Chapter 7
A public ball was held at the Meryton assembly rooms several times a year.
Anyone with any pretensions to taste affected to despise these unpretentious entertainments—the rooms were too small, the music too loud, the refreshments scarcely to be borne—but there was never any question of not attending.
The first ball of the season was anticipated with the greatest excitement, the more so because, although it always took place in the autumn, the exact date of the event was rarely decided upon until almost the very last moment.
As the leaves fell from the trees and the evenings grew darker, expectation mounted, especially amongst the younger people who longed for an opportunity for dancing; but for many weeks, no definite information could be obtained of when it might be held.
Inevitably, it was Lydia, on one of her dallying, gossiping trips to the village, who was the first to hear incontrovertible evidence of the day at last being fixed, which she bore back to Longbourn in triumph.
Tearing into the hall, with Kitty hurrying in her wake, she ran straight to Mrs. Bennet, eager to impart her good news.
“The ball is to be held on the first Saturday of next month! I had it from Mr. Thompson himself. I was passing the rooms and there he was, so I asked him, and he told me he had just this minute contracted the musicians, so I am the very first to know.”
She perched on a chair, still wearing her hat, desperate to impart all she had discovered.
“The supper is ordered, the rooms are to be swept, and the floor newly sanded to save the dancers’ feet. The notice is to go into the paper tomorrow.”
Mrs. Bennet, almost as excited as her daughter, clapped her hands.
“Well done, Lydia, how clever of you to have found that out. Did you hear that, Mr. Bennet? The Meryton ball is settled for three weeks this Saturday.”
“Is it indeed? As I shall not be attending myself, my joy cannot be as unconfined as your own. But I am no enemy to harmless pleasure. Shall you go, Lizzy?”
“I may do,” replied Elizabeth, “if Jane will come with me. I am not yet sure.”
Lydia looked at her with frank astonishment. “Not yet sure?” Lizzy, how can you be so annoying? I’m sure I should die if I wasn’t there. I should do away with myself from mere frustration.”
“You must endeavour to compose yourself, then,” said Mr. Bennet calmly, “for I have not yet decided if you are to go. Jane and Lizzy may attend, they have been before, and I have no fears for their good behaviour. Mary too may go if she wishes—she is old enough and steady enough to be trusted. But you and Kitty are another matter.”
Mary, who sat in the corner with her book on her knees, had never expected her name to be mentioned in the context of a ball. She could not quite believe that her father had praised her—faint praise, it was true, but she felt herself warm with pride.
Meanwhile, Kitty and Lydia set up a great wail of protest.
“You can’t mean that, Papa,” cried Lydia. “You wouldn’t really prevent me from going?”
“Really, Mr. Bennet,” declared his wife, “I am sure neither Lydia nor Kitty would do anything to make us ashamed.”
“I wish I shared your confidence,” he replied. “Neither could possibly be described as discreet or modest. And Lydia is especially headstrong.”
Lydia stood up, tears springing into her eyes. “Papa, you are very unkind. You must let me go! You must!”
Mary usually knew better than to tangle with her youngest sister when she had been denied something she wanted, but, emboldened by her father’s approving remark, she ventured to speak in his support.
“A young woman’s first venture into society cannot be attended with too much care. There are many snares and temptations to overwhelm her, if she has not the judgement or experience to resist them.”
Lydia removed her hat, untying the ribbon deliberately and slowly pulling out the pins.
“Is that so?” she replied coldly. “Well, you may be the right age to go into society, but you need not worry about snares and temptations. Just put on those spectacles and you will be quite safe, I assure you.”
With that, she flung down her hat and fled the room, pursued by Kitty and their mother, who said all she could to calm her—her father was only joking; she knew it was his way; he would change his mind, she was sure of it.
“That’s what happens when you poke an angry beehive with a stick,” Mr. Bennet observed to Mary dryly. “You must expect to get stung.”
Mary rose with as much dignity as she could muster and went upstairs to her bedroom.
There she sat in front of her dressing table and pulled her spectacles out of her pocket.
Carefully, she placed them on her nose and stared intently at her reflection in the mirror.
She turned from side to side, scrutinising herself from every angle, making no attempt to compose her features into a smile.
Her eyes filled with tears. It was just as Lydia said.
The dark metal frames looked heavy on her small face, and the lenses gave her an owlish, blinking look.
No-one could say she was improved by them.
She was still seated there when Mrs. Hill knocked at her door some twenty minutes later. She came in with an armful of clean bedclothes, but Mary knew that was not the real reason for her visit.
“I heard what passed between you and Miss Lydia.”
Mary, silent, did not look away from the mirror.
“She has a sharp tongue on her when she’s thwarted,” said Mrs. Hill, “but you know that already.”
She put down the bedclothes, pulled up a chair, and sat as close to Mary as she could.
“I hope you won’t take it too much to heart,” she said in a low voice. “That was anger and wilfulness speaking. It doesn’t make it true.”
“Really?” replied Mary. “I have been looking at myself this half hour, and I cannot find it in my heart to disagree with her.”
“I cannot in all honesty tell you that the spectacles do you many favours,” confessed Mrs. Hill, “but you aren’t obliged to wear them all the time. And without them, you look as well as most women.”
Mary turned towards her with a sceptical frown.
“I know you don’t believe me, but it’s true. Your skin is clear, your figure is decent, neither too thin nor too fat. When you can see them, your eyes are tolerable and your hair is a pleasant-enough light brown, for all it won’t take a curl.”
“You are very kind, Mrs. Hill, but you don’t need to indulge me. The mirror cannot lie.”
“Perhaps. But in truth, I don’t think you see yourself at all clearly, miss. Your sisters get in the way. A daffodil seems quite ordinary when planted between lilies. But looked at without them, it has its own kind of beauty.”
“Yes, I suppose I may be said to be tall, thin, and yellow-looking.” Mary smiled bleakly. “But if you’re saying I don’t bear comparison with my sisters, I have known that for years.”
“I wonder whether you would be happier if you spent less time with them, if you were to find friends who were remarkable for things other than their looks.”
“Lizzy is as much admired for her wit as for her beauty.”
“Yes,” admitted Mrs. Hill, “she is very lucky to be both clever and handsome. But I think if you went into the world a little more, you would see how very unusual it is to be blessed as she has been. Most people are far more ordinary, you know, as you would discover if you met some new company and went out now and again.”
“I don’t think I have much inclination for either. I have my piano and my books.”
“I’m not sure that’s enough for a girl of your age. Come now, what about the Meryton ball? I hope you’ll be going along to it. If Miss Lydia is to go, I can’t see why you should not.”
“Our father has not yet pronounced upon that question,” began Mary; but Mrs. Hill’s expression suggested she thought Mr. Bennet’s objections would not long withstand the determined assault mounted against them by his youngest daughter and his wife.
“I haven’t made up my mind either,” she continued. “I’m not sure I should enjoy it.”
“Why ever not? It may not be the grandest affair, but there’ll be music and dancing, lots of laughter, and high spirits. You’ve never been to a ball. Wouldn’t you like to see what one’s like?”
“I don’t know. I should have to consider it.”
“You could have a new dress if you decide quickly. I could come with you to pick out a nice muslin, and we could get it made up in a pretty style, nothing too bright or gaudy. I could do your hair for you too—not as your mother likes it, but in a way that might suit your taste. What do you say?”
“I don’t know. I should be afraid … What if no-one danced with me?”
“Then you’ll eat lots of ices and laugh at them for their silliness! Why don’t you think about it overnight? It’s a hard thing to see a girl as young as you set her face against pleasure and good fellowship. There’ll be time enough for that in the future, believe me.”