A/N: As promised, dinner party, part two (and also the longest chapter so far - we have a little bit of everything in here).
Thanks so much for everyone's reviews, and even if I don't always have time to reply, I promise I read and appreciate all of them :) Your patience each week is also really appreciated - posting once a week means I have time to keep up with my writing for this in addition to all my school/work duties.
Hope you all enjoy!
Chapter 13: A Heart Made Sick
Once retired to the sitting room, the thread of conversation was restarted among the ladies, but there was now in their discourse a palpable sense of expectancy and restlessness, and of discordance among their party moreover. Lady Benson remained distant, and hardly a word could be coaxed from her, even by one as rousing and adaptable as Elizabeth. The Miss Bensons chattered among themselves, sat on either side of Georgiana; and it was then only left for Lady Langton and Mrs. Birmingham to join Elizabeth and Mary in discussion, which they did - nervously on the part of one, reluctantly on the part of the other. Thus, the conversation stuttered along at a lagging and uninspired pace, until at last the gentlemen's arrival was announced, and the ladies gratefully accepted them into the sitting room.
Conversations began about the room with renewed animation – no one seemed inclined quite yet to open the instrument, or to organize any games – the ladies, so reticent only moments before, suddenly found themselves quite equal to conversing after all, and began to speak with a newfound vigor. Poor Georgiana had been caught by Colonel Birmingham and listened dutifully, eyes wide with martyrdom, to his winding, vaguely-remembered stories of wartime ("Now that was on the third day– no, I suppose it had been the second day –") while Edmund Benson hung just behind them disinterestedly, making the occasional interjection, though it was unclear whether from pity or amusement; Lizzy spoke spiritedly with Lord and Lady Langton, Darcy made travails with Lord and Lady Benson; and Mary sat quite unattended on the sofa, observing the room and rather wishing she might go and retrieve a book from the case without the risk of interceding in anyone's discussion.
"You perhaps did not have chance to hear, Charlotte, but just now, over dinner, I have invited Mr. Crawford to an afternoon of painting with us whenever his work should allow."
"Oh, how wonderful, Emma! It shall be simply delightful, we must arrange it at once! We simply must insist upon your time, Mr. Crawford, it shall be the greatest shame to not have such an afternoon now that we have so set our hearts upon it, and that you have given us such hope for its execution!"
The Miss Bensons and Mr. Crawford were stood close enough to Mary that she might have been easily invited into their conversation if they so wished; but it was clear this was not the intention of the sisters; their closeness was symptom only of them wishing to be heard, and envied, for their winsome, charming ways, and for their claim on a gentleman's attention.
Mr. Crawford's reply to them, as decorous as ever, was much to the effect of the one he had delivered over dinner – far be it from him to be the purveyor of false hope – however, he might be fated to fall short of their expectations – he was not, alas, a landscape artist, and his expertise lay only in a very narrow confine of the arts, and much more in the scientific interest.
"Oh, but Mr. Crawford, you do yourself a grave disservice! To strangers, you may very well feign shortcomings in your work; but you forget that we have already had the pleasure of seeing it, and examining it at length – so there is no use at all in attempting to convince us that your artistry is that of a common scientist's, or that your work is anything at all but exceptionally beautiful!"
"I see it is a most foolhardy and ill-fated individual who attempts to escape once you have set your mind to complimenting them, Miss Benson; but I myself am partial to the notion that my illustrations' beauty, as you so generously name it, might actually be due in part to their scientific intention. Was it not Berkeley who said that beauty's pleasure is proportional to its utility, Miss Bennet?" And here he had turned to Mary, as if she had been part of their discourse all this while.
Mary started, for though she had been following the conversation closely, had resigned herself to be quite unnoticed for its length – and now she was so unexpectedly brought into it, that even the poised Emma Benson could not effect the concealment of a glower which briefly passed across her face, at the injury of a new lady being introduced into their discussion, and particularly one who was so inferior to her own charms and attraction.
A moment passed before Mary could gather her thoughts, but at last, she assented, hesitantly at first, "Berkeley should indeed say that beauty pleases by its utility… but it was not thought so by all. Burke should argue that beauty can in fact be attributed wholly to neither perfection, nor utility – but rather that judgments of beauty are delivered to us by our experiences, and can be tied to a number of physical traits which inspire in us such judgments – our minds influenced by way of the senses, if you will."
She stopped here abruptly, even though she had had more which she had wished to say; she had grown conscious of speaking for too long, and too tediously, and felt now that it was only left for Mr. Crawford to smile pityingly upon and return to their previous discourse – but it was not so – his smile was amused, and he had turned slightly from the Miss Bensons to face her.
