CHAPTER 35
A Prudent Remedy
Thursday at four brought Mr. Darcy, the lease packet, and no revelation at all.
He acknowledged the papers, approved the order in which they had been tied, and undertook to compare the older forms against Cotton Lane and Manchester Square before advising further.
He was grave, attentive, and more carefully composed than Elizabeth liked.
A week had evidently restored his command after their last meeting.
She could not think the improvement wholly admirable.
By Friday evening, she was prepared to believe music a better occupation than deciphering either leases or gentlemen.
The musical society held its evening in a set of rooms near Hanover Square, hired for the season by a committee of ladies who had too much taste to be content with private parties and too much sense to attempt public concerts without rules.
The largest room had been arranged for the performers; the smaller adjoining room had been surrendered to tea, programmes, opinions, and those necessary conversations by which every serious society proves that it is still part of the world.
Mrs. Pratt and Miss Hall were not hostesses in the ordinary sense. They were something more formidable: ladies on a committee.
This distinction was visible before Elizabeth had been in the room five minutes.
Mrs. Pratt moved through the company with a programme in one hand and judgment in the other, stopping a misplaced chair here, a confused young singer there, and one elderly gentleman who appeared determined to stand in the draught until death or applause overtook him.
Miss Hall, from the farther side of the room, did less moving and more seeing.
Her stillness had the effect of making other people correct themselves.
Jane, Mr. Bingley, Miss Bingley, Mr. and Mrs. Hurst, Elizabeth, and Mrs. Doddridge were received almost at once into this well-managed disorder.
“My dear Miss Bennet,” cried Mrs. Pratt, taking Elizabeth’s hand, “you are come to preserve us from indiscriminate admiration. I rely upon you particularly in the second half. The first half must be praised, for several reasons, and only one of them musical.”
“Then I am already prepared to be useful,” said Elizabeth. “I shall admire with caution until released.”
“Admirable. Caution is much wanted in these rooms. It is astonishing how many people mistake a loud note for a right one.”
Mr. Bingley looked alarmed for a moment, as if wondering whether he had ever been guilty of such a mistake in public; but Jane smiled at him, and he recovered enough to admire the candles.
Miss Bingley had already made three observations upon the company without lowering her voice enough to be improper, though not quite loudly enough to be charitable.
Mrs. Hurst accepted a chair with the air of a woman who had determined to be entertained if entertainment did not require much movement.
Mr. Hurst, having ascertained that there would be refreshments, appeared reconciled to art.
Mr. Pratt soon joined them with programmes, chairs, and the air of a man who had been useful in three rooms and praised in none.
“You will be glad to know, Miss Bennet,” he said, “that I have made two attempts since Saturday.”
“At composition?” said Elizabeth.
“At something which began with that ambition.”
“Only two?” said she. “Then either the passages are very good or you have been very prudent.”
“Neither, I fear. I have discovered that it is one thing to hear a melody in one’s head, another to place it sensibly upon paper, and a third, almost impossible labour, to play it while discovering what one has failed to write.”
“Composition and performance,” said Mrs. Pratt, “are not always obedient servants to the same master.”
“My mother says this because she has heard both attempts,” said Mr. Pratt, “and because maternal affection has limits.”
“Maternal affection has excellent ears,” said Mrs. Pratt. “That is one of its burdens.”
Jane, who had been listening with more interest than amusement, said, “Then perhaps a good master is even more important than I had supposed.”
Mrs. Pratt turned to her at once. “For whom, my dear Mrs. Bingley?”
“For our sister Mary. She is very fond of music, and we hope she may come to London for a visit. Lizzy and I wondered whether you might know of anyone who could judge her properly and instruct her without either flattering or discouraging her.”
Mrs. Pratt’s expression sharpened into pleasure.
“Yes,” she said. “Miss Carr.”
“Is she a master?” asked Elizabeth.
“She is better than many who call themselves so. She is young, talented, exact, and hungry enough to teach well. She performs tonight.”
Mr. Pratt added, “She has the rare virtue of making me understand that I have written nonsense without making me wish to stop writing altogether.”
