘Your humility, Mr Bingley,’ said Elizabeth, ‘must disarm reproof.’
Indignant because he had drawn from Elizabeth a compliment which, I thought, was wholly undeserved, I turned to her, determined to set the matter right. I said his appearance of humility was deceitful and was, in fact, an indirect boast.
‘You are proud of your defects in writing,’ I told Bingley. ‘Because it comes from rapidity of thought, you think it highly interesting. But the power of doing anything quickly without any attention to the imperfection of the performance is not estimable.’
I thought my good solid reasoning and sound common sense deserved a better response from the lady than the half-smile it received.
I continued with my theme, recalling how, only that morning, Bingley had boasted of his own precipitance. ‘Whatever I do is done in a hurry,’ he had said, ‘and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield I should probably be off in five minutes.’
He had been speaking to Mrs Bennet, but now I suspected he had aimed the remark at Elizabeth. He meant it as a compliment to himself, his design had been to display himself as a man of swift action and strong resolution.
Had he made such a boast before any other lady, I might have let it pass. Bingley has many amiable qualities, but strength of resolution is not one of them. Of all the men I know, he is the most likely to yield to persuasion.