"Then, as you see it, Miss Bennet, beauty merely follows a set of these prescribed, easily expounded tenets?" Mr. Crawford inquired.
Mary felt he was calling into question her interpretation of the text, and responded, with a touch of defensiveness, "Burke only makes certain generalizations – I do not mean to say he covers all possibilities of beauty, or that its identification should be equated to formulaic method. He speaks simply of commonly shared attributes which may render the objects that possess them beautiful in most people's eyes – traits to which you yourself would readily assent, such as delicacy, and grace, and elegance."
"That is undoubtedly the opinion of the venerable Mr. Burke – but I was, in fact, inquiring as to your opinion, Miss Bennet, and what you believe to be the root of beauty. What is to be said for those things which do not follow Burke's rules, which are not delicate, or graceful, or elegant – are they condemned always to unseemliness?"
He had spoken with no particular emphasis, only in his usual wry tone; but it was at that precise moment that Miss Benson tittered – softly, but loud enough that Mary should hear, and understand, the jibe at her expense, and at her plainness – no one had ever tied the words 'elegant' and 'delicate' and 'graceful' to Mary Bennet – and the blow delivered by Mr. Crawford, no less, after admitting her to their discussion of his own volition.
The color rose to Mary's cheeks, but it was as much anger as embarrassment – his droll, unaffected way of speaking was growing rather tiresome for her – if all around him merely served to him as objects of jest, her as much as the Miss Bensons, then at least he should be shown it had very little effect on her - her response, therefore, was delivered sharply, and her tone rather searing: "I should hardly think those things to be condemned, as you so eloquently say, sir. Unless, of course, we are to say that beauty is the height of all achievement, in which case I believe I would be impelled to disagree." Her harsh words gave her a satisfaction, and sharp thrill; her years of practicing condescension, though used rarely of late, had served her well in this moment, and she felt herself at last to be the conversation's commander rather than its follower.
She awaited then Mr. Crawford's laconic reply – was quite ready for it, in fact, to directly tear it once more into scraps and splinters – but it did not come; Mr. Crawford looked for all the world as if he had been taken wholly by surprise at the forcefulness of her reply, and for the first time in her remembrance, he hesitated, before replying at last, in a rather grave tone, "I would certainly disagree with beauty being the height of achievement as well, madam; and I should further add, that I disagree with Burke, and believe him to be too restrictive in his exploration of beauty, and too narrow in his definitions; and furthermore, that beauty of countenance or dress is quite different than a beauty of the mind, and that one greatly surpasses the other in import." Here, he tucked his hands brusquely behind his back, at the end of his short speech, which was one as earnest as Mary had ever heard him give, and the first also without his accompanying drollness.
His eyes held hers then, rather intently, and Mary felt for a moment as if the floor had given way – and her thoughts seemed only capable of echoing those four words - beauty of the mind – and she was struck sharply by an embarrassment, but of a far different kind than that to which she was used – an embarrassment of feeling, of being overwhelmed and uncertain and aflutter – but also an abashment, and shame, at her words and at her previous harshness, and for assuming the worst of his intentions, when he had never given her any earthly reason to do so – and for not directing her anger towards the true source of her affront, which was the spite and vanity of the Miss Bensons. Her cheeks burned as brightly as before, but now it was only in self-reproach and contrition.
"Burke remarks, as a matter of fact, upon beauty as it relates to the mind," Mary began, softly and hesitantly, "…but he seems to prefer the gentler virtues over the stronger ones such as wisdom or fortitude; he writes that it is 'the soft green of the soul on which we rest our eyes, that are fatigued with beholding more glaring objects.' But I cannot entirely agree with him, for I think that those shining qualities, as he calls them, have as much power to inspire a sense of loveliness as the gentler ones – though I suppose he was attempting, perhaps, to tie it to the gentler allures of the fairer sex."
It was no small relief when she saw Mr. Crawford's shoulders relax, even if it was barely perceptible; and when the familiar amusement reentered the upward crook of his mouth. " 'The soft green of the soul,'" he said, smiling almost ruefully, "rather poetic for a philosopher, is it not?"
And Mary could not help but return his smile, perhaps the very first time she had dared to do so in any of their conversations. "Rather, yes."
"I must confess, I myself have never understood the allure of philosophy!" Miss Charlotte broke in at last, grown tired of searching for an appropriate moment to reenter the discourse. "Their writings all seem to me rather tedious!" Thus, the moment was broken; Mary became aware that she had both of the Miss Bensons' gazes upon her, and that both were quite unamused at this progression of the conversation; Emma Benson's eyes in particular were awash in a pall of displeasure, and accompanied with a thin, tightly pursed smile.
