by Don Jacobson
So, this must be a Waterman’s Fountain Pen. This does not look like any pen I have ever seen. Where is the nib?
Looking back at the instructions she saw that the end with the clip could be removed. Gripping it between her two hands and pulling revealed the point.
Now, this is interesting. If my deductions are correct, this pen has its own quick-drying ink supply that makes it completely portable. No more “lap desk” packed with ink, quills, penknives and sand. A further implication struck Mary as she held the pen between her fingers. My hands are away from the nib! No ink stains when I write. And no inkwell! Oh, M. Ravel will miss this wonder!
But, it was the music that caught Mary’s attention. This explained M., no, Maestro, Ravel. One was merely a handwritten sketch of tunes and themes on a few sheets of pre-printed music paper. An elegant hand had written (in ink, Mary mused) Pour Un Film, Don Quixote par Ravel, 1932. M. Ravel had not done much with this music. Mary tried to hum a few bars, but ceased, as nothing seemed to connect.
The other, however, was a clearly complete nine-and-twenty-page score for Piano entitled Rhapsody in Blue composed by “G. Gershwin.” This must be same man who stood to M. Ravel’s left in the picture.
Mr. Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue was different from anything she had ever encountered. Page after page it ran, challenging the pianist to excel in ways she could only imagine.
While she had practiced and played some of Herr Beethoven’s piano sonatas, they were of a much different mood than Mr. Gershwin’s Rhapsody. Für Elise was a lyrical flowing effort that was more to Miss Darcy’s taste for delicacy and beauty. Beethoven’s music was akin to a walk in a rose garden or a quiet contemplation of a moonlight landscape. It was also quite short, taking perhaps just about three minutes to play, perfectly suitable for an amateur drawing room performer.
Mary could feel the excitement coursing through her when she read Gershwin’s score. Her heart sped up. This music was alive. It exploded off the page, firing her imagination. Even the opening notes, measured as they were, seemed more like the entrance to a dreamscape, setting up the listener to step into a new, vibrant, pulsing world.
The music soared from the second page onward. Ghost images like nothing she had ever seen in Meryton remained after she played the music in her mind. The closest she could imagine was the hustle and bustle of Town. The streets of Cheapside where the Gardiners lived, and Uncle Edward had many of his warehouses were the beating heart of London with people moving, buying, selling, eating, arguing, loving, living, and dying. That was what she felt as she flipped the pages of the Rhapsody!
And it went on and on. Easily five or six times as long as anything she had ever attempted, this was a composition for a player of great skill. Key shifts every few measures demanded maximum concentration. The fingering was complicated beyond belief. Mary ached to be able to play the Rhapsody. Her fingers insisted that she try. Grabbing the score, she flew downstairs to her pianoforte.
As she sat at her instrument, Mary understood that the circumstances behind this music were mysterious indeed. While she was by no means an expert, she did know that she had never heard of either Mr. Gershwin or M. Ravel. The Rhapsody in Blue was unlike any style of music she had ever heard. It flew like a bird, insisting that the player’s hands float over the keyboard. This was the difference between the idyllic past of lords and peasants and the vital future being forged in places like Watson’s Mills.
She tried the first few bars at half tempo.
Even as the notes were played, Mary realized she had to change the manner in how she approached her craft. For years, she had attacked the pianoforte, releasing her frustrations and anger through a relentless pounding. With Rhapsody, that would be like trying to open a window by throwing a rock at it. Rhapsody called for a crisp, precise performance imbued an almost gala attitude.
No, not the joy of Mr. Handel’s Messiah, but rather the happiness of Lizzy skipping through a field of flowers!
