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; aloof and distant and absorbed in his books and accounts, and most of all his private jokes about his neighbors. It felt like she barely existed to him. Elizabeth was his favorite of course; and Mary was not.  Mary had accepted this. And 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 sometimes 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, which she, Mary could, being an honest and quite an observant, insightful person, just a little bit afraid! A little acknowledgement 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; 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 December. 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 capable hand of a trusty 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 servant who'd been happily distributing the small silver vessels containing the welcoming hot berry shaded liquid, was suddenly and dramatically, pushed! Little, silver goblets scattered over the solid mud road, falling with a clang. The tray clanked and banged before coming to rest next to the supine servant, (Andrew was his name); his eyes grew large, his face grew white, his countenance was 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 servant, 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 glimpse of 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 one and all. The pusher-stamper had disappeared; his uniform easing into the other militia uniforms like a drop in a sea of bright, angry 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 could perhaps 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. Who knew? Even a pat on the head. 

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, an actual piano-forte. She had not excepted to see it naturally, 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.

It was too late. The determined Mary had moved forwards and had seated herself at the piano stool, arranging her hands across the ivories.

'You will enjoy it, papa!' though she dared not pronounce the words out loud being terrified to speak to him. 

Mary pressed the first chords with cold fingers. A penetrating wind was picking up and her inadequately warm scarf twisted out behind her with the stormy gust. The opening of a Mozart piece came flooding back - 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 eerie in the fog. Mary could not tell that it was bad having, as mentioned, no ear for music (she could not tell a B from an F, a D from a G). But she found the flow (she was still going) Very encouraging. It 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. Set apart. 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 was about to open her mouth to sing, loud and proud, like a happy seagull, when the warm-angry voice of Mr Bennet came floating 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 expression again; words that had wounded her so deeply. Long enough? She'd only played for about fifteen seconds.

'Hardly the time for showing off. 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 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: kill them with your dreadful voice.  

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