"Do not be so discourteous, Charlotte!" Miss Benson declared unexpectedly, to the unhappy surprise of her sister; her smile had become almost sickly in its sweetness. "There is much to be learnt from the great philosophers of our day and past, an occupation to which Miss Bennet clearly already applies herself so studiously. And indeed, beauty is not at all the height of accomplishment – in fact, it is no accomplishment at all! – rather, all admiration and credit should be given to those who, while not naturally endowed in these gentler virtues, strive to improve and better themselves, and exert continually efforts to this end! Do you not agree, Charlotte?"
Charlotte caught on to the game at last, and followed eagerly, if less gracefully, in her sister's lead, "Yes, indeed, Emma! Indeed it is admirable! Even those things which are as simple as new dress, or new fashion of hair, should certainly be applauded for the estimable efforts which sought them out!" And a brief glance at Mary's new dress, and new fashion of hair, was enough to reveal the targets of their remarks.
But it was too late for the Benson sisters – if they had wished to deliver a crippling blow, they should have done so far earlier – Mary felt now light as air, as if she floated far above them, and could be hardly affected by their words, any more than the branches of an oak can be affected by the small buds that bloom from the earth far below it; and she only tilted her head up, and smiled at them rather stoically…and Emma Benson was thus made to see that no more progress would be made on that front this evening, and that she would have to satisfy herself with the injuries which she had wrought earlier, however temporary they may have been.
It had long been nearing that time of the evening when the room should be lent to that gratifying display of accomplishments to which each young lady so aspires, from the moment that she embarks upon her dedication to the arts – and Lizzy at last chose that moment to take the duty of its suggestion upon herself, and to declare the instrument open, and to insist on the absolute imperative necessity that some of the young ladies might perform for them this evening, to which they graciously assented.
First was Miss Charlotte, who played a ditty with skill which was passable but unimpressive. Then came Miss Benson, though it seemed she was displeased to be called upon so early; she was much an improvement over her sister, and showed a technical finesse which spoke of rigorous lessons, as well as a rather lively spirit and animation to her playing, which made for quite a pleasurable performance; but then she was called upon for another round, this time with a piece where she might demonstrate her singing, and here was where her performance became truly lovely – a beautiful, clear soprano which was sweet, cadent, and lilting – and much as Mary disliked Emma Benson, she could not deny her the acknowledgment of her musical talents, and the appropriate envy which naturally followed.
Mary was entreated to go next by the room, not least, she could not help but note, by Mr. Crawford; she ascended to the piano with reluctance, knowing she should be no equal to the performance preceding. Long departed was the sense of superiority which she had used to derive from performing. There had been a time when she had thought herself to be greatly accomplished for her age, and quite lofty on account of her self-tutelage; but she had come at last to understand, by her family's frequent embarrassment, that her skill little surpassed fair; and had also learned, by observing Georgiana, that there was such a thing as talent, which was quite a different animal than skill, and that it was a thing which could not be earned, but which was only bestowed, and rather sparingly at that.
It was therefore quite a different Mary which ascended to the piano this evening than the one which Lizzy rather painfully recalled – it was a Mary quite conscious of her own shortcomings at this particular endeavour, and conscious, too, of the advantages which Georgiana and Miss Benson possessed over her, in both tutelage and talents. She therefore played and accompanied herself on a rather short piece, and, once finished, was quite prepared to cede her place; but she was surprised to find herself entreated, by several gentlemen, for another piece, just as Miss Benson had been; she selected another, therefore, which was longer, and executed it as well as it was in her powers to do; and her cheeks were quite pink from the unexpected pleasure of being so encouraged.
These paid compliments were not nearly as much a surprise to Elizabeth as it had been to her sister; for she could easily see, observant as she was, the improvements in Mary – not so much in her playing or voice, for these had been always competent, and in the particulars of technicality, even quite estimable – but the dropping of the condescension and haughtiness which had previously always accompanied her playing had indeed done much to better her performance, and it now made for a very pleasant passing of several minutes to listen to her.
Mary at last gave her place to Georgiana, who was already blushing in anticipation of being called upon. Georgiana began to play her first piece, and Mary was glad then that she had preceded her; for so easily, so lightly, did her friend's fingers dance across the keys, and so beautifully were the notes teased from them, that there was no denying her superior artistry; and she seemed to effect it almost without awareness, so natural were the movements rendered by her hand. When she concluded, it was not with an air of having executed anything at all remarkable; but with an earnest and genuine modesty, to which the Miss Bensons could only ever aspire at imitating.