Then as she sat quietly touching the keys, a profound revelatory peace flowed through her. In her mind’s eye, she saw the entire path of her coming life as the clouds of doubt and hurt parted. She understood her future. Her mission, her partnership with Edward, would be to foster Change, to transform what had existed for centuries into a world where people, all people, could live happily. Then every step they took would become a celebration of their existence. How better to express that pleasure at simply being in God’s creation than to create music? As King David said:
“My heart is steadfast, O God, my heart is steadfast; I will sing and make music.”[xxxv]
Rhapsody would become the metaphor for her life. As she improved her playing of this piece, so too, would she improve herself. The music was not of this realm, the world of estates and tenant farmers and social separations driven by land ownership and a thirst for gold. There were so many evils around the globe—slavery, worker suppression, hunger, poverty and disease. Yet, when she played Rhapsody in Blue in her mind, she could see a place where all moved ahead together at an astonishing pace. In an instant, the old Mary vanished like a puff of smoke in the blinding clarity of her own Enlightenment.
“Enlightenment is man's release from his self-incurred tutelage. Tutelage is man's inability to make use of his understanding without direction from another. Self-incurred is this tutelage when its cause lies not in lack of reason but in lack of resolution and courage to use it without direction from another. Sapere aude! "Have courage to use your own reason!"- that is the motto of enlightenment.”
Immanuel Kant, “Was ist Äufklarung?”[xxxvi]
Chapter XXVIII
Longbourn Library, Morning, January 18, 1812
For the first time in nearly a month, Mary had slept through the night without troubling dreams. Rhapsody had lulled her until Morpheus gathered her into his arms. She awoke refreshed. This morning’s toilette led her to sweep her hair up into a softer style. Glancing into the looking glass, she also plucked a few stray eyebrow hairs before pulling on a pleasant mint green gown.
Mary then placed the gold pen into a pocket along with the picture. The rest of the items were returned to the portfolio and hidden in her wardrobe for safekeeping. She stepped out into the hall and quickly descended the stairs, pausing before the closed door to Papa’s bookroom. Her knock was answered affirmatively.
Gently closing the door behind her, Mary crossed to where her father sat and gave him an affectionate kiss his atop his graying head. He grunted in reply, but she could tell that he was deep in thought. She sat down in the chair opposite and waited patiently for Papa to address her.
Clearing his throat, Papa looked up. “Well, child…what is on your mind this fine morning. I imagine that you have opened your package. I gather it had something to do with music as you were closeted with your pianoforte for a few hours yesterday. Miss Darcy asked after you during tea, but she understood your desire to be alone.”
Mary waited for nearly a minute before she replied.
“Papa, over these past several weeks, I have come to trust you to take me seriously. You have always been indulgent of my outbursts, no matter how outrageous, but since Lizzy and Jane married and Kitty left for school, you have started to treat me as more of an adult. Where I used to be afraid to share my thoughts, I now am much more comfortable with you.
“Although, I wonder if you may not have me committed to Bedlam after what I tell you now.
“The package you gave me yesterday contained a leather case. Based upon the items I found inside, I think it belongs to a Frenchman, a composer or musician named Monsieur Ravel. Those items include some sheets of music about which I will speak later. There was also a letter, a small diary, a picture, and a pen.”
She reached into her pocket and pulled out the two items but did not hand them to her father. Holding up the pen, she continued.
“This, Papa, is what is called Waterman’s Fountain Pen. See how the nib is revealed when I remove this ca
p. But, what is most remarkable is that there is an ink reservoir inside the barrel. Once filled, you could carry this in a pocket or reticule, allowing you to write any time you wish.” She handed the pen to her father.
“The second item is a picture drawn or painted in a style which offers an impossible realism. I deduce that this picture shows Monsieur Ravel at the pianoforte with others at a birthday party held for him in the city of New York in America. You will see that there is writing on the back with their names.”
She now passed the picture across. Mr. Bennet said nothing as he hefted both items in his hand simply looking across at her. Mary drew a deep breath and continued excitedly.
“The existence of these items cannot be explained. The picture is marked with the year 1928, over a century in the future. The way this pen is constructed does not exist in our time. The pocket diary is for a year even further removed from today: 1932!
