Mrs Bennet’s behaviour only deepened Mary’s unhappiness, for the pleasure she took in her four handsome daughters could not, it seemed, entirely make up for the shortcomings of the fifth; and with every year that passed, Mary’s appearance irritated her mother more and more. Mrs Bennet had neither the patience nor the inclination to hide her vexation, which was provoked by a host of small failings; but few frustrated her more than Mary’s hair. Each night, at her insistence, it was tied into curl papers; and each morning, as Mrs Hill brushed it out, it emerged as straight and as fine as before. Mrs Bennet could not help but regard this daily disappointment as a personal affront.
‘Mary, I believe you do this on purpose to annoy me.’
‘Indeed, I don’t, Mama. I would make it curl if I could. Perhaps it could be swept back off my face? Then it might not be noticed that it doesn’t curl?’
Mrs Bennet frowned.
‘Perhaps you would rather wear a cap like an old married woman? That would cover up a multitude of sins!’
With this, her mother would march indignantly away, leaving Mrs Hill to pick up her combs and brushes again, ready to make another hopeless attempt to achieve the impossible.
Soon Mary longed for invisibility. It was better to attract no attention at all than to find herself the object of her mother’s peevish displeasure. She did all she could to disappear, choosing dresses in the most anonymous colours, made up in the most unexceptionable styles. When Mrs Hill, whom she knew felt sorry for her, urged her to consider brighter shades and more flattering shapes, she refused – unremarkable greys and beiges were all she deserved. Convinced that nothing could improve the figure she presented to the world, she took no part in the conversations about hats and shoes and muslins which, as they grew older, occupied so much of Kitty’s and Lydia’s time. Lydia was sharp-tongued, as merciless in her judgements as their mother, and Mary feared the teasing she was sure would greet her awkward attempts to join in. It was easier to stay silent. When her sisters walked into Meryton to spend their allowances in the village’s small millinery shop, she hovered outside, alone in the street. There was no point in going in. What would she do with a new lace collar, with coloured ribbons or a straw hat? Fripperies of that sort were not for girls like her.
Restless and isolated, she sought other ways to occupy her time, but her choices were few. She had no talent for drawing, and needlework bored her. She could not paint, and she disliked cards. Music, however, was a different matter. Seated at the piano, Mary felt almost happy, forgetting for a moment her deficiencies and failures. All the Bennet sisters had been taught to play. Mrs Bennet considered it a charming skill for a girl to possess, and had insisted that all her daughters acquire it, even providing a teacher for them. The genteel and put-upon Miss Allen arrived every Wednesday afternoon and taught each Bennet daughter, one after the other. Mary remembered awaiting her turn, counting the minutes till Lizzy was finished, breathlessly eager to take her place at the keyboard. At first, she had been so small that she had required a cushion in order to reach the keys. There she had sat, precariously perched, her child’s tiny fingers stretching to perform her scales and arpeggios. She had loved it from the beginning, thrilled by the sounds she produced, excited as, week by week, they came gradually to resemble tunes and melodies. This was when she was still young, before she had learned to be ashamed of herself. As she absorbed the painful knowledge of her plainness, she had turned her face away from many pursuits she had once enjoyed; but her love for music was one of the few passions Mary did not renounce as she grew older. She continued to play, even as sister after sister gave up, abandoning their piano lessons as quickly as Mrs Bennet permitted. Soon only Mary and Lizzy troubled the battered family instrument with any regularity.
Something, however, had changed. When she began, music was a treat for Mary, an escape from a daily life in which there was precious little to enjoy; but by the time she entered her teens, she no longer looked upon it as merely a diverting pastime. It had slowly dawned on her that once she was seated behind the keyboard, good looks counted for nothing. At the piano, the plainest woman might outshine the prettiest if she had the ambition and single-mindedness required to do so. Although conscious of her shortcomings in so many areas of life, Mary did not doubt her powers of stamina and application; and it struck her, they could be harnessed to deliver a sense of purpose and achievement sadly lacking elsewhere in her drab existence. Why should she not direct them towards mastering the piano? She was already competent – with effort, she might become even more accomplished. The prospect of possessing a talent of her own, some mark of distinction, was thrilling to her, and she did not for a moment begrudge the work involved in acquiring it. She willingly exiled herself to the drawing room, where none but she ventured until teatime, rehearsing her exercises again and again. She was dogged in her pursuit of perfection, and eventually, she was rewarded for it. In all aspects of technique and proficiency, she was soon much improved. Miss Allen declared herself very satisfied with her progress, and assured her that if she maintained the habit of regular and rigorous practice, she could expect to get better still.