She accepted everyone's praise rather graciously, though it was clear she was discomfited by it. Mary was sat quite close to her, as was Mr. Benson; upon her conclusion of the first piece, he came to stand beside the instrument, and to suggest several pieces she might play next; but Georgiana ignored him quite determinedly, and turned instead to obtain the opinion of Lord Langton, stood near as well, about which piece he might recommend to her – he contemplated his answer quite solemnly several moments, and at last suggested an old standard.
"Thank you, Lord Langton, what a lovely suggestion," she said, her tone not quite demure enough to show herself indifferent; and began it directly. Edmund Benson appeared none too pleased at being so pointedly disregarded, but did not relinquish his place beside the piano; but continued to make remarks to her, some snide, some indifferent, none to which Georgiana responded, or made any acknowledgement of hearing at all; though it was clear to Mary, by the tension of her shoulders, and her pursed lip, that it was a behaviour which was most unnatural and contradictory to her usual, tender-hearted nature.
At last the piece concluded, and everyone applauded and gave again their compliments, and all insisted they should be quite happy for her to play another round, if she was not too tired, and an easy piece which required accompaniment was settled upon.
"Well, this is a clever, little game we have begun, is it not, Miss Darcy?" Benson said mockingly. "You pretend you do not hear me, and I pretend I do not take offense at your discourtesy!"
But Georgiana would not look at him, even when she responded, softly, "It is hardly your lot to remark upon discourtesy, Mr. Benson."
"Ah, at last I am readmitted to existence!" he declared sardonically. "Shall I accompany you on this duet, or would you prefer it to be the honorable Lord Langton?" – this said not too loudly, but without particular fear of being heard, for Lord Langton had already moved some feet away, to sit beside Elizabeth.
"Lord Langton should undoubtedly be preferable to you," Georgiana said, in the same soft voice which bespoke her determination to remain demure and unaffected, "but then again, that would be true for most of the gentlemen in this room."
"Indeed?" Mr. Benson exclaimed, at least partly, it seemed, in earnest surprise, and Emma Benson, noticing at last something amiss by her brother's reactions, came over to join them directly.
"Please enlighten me, dear sister," Edmund said, "on what has happened to our sweet, little Georgiana? I am afraid she is developing a rather acerbic tongue." Georgiana looked then for the first time somewhat abashed, and sought out Mary with her gaze, as if for support.
Emma Benson's smile appeared rather forced herself, and she could not help but throw a brief accusing glance at Mary before replying, "I am certain Georgiana is simply growing tired, are you not, dear?"
Mary stood to join them as well and interrupted, without any particular preamble: "Shall Emma or I accompany you, Georgiana?" Georgiana accepted the proposition gratefully, murmuring that either should be quite agreeable to her.
Edmund Benson made to move away at last, seeing his sister was to be no aid to him; however, it was not without a parting remark thrown over his shoulder: "I can only presume I will not be the last gentleman who is fated to be disappointed at the hands of the proud Miss Georgiana Darcy."
To see the effect of his words was not a concern of his, but Mary looked, and saw the distress and pain which flashed across Georgiana's face at them, and the pall that fell upon her cheeks; and when she turned her face away from them to the instrument, and began to play, Mary knew it was not timidity which caused her to so shield her face. Emma did not seem to notice; she had busied herself with preparing for her accompaniment, as it seemed decided that it was her and not Mary who should sing; and with this piece, the evening of performances finished out, with a smattering of appreciation for the talents of both ladies.
The night passed rather quickly after that; a game of bridge was started at the behest of Lady Benson, and Georgiana clung to Mary's side now, and conversed only with her; Mr. Benson was far removed to the other side of the room, speaking with Lord Langton, though his eyes settled upon them periodically. Mary could tell that whatever had shaken Georgiana, she was not yet recovered; her eyes darted anxiously, her hands twisted in her lap. Mary knew it was not the proper place to ask what had injured her so; but whatever its root, she certainly held the delivery of the blow as a condemnable count against Mr. Edmund Benson.
Mr. Benson's eyes were not the only ones of which Mary was conscious, however; in those rare moments when she allowed her gaze to lift in Mr. Crawford's direction, his own gaze met hers more often than not; and each time she would feel once more a sensation akin to floating, and being far above the ground – and she was reminded of the verse she had contemplated only yesterday, and the remembrance of its completion – a hope deferred maketh the heart sick… but a desire fulfilled is a tree of life.