“And then there is Monsieur Ravel’s attempt to compose music for something he called “un film.” Whatever that might be, it would be dated again in the year 1932!
“I have not yet read the letter, but it is addressed to M. Ravel and there are two distinctive features. First, there is, as I would expect, a mark indicating that the post office had received it and was sending it along. But it is dated July 11, 1932!
“The second is even odder. It is a red-colored rectangle glued to the corner of the envelope. I think it is some sort of postage stamp much like a tax stamp[xxxvii] indicating that the sender has paid for the letter to be mailed. There is an image and Republique Francaise” along with an amount, 50 Centimes, printed on its face.
“Papa…this may sound incredible, but I think that these items are not of our time, but rather the future. And that future is as far distant from us as is our time from that of our Founder, Christopher Bennet,” Mary concluded.
Thomas Bennet tilted his head back and considered at the ceiling for a minute. Then his gaze dropped to the Wardrobe in the corner. Finally, he shifted his view to Miss Bennet. Gathering his legs under him, Bennet rose from the chair and walked back around his desk. Pulling open a drawer, he removed the photograph Kitty had enclosed in her letter. He came back to Mary and held it out to her. She took it and studied it, looking up with a questioning gleam in her eyes.
“Take it, Mary. I have a story to tell you. This will be my third rendition, but your first, so I am certain you will have questions for me. But, before we start, tell me, have you broken your fast yet?”
Upon her negative reply, Mr. Bennet rang for Mrs. Hill and ordered chocolate, coffee, and rolls. They waited silently. Mary studying the other picture while Mr. Bennet looked at the pen.
In a few minutes, the dependable housekeeper knocked and entered with a tray of morning foods. When she had departed, Mr. Bennet pulled a packet of letters from his pocket. Father and daughter each poured a beverage and settled back in their seats.
As he began his tale, the elder Bennet untied the bundle and referred to selections from the documents, some, as Mary observed, yellowed with great age, others seemed quite recent. The litany of names, dates, and events lent great credence to her father’s explanations of the properties of the Bennet Wardrobe.
What Papa was telling her was incredible, but, given his evidence, not unbelievable. Which meant that the closer he came to the present time, the larger the knot in her stomach. As he began the story of Richard and Samuel, Mary rose from her seat and stood staring out through the French windows, locked now, onto the back garden. Her arms wrapped around her middle, she slowed her breathing and began to recite the Lord’s Prayer to herself.
While she had spent years acting foolishly, with her nose stuck in dusty churchish texts, Mary was no fool. Her father knew that. In fact, his appraisal of Miss Bennet’s character had been profoundly altered by the events of the past several weeks.
Where she had been content to ignore those around her except to perceive offenses committed against her, Mary was now reaching out and embracing the rest of the world. His conversations with her about the new novel Sense and Sensibility also revealed a keen and insightful intellect. Mary may not have possessed Elizabeth’s biting wit, but she did exhibit a more facile mind, able to make obscure connections leading to a richer understanding of the matter at hand.
Underlying this was a dogged tenacity to her analytic method. Unlike his second daughter, Mary was not one to make snap judgments about others.
Mary would have expected, if not anticipated, Darcy’s “tolerable” comment. And, she probably would have caught on to Wickham much sooner.
Not one to suddenly blurt, “That is wrong,” the young woman assembled information. She evaluated the arguments. However, once she had become convinced according to her closely held principles, Bennet doubted that Mary would easily alter her position. Yet, she also had the humility to admit that she had been mistaken in her conclusion…and then resolve that error. Consider how she has changed toward that silly Maria Lucas!
That gave him the confidence that she could address what he would tell her next without having to endure the subsequent fluttering hysterics of a missish girl. What he did not know was what would be her larger reaction to his revelation.
“Mary, please come back to your seat. I want to tell this next information with you looking at me,” the father said to his daughter who turned to move back to the seating area.
