Ten days further on ...

The new pianoforte had arrived remarkably quickly. Remarkably quickly. Mr. Bennet thought darkly that Mrs. Longden and the vendor must be in some sort of commercial collusion. On the third day after the letter ordering it had been sent – Mrs. Longden had practically stood over him as he wrote it out – a cartage wagon came up the drive carrying the pianoforte and the new music master along with it. Within another day the infernal instrument of torture was assembled and tuned and the master of the torture chamber - an elderly German; long of hair, and short of stature, temper, and patience - had started in practising his malevolent craft.

With four daughters and a niece taking turns banging away on the pianoforte from dawn to dusk and beyond with various degrees of incompetence, the resulting cacophony, accented as it was with a gallimaufry of German and English, was well on the way to driving Mr. Bennet to seek sanctuary in Bedlam.

For the greater good of his daughters' futures Mr. Bennet had tried to tolerate the domestic musicale.

At first, he had tuned out the dissonance and listened to those, rare, pieces which sounded like what he would consider to be music; some of which he even recognized. But then those pieces, or more accurately, parts of those pieces, would be repeated over and over again ad nauseam. He considered reminding Herr Musiklehrer of Voltaire's dictum that 'the perfect is the enemy of the good' but did not exert himself. Perhaps he should have.

He had tried screwing cotton batting into his ears. It had worked, although perhaps too well; after he had twice missed the call to dinner, he gave up the practice.

He had tried reading outside in the garden. He found the sunlight too bright; the air too drafty, the insects too buzzy. And he was too exposed – anyone who saw him, which apparently was everyone, felt compelled to speak to him, if only to greet him, although most wanted to chat, and he was obliged to reply, which lead to more chat ad infinitum ad nauseam. And those young females awaiting their turns to abuse the pianoforte polluted the garden, and what little enjoyment he had of the same, by warbling their demented do-re-mi scales.

So, he had retreated back to his bookroom and suffered, although not in silence, given the clamour escaping from the music room. As he suffered, Mr. Bennet brooded. It was all the fault of Mrs. Longden. How could he rid himself of that troublesome woman?

-}{-

Herr Schmold, for that was the music master's true name, although Mr. Bennet could not be bothered to learn it, watched Miss Mary lean in and squint at the score. Every bar she did this and every time she lost the beat. She had been working on this piece, Mozart's Piano Sonata No. 17, since he had arrived at Longbourn at the request of his old friend, Mrs. Longden. Miss Mary had assured him that she knew it, having practiced it many times in the past. But she had not perfected her performance and he thought he knew the several reasons why. First, her spectacles were too weak to assist her vision – he had told Mrs. Longden this and new, stronger, spectacles were being made for Miss Mary notwithstanding that her parents had objected – her father, because of the expense, and her mother, because spectacles hid what little beauty Miss Mary had - but Mrs. Longden had prevailed. Secondly, Miss Mary was not confident she knew the score and so she kept referring to it. And lastly, she hid the joy he was sure she must feel in playing the sonata. He had done what he could about her vision, and he might be able to do something about the other two things.

"Miss Mary, would you please let me have your spectacles," he said.

Miss Mary gave Herr Schmold a puzzled look but she took off her spectacles and gave them to him. He carefully put them on the mantle. He then said "Now would you please give me the score."

Miss Mary squinted at him - out of pique, not her nearsightedness – because she anticipated what he was going to make her do but she did comply.

"Miss Mary, now please play the sonata."

"But I will forget parts. I will make mistakes."

Herr Schmold waved away her objections. "You know the score by heart. I know you do. If you do make a mistake continue on playing as if Mozart had written it the way you played it. Do not stop playing until you have finished the sonata."

Miss Mary huffed but raised her hands to start.

"Wait." Herr Schmold held up his hand. He could see Miss Gardiner standing in the doorway waiting her turn. He motioned at her. "Miss Gardiner, please come and stand behind Miss Mary." When she was in place he said "Miss Mary, I want you to smile as you play, and whenever you do not, I will point at Miss Gardiner and she will tickle you, but you will not stop."

Miss Gardiner's eye got wide and she said "I can't do that."

Herr Schmold tilted her head at Miss Gardiner. "You do not know how to tickle? I will call for Miss Lydia and have her tickle you so you can learn how."

"No, no, don't do that …" Miss Gardiner, had been tickled by her cousin, Lydia, in the past and had no desire to be tickled by her again, said "I can do it."

"Excellent, show me." Herr Schmold pointed at Miss Mary and Miss Gardiner tickled her. Even though she knew it was coming Miss Mary giggled. Miss Gardiner was a good tickler, having practiced extensively on her younger brothers.

"You may proceed when you are ready," said Herr Schmold.

Miss Mary smiled and started to play.

When she finished, having made a few mistakes but only those that only a music master would have noticed, and without being tickled once, Miss Mary laughed.