CHAPTER 33 #2
Mr. Pratt bowed very properly. He was perhaps five or six and twenty, with good humour in his face, a fashionable enough coat, and the look of a man who had formed several opinions during the first act and was willing, under encouragement, to form more.
“I am very happy to make your acquaintance,” said he. “Bingley has spoken so warmly of Mrs. Bingley’s family that one must either distrust his judgment entirely or wish to know them.”
“That is a dangerous choice to put before a sister,” said Elizabeth. “I am not at liberty to distrust Mr. Bingley’s judgment where Jane is concerned.”
“Then I am safe for the present.”
“For the present.”
A lady in black silk, with very good lace and very little nonsense, came to stand beside him. She was small, upright, and sharp-eyed, with a cap arranged so precisely that it seemed less a fashion than a declaration of principle.
“My mother, Mrs. Pratt,” said Mr. Pratt. “Miss Bennet, ma’am. Mrs. Bingley’s sister.”
Mrs. Pratt made Elizabeth a curtsey of decided civility.
“My son is Mr. Pratt,” said she, with a glance at him which suggested that titles of household authority were often technically correct and seldom decisive. “I am Mrs. Pratt.”
Elizabeth liked her almost at once.
This was unreasonable, of course. Immediate liking was a poor substitute for evidence, and Elizabeth had lately been reminded that appearances, however well arranged, were not the same thing as knowledge.
But Mrs. Pratt had opinions enough for three women and none of the disagreeable habits that so often attended them.
She did not gossip. She did not pry. She did not appear to regard Elizabeth as either a fortune, a project, or a possible improvement to her son’s establishment.
This, in London, was almost delicacy.
“I am very happy to make your acquaintance,” said Elizabeth.
“And I yours,” said Mrs. Pratt. “Any sister of Mrs. Bingley’s must be received with expectation, though I hope you will not hold that against me. Expectations are often no fault of the person upon whom they are imposed.”
“That is very generous. I have known expectations less forgiving.”
“So have most women with relations.”
Elizabeth laughed before she could help it.
Mrs. Pratt’s eyes warmed, though not enough to become soft. “There. You do not look shocked. That is a recommendation.”
“I have been related to people for twenty years, ma’am. Shock would be an affectation by now.”
Mrs. Pratt considered this and appeared satisfied.
Mrs. Hurst, from her corner, said, “Mrs. Pratt’s musical evenings are very well attended.”
“Not too well, I hope,” said Mrs. Pratt. “A room may recover from music. It rarely recovers from being crowded by people determined to call themselves select.”
Miss Bingley’s expression suggested approval unwillingly given. “A distinction too seldom observed.”
Mrs. Pratt acknowledged this as no more than her due. “Miss Bingley, I see you have retained your judgment.”
“With difficulty, ma’am. London gives it continual exercise.”
“So it should. A judgment never exercised becomes charitable, and then it is of no use to anyone.”
Elizabeth had the pleasant sensation, uncommon in new acquaintance, of not being required either to defend herself or submit to being arranged. Mrs. Pratt looked at people as if she meant to know what they were, but not as if she intended to own the answer.
It was only after several more remarks on the opera, the audience, and the peculiar courage of ladies who trusted feathers to February that Miss Hall’s name entered the conversation.
“You speak,” said Elizabeth, smiling, “very much like a lady of my acquaintance.”
“Then I am either flattered or injured,” said Mrs. Pratt. “Which lady?”
“Miss Hall.”
Mrs. Pratt’s face changed at once into recognition. “Ah. Miss Hall. Then I am flattered, though not comfortably. Miss Hall’s praise is useful chiefly because one knows how little of it she can spare.”
“You know her?”
“For years. We belong to a musical society which began, I believe, with the improvement of public taste and continues chiefly for the pleasure of condemning its decline.”
“That sounds exactly like Miss Hall.”
“It is Miss Hall at her happiest.”
Mr. Pratt, meanwhile, had taken the first civil opportunity to speak of the opera.
“I hope you admire Mozart, Miss Bennet.”
“I do.”
“Then you must have observed the proportion of the first act. It is not merely charming. The feeling appears to run freely, but every part has been measured. Even the lightness is architectural.”
Elizabeth, who had enjoyed the lightness more before being shown its beams and supports, smiled. “That is a very serious way of praising a comedy.”
“Comedy is often most serious in construction.”
“I shall remember that the next time I laugh improperly.”
He looked pleased and continued. He spoke well, with knowledge and feeling, and with a degree of detail that soon made Elizabeth aware that loving music and being interrogated by music were not precisely the same amusement.