Bennet saw the troubled expression Mary wore as she returned. She had never appeared this vulnerable, this fearful, in his presence. Never terribly robust, Mary appeared nearly waiflike, seemingly marshaling her entire body’s resources to the mission of keeping her upright. His heart went out to her because he did not know if he would soon break hers.
“My dear child, please understand that what I am going to relate may be a great shock to you. You are about to learn a supreme example of the complications the use of the Wardrobe can bring about,” Mr. Bennet began.
Mary hopefully interrupted, “But, Papa, complications are not necessarily disasters.”
“Correct. But, they can be uncomfortable. What is important is how we react to them.
“There is much left for me to say, but I need to mention something which I forgot earlier. This conversation is usually conducted when the recipients reach their majority. You will only reach your twentieth birthday in April, but I have recently become certain that you must be brought into the circle sooner rather than later,” Mr. Bennet continued.
“Why must that be so, Papa?” Mary quietly quizzed.
“Because of two recent events…the fire and the appearance of M. Ravel’s portfolio,” the elder continued, “The first convinced me how fleeting life can be. The second how the choices we make can change the outcome of everything.”
“What is this picture?” Mary suddenly asked, referring to the item she had been handed and seeking to get the discussion moving again.
“This is a shadow of the second realization, Mary. T’is properly called a photograph. As you have realized by now a photograph is the result of a technology of the future. The way it has been explained to me, you use a small box, much like Boyle and Hooks’ camera obscura, with special plates covered with a compound sensitive to light to make a photograph. The end result is reality captured on paper.
“You are holding a photograph of your niece, nephew and brother-in-law.”
What *??**
“This is one of those complications I spoke of. There is no other way to tell you this other than to say it directly.
“Your sister Kitty was not sent to a seminary in Cornwall. I had intended to do that. But, when I told her my plan for her future during my interview with her the day after the wedding, she flew into a rage, shouting that she wanted to be gone, to get away from everybody here who was ruining her life. In other words, she acted like every girl of seven-and-ten.
“Like pugilists, we withdrew to our corners—me to look out the window behind my desk and Kitty to the French windows adjacent to the Wardrobe.
”
Mary steeled herself for what came next.
“With my back turned, I had no idea what Kitty was about. She was still going on about how unfair life was being when I heard a sudden gasp from her. Then a small “pop.” I turned, and she was gone.”
The room wobbled in Mary’s eyesight. She inhaled deeply and slumped back into her chair, feeling faint. Suddenly, her father was kneeling by her side, holding her hand, and patting it with worry.
“Mary. Mary. Are you ill? Need I call your mother? Should Mrs. Hill fetch her herbs?” Papa urgently asked.
Mary sighed deeply before responding, “No, Papa. I will be fine. T’is just the shock of how my sister solved her problem by using the Wardrobe.”
“Sadly, Mary, she did not know she was using the Wardrobe. She was just seven-and-ten. If I am telling you about the Wardrobe now, over a year in advance of when I should be having this conversation, it is because an innocent girl was sent over five-and-seventy years into the future in a fit of pique because of her ignorance,” Mr. Bennet exploded.
“Five-and-seventy years!” Mary exclaimed, “That would be…1886! Accepting that as fact is next to impossible. Of course, the Wardrobe itself is impossible. But, how can you know this? I am no Doubting Thomas, but how?”
“Because Kitty told me.”
Mary’s look of stunned disbelief caused her father to continue without interruption.
“As I turned away from the window after Kitty’s gasp, she was no longer there. Then there was a thump inside of the Wardrobe. The door opened and out stepped a woman of older years—I should say, older than I.
“Her face was lined, but not terribly so. Her dress was elegant, if in an unrecognizable style. She always had an eye for design. She smiled at me and said Hello Papa. It was your sister, no longer a young girl, but rather a fully grown, in fact, almost elderly, woman.”