Mary was unused to praise, and this small crumb of encouragement was enough to harden her resolve and tie her to the keyboard for many solitary hours. Mostly, she did not resent the time she spent alone with her exercises; but occasionally, in the midst of her practice, she would find herself overtaken by a sadness she did not understand. It took her a while to grasp that the sensation she felt was one of regret for the pleasure and excitement that had once overwhelmed her when she played. The relentless discipline she had imposed on herself had slowly extinguished much of the delight with which she used to approach the piano. Now it was a task like any other. Her hard work and effort had brought her the expertise she longed for; but it had been achieved at the cost of a simple enjoyment she had loved more than any other.
Usually, Mary was able to convince herself this had been a price worth paying, that indulging her happiness mattered less than honing her skills. But there were times when she was assailed by doubts about what she had given up, when longing for the fulfilment and release which music had delivered broke through, despite all her attempts to repress it. One morning, as she walked towards the drawing room to begin her daily practice, music tucked under her arm, she heard the unmistakeable sound of Lizzy at the piano. She would have known her style anywhere – fast, full of bravado, so appealing that it was impossible not to turn your head and listen. The few mistakes she made did nothing to mar the pleasure of hearing her. Mary slipped silently into the room and watched her sister as she finished the piece, head tilted back, concluding with a flourish all her own, added for no other reason than her own satisfaction. Mary sat down, a little stunned by the energy and attack of Elizabeth’s treatment of the song. It was nothing like her own precise and exact style, but no one could hear it and not admire it.
‘That was very good, Lizzy,’ she exclaimed. ‘There were hardly any false notes. If you were to practise properly, you might really master it.’
Her face slightly flushed from the exertion of performing the piece, Elizabeth pushed the stool away from the keyboard, as if to signal she had done what she wished to do, and would play no more.
‘That wouldn’t suit me at all. I’m not sure I have the patience to master anything. The minute it began to be troublesome, I’d find something else to do.’
‘But don’t you want to cultivate your gift? It seems a great shame to waste it.’
‘I’m not sure it is wasted if it pleases me.’ Lizzy allowed her fingers to trace a simple scale. ‘I sometimes wonder if you might enjoy yourself more if you applied yourself a little less.’
‘But if I don’t apply myself, how will I play anything correctly?’
‘Perhaps,’ remarked Lizzy, ‘correctness and application are not the only measures of success.’
This was exactly the suspicion that sometimes disturbed Mary’s own thoughts; but she pushed the idea away, for it was impossible for her to admit to it.
‘I cannot believe anything worth having is to be achieved without effort and sacrifice.’
‘That may be so,’ replied Lizzy, ‘and yet I know I’d rather listen to a piece played with happiness and a spring in its step than to all the well-drilled perfection in the world.’
‘I doubt you’d care to hear a succession of mistakes,’ replied Mary, ‘however cheerful the person was who played them.’
Elizabeth gathered up her music and rose from the piano.
‘Possibly. But really, it seems a great shame to wring all the pleasure out of music. A few false notes seem a small price to pay in exchange.’
She touched Mary’s shoulder lightly as she left the room. Mary sat down and assembled her music but could not settle. Elizabeth’s words had agitated her. It was not surprising to hear Lizzy speak slightingly of hard work and effort; everything came easily to her. She did not need to exert herself; charm would always see her through, even at the piano. Mary thrust her book of music onto the stand. For her, things were different. She flexed her fingers and began to practise her scales.