“That is a very high recommendation,” said Elizabeth.
“It is the only kind worth having,” said Mrs. Pratt. “A master who only discourages is a bully. A master who only flatters is a bill with gloves on. Miss Carr has sense enough to require work and warmth enough to make the work seem possible.”
Jane looked pleased. “Mary would value seriousness.”
“Then she may do very well,” said Mrs. Pratt. “Seriousness is not the disease. It is only fatal when joined to bad teaching and no ear.”
Elizabeth could not help laughing. “Poor Mary has suffered from at least one of those.”
“Then bring her to me when she is in town. Not to be exhibited,” Mrs. Pratt added, with a glance at Elizabeth as if she had read the objection before it formed, “but to be heard. There is a difference, though society often forgets it.”
That promise gave the evening, at once, a more generous shape.
Elizabeth had come to be diverted; she found herself carrying away a possible future for Mary.
It was not, perhaps, the sort of triumph Mrs. Bennet would have understood, but then Mrs. Bennet’s ideas of triumph had always required more lace than discipline.
The first music began soon afterward.
For a time, the evening justified Mrs. Pratt’s confidence.
The room settled; the rustle of programmes diminished; the candles made steady pools of light upon music stands and polished wood.
The first singer was accomplished and knew it just a little too well.
The second was less polished but more affecting.
An elderly violinist played with such stern command of the room that Mr. Bingley sat up straighter, as if good manners required improved posture.
Then Miss Carr came forward.
She was slight, and looked at first almost too young for the consequence Mrs. Pratt had given her. There was no fashionable flutter about her, no elaborate hesitation, no smile designed to beg pardon before she began. She merely sat at the instrument, placed her hands, and altered the room.
There was energy in her playing, and seriousness too.
Not display, not prettiness arranged for applause, but a force of purpose that seemed to gather the whole company toward the notes.
Difficult passages did not become softer under her hand; they became clearer.
She did not plead for admiration. She pursued the music, and admiration, if it had any sense, followed.
Elizabeth found herself sitting straighter before the first movement was half done.
Mary would adore her.
Jane, beside her, had the same thought; Elizabeth knew it by the quick look they exchanged, full of sisterly conspiracy and relief.
When Miss Carr finished, there was a pause before the applause, that small breath in which a room decides whether it has been pleased or commanded. Then the applause came warmly.
Mrs. Pratt, passing near them, said with satisfaction, “There. That is Miss Carr.”
“She is remarkable,” said Jane softly.
“She is serious,” said Elizabeth. “Mary would worship her.”
“Then Miss Mary Bennet may perhaps be improved by worshipping in the right direction,” said Mrs. Pratt, and moved on to correct some fault invisible to everyone except herself and Miss Hall.
The next performer did not fare so well by comparison, though Mr. Bingley admired him with a loyalty that did honour to his heart if not his ear.
Miss Bingley concealed several opinions with such merit that Elizabeth could not decide whether to admire her self-command or mourn the loss to conversation.
It was after the first set of music, during the interval before the second, that tea was produced.
The society’s taste in music, Elizabeth discovered after one dutiful sip, had not yet extended to the hired tea.
It had been made too strong, left too long, and repented of too late.
It was black without comfort, bitter without purpose, and possessed of that peculiar flavour which suggests that the leaves had been boiled first for economy and afterward for punishment.
It was not tea so much as an argument against refreshment.
Elizabeth looked down into the cup with grave disapproval.
“Lizzy?” said Jane, who knew that expression too well.
“I am considering whether the society has enemies among the tea trade.”
Jane’s mouth trembled. “You must not say so to Mrs. Pratt.”
“I would not wound Mrs. Pratt. This is not her tea. This is clearly a public misfortune.”
Miss Bingley, who stood near enough to hear, said, “One must never trust hired rooms with tea. They are apt to believe hot water and injury sufficient.”
“Then they have excelled,” said Elizabeth.
She had accepted the cup publicly and could not decently abandon it at once. She therefore continued to hold it with quiet endurance, nearly full and wholly unwelcome, long after all warmth and every species of hope had departed from it.