He discussed the treatment of the voices, the danger of accompaniment crowding sentiment, the discipline of an ensemble, and the particular failure — in his opinion — of one singer to understand that ornament should illuminate feeling rather than strangle it.
Elizabeth listened with all the attention civility required and rather less than Mr. Pratt’s subject deserved.
Mrs. Pratt watched her son with the expression of a woman who loved him, understood him, and had been trapped beside the same topic many times.
“It is a pity,” said Elizabeth at last, “that composers are denied your assistance until after they have finished.”
Mr. Pratt paused, then laughed. “A just rebuke, Miss Bennet.”
“Not a rebuke. A proposal.”
“A proposal?”
Mrs. Pratt’s eyes sharpened with interest.
“You must compose yourself, Mr. Pratt.”
He stared. “Compose myself?”
“Not your spirits. Your music. A gentleman with so many decided opinions upon what ought to be done should not leave all improvement to others.”
Mr. Pratt’s amusement altered into surprise. “I have never thought myself musician enough for composition.”
“That is a very modest objection from a gentleman who has already corrected half the profession in the space of five minutes.”
Mr. Bingley gave an open laugh. Jane tried to hide hers and failed. Miss Bingley looked away, which Elizabeth suspected was her version of indulgence.
Mrs. Pratt said, with visible satisfaction, “There, Henry. I have told you the same thing with less civility and no effect.”
“You have told me,” said Mr. Pratt, “that I complain like a man with manuscript paper hidden in his desk.”
“And so you do.”
“That is not the same thing as encouragement.”
“It is the form encouragement takes after twenty years of maternal patience.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Then Mrs. Pratt and I are agreed. Opinions are very well, but they are safest when they can be made answerable to ink.”
Mr. Pratt looked at her with admiration, but it was already shifting.
Elizabeth could almost see the alteration.
He had entered the conversation with every appearance of a gentleman prepared to admire Miss Bennet.
He was now considering whether his first attempt at composition ought to begin with a song or a sonata.
This was an improvement in the evening’s prospects.
“A song, perhaps,” he said thoughtfully. “Though a song is less forgiving than it appears. One must serve both word and line.”
“Then begin with something very short,” said Mrs. Pratt. “Your conscience may survive it.”
“Mother.”
“I am thinking of the audience.”
Miss Bingley’s glance moved from Mrs. Pratt to Elizabeth.
“You have made a conquest, Miss Bennet.”
“Of Mrs. Pratt?”
“Of the only Pratt whose judgment signifies.”
Mrs. Pratt did not appear at all offended. “Miss Bingley has also retained her candour, I see.”
“Only among friends, ma’am.”
“Then I am honoured to be endangered by it.”
The second act was being summoned by the movement of bodies returning to places, the reshuffling of fans and shawls, and the reluctant surrender of interval conversation. Before Mrs. Pratt withdrew to her own party, she turned again to the box.
“The society has a concert next week,” said Mrs. Pratt. “Not a public concert in the vulgar sense, but not a private evening either; we gather subscribers, patrons, and such performers as deserve to be heard before fashion discovers them and ruins their manners.”
“A benevolent object,” said Miss Bingley, “though I pity the performers after discovery.”
“As do I. Fashion is a harsher patron than poverty, and less honest about its demands.” Mrs. Pratt turned slightly to include the whole party.
“Mrs. Bingley, Mr. Bingley, you must come. Miss Bingley, Mrs. Hurst, Mr. Hurst, if you will brave us. And Miss Bennet, I hope you will permit yourself to be included. Miss Hall will be there, of course. She comes whenever young talent requires encouragement and old taste requires correction.”
Elizabeth looked at Jane, who smiled hopefully.
“Then I should be very happy to come,” said Elizabeth.
“Excellent,” said Mrs. Pratt. “If only to prevent my son from mistaking criticism for composition.”
Mr. Pratt bowed. “You see how I am used, Miss Bennet.”
“I see you are in excellent hands.”
Mrs. Pratt gave a small nod, as if Elizabeth had answered correctly without knowing there had been an examination.
Mr. Hurst, whose attention had returned at the word concert, said, “These society concerts have supper, I believe.”
“They have refreshment,” said Mrs. Pratt. “Enough to preserve the weak and reward the attentive.”
“Then we may all accept safely.”
Mrs. Hurst looked at him with composed resignation. “Mr. Hurst recommends society by its refreshments.”
“A sounder principle than most,” said Mrs. Pratt. “Many assemblies would be improved by admitting their true object earlier.”
“We shall send the particulars,” added Mrs. Pratt. “Mrs. Bingley knows the house. We are very near neighbours, which is either convenient or dangerous, according to the quality of acquaintance.”