She certainly looked at me a great deal during the half hour of my visit. At first, this made me nervous. I was sure that she was watching for signs of incipient melancholia. Even if she had not seen me during the time of my illness, she must surely have heard about it since. Such things are always much talked about and Mrs. Long was a great talker. But as I was leaving she said: “You must forgive me for looking at you so intently but I should very much like to paint you. Would you be willing to sit to me?”
“La!” exclaimed Helen. “What an honor for you, Mary. Cass rarely paints young women, you know. She says they are too unformed.”
Cassandra smiled but did not deny it, and after I assured her I would be most happy to sit, an appointment was made for the following morning. I went home with my head so full of it that I scarcely heard the prattle of Lydia and Kitty. Suddenly it seemed that the part of Mrs. Knowles’s advice I had thought impossible—finding a like-minded friend of my own age—might not be beyond me.
5.
The portrait took many weeks to complete. Not because Cassandra was especially slow in executing it—she could dash off a lightning sketch when required—but portrait painting in Cassandra’s view was much more than putting paint in the right place to create a likeness. (“The artist must strive to capture the subject’s essence.”)
She finally decided to paint me at the pianoforte—not posing but playing. (“I must catch you on the wing.”) And as there was no instrument at her aunt’s house, she came to Longbourn to sketch me while I practiced. She came almost every morning for several weeks, making dozens of drawings, all the while adjuring me not to mind her, but to concentrate on my music. “You are such a changeable little person and just when I think I have you down pat, I find you have escaped me.” Once, in a rare display of temper, she had torn up a sketch she had worked on the entire morning: “If I could but see what I am trying to see when I am drawing it!”
Christmas came and went meanwhile, with the Gardiners and their four children paying their usual visit. And on their return to Gracechurch Street, Jane and Elizabeth accompanied them—there to remain until the Easter holiday. I did not especially miss my elder sisters. Increasingly, they seemed to hold themselves aloof from me, and they were especially reticent about the young men of their acquaintance. From what my mother let drop, however, I gathered that Jane at least had formed an attachment during the time I was in Bath, although not of a serious nature. “But Jane liked poor Mr. Houston very well,” Mama insisted. “Until Lizzy put it into her head that he was stupid.”
Elizabeth herself remained a mystery to me. Certainly she gave her opinions as decidedly as ever and there were the usual sprightly exchanges between her and my father across the dinner table, but her essence, as Cassandra would have it, continued to elude me—and this despite our spending a great deal more time together, for we were now taking Italian lessons from the same master. We also shared a music master, one Mr. Turner, who for a short time also taught Kitty. (Kitty had had a brief flirtation with the harp but soon abandoned it, being incapable of pursuing any course independently of Lydia.)
As for Lydia, she was counting the days until the Glorious First of June—the day upon which she was to turn fifteen—with precious little thought for anything else. When Cassandra had first begun to paint my portrait, Lydia had expressed an interest in learning to draw, but before a master could be engaged the fit passed, and apart from practicing her dance steps, the only activity to which she regularly applied herself was taking her hats to pieces and trimming them afresh. But when the Glorious First finally dawned, Lydia declared herself disappointed: “I do not know how it is but whenever I have really looked forward to something, it is never as much fun as I imagined.” She unfurled a hand-painted fan, the gift of Cassandra, and scowled over it. “I had expected to feel entirely different this morning.”
Foolishly, I then quoted some lines of Dr. Johnson’s I had just transcribed into the Commonplace Book: “It seems to be the fate of man to seek all his consolations in futurity. The time present is seldom able to fill desire or imagination with immediate enjoyment, and we are forced to supply its deficiencies by recollection or anticipation.”
(I have here set down the passage in full although at the time Lydia did not let me finish, crying out when I was but halfway through: “Oh for God’s sake, I shall throw something at you if you do not leave off! I will not be preached at on my birthday.”)
I told Cassandra of the exchange when I called on her later that morning. “This Commonplace Book of yours,” said she as soon as I had done. “Does it contain any of your own thoughts or merely those of other people?”
“Oh! ’tis not the place for my own thoughts. ’Tis not a journal.” I felt my face grow hot. “I am more at home with music than words.”
She gave me one of her looks. “Have you ever considered putting your thoughts down as music?”
“You mean make up music?”
“Why not?”
“Oh I could never do that. ’Tis a man’s province, composing.”
“Nonsense. Start with a song—a simple ballad. See how you go on.”
Her gaze now moved back to the print she was tinting. I dared not call away her attention. I loved to watch her paint and I loved visiting her so-called painting room (in reality a screened-off section of her bedchamber) with its view of Meryton’s main street and the nearer prospect of the Philipses’ green front door and sash windows. This streetscape was a favorite subject. Cassandra had painted it numerous times and in all weathers and had even—but this was a great secret—sold several such paintings to a print-shop and received very good money for them.
The idea of composing a song, while it seemed an audacious step, soon took possession of my fancy, and I nerved myself to speak to our master Mr. Turner. To my surprise he encouraged me, saying that several females had written songs: “Of course they did not publish them under their own names.”
“Anne Boleyn is thought to have written a song,” said Elizabeth, who was fond of reading histories of her royal namesake, Anne Boleyn’s daughter.
Mr. Turner then remarked that although females were not capable of composing great music as they lacked the necessary mathematical intellect, he did not doubt my ability to produce an acceptable little air. He promised to give me special tuition in harmony and counterpoint, and asked me to consider taking extra singing lessons: “For you will hardly set about the business without first schooling your own voice.”
But alas, I ignored his advice. Why bother with solfège exercises when I could be composing? It was only when I came to sing a ballad of my own composition that I realized my mistake. I sang it at the ball given by the new tenant of Netherfield, Mr. Charles Bingley, and my voice then proved much too weak for public display. I shall never forget the humiliation to which my father afterwards subjected me—though the memory, mercifully, no longer pains me. It is now admixed with happier recollections.
But I have yet to describe how it was that Mr. Bingley came into Hertfordshire. I happened to witness his very first visit to Meryton when he came in a chaise and four one fine September morning to call on Mr. Morris the attorney.
6.
On the morning in question, Cassandra and I were in her painting room. She had set up her easel by the window and was painting her favorite street scene while I was reading, on her recommendation, A Vindication of the Rights of Woman and extracting passages for the Commonplace Book. One such passage I now read aloud:
Children very early see cats with their kittens, birds with their young ones, etc. Why then are they not to be told that their mothers carry and nourish them in the same way? As there would then be no appearance of mystery, they would never think of the subject more.
Cassandra sighed and said: “Alas, my poor mother would never answer Helen’s and my questions about such matters.”
I then related the episode of the bloodstained sheets, adding: “Lydia is shockingly curious about such things. As a chi
ld, she was forever asking about the farm animals. And now all she ever talks about is flirting and making love. She has done no work whatsoever this past year. It is very bad.”
Cassandra was looking at me. “Mary, if you are really concerned about Lydia, you should speak to your father.”
“Oh! I could never speak to Papa.”
“Nonsense. Tell him that you fear Lydia’s education is being neglected. If he shares your concern, he is bound to act.”
“The only person Papa would ever listen to is Elizabeth. And do not tell me I should speak to her, Cassy, because I certainly shall not.”
Cassandra laughed but a moment later gave an exclamation of annoyance. A chaise had pulled up outside the Philipses’, obscuring her view. We both watched as the groom jumped down to open the door. It was an expensive-looking equipage and although there was no crest on the panel, the four horses drawing it were obviously bloodstock. The man who alighted looked equally glossy and well-bred. He was of medium height and wore a blue coat and buff pantaloons but his high-crowned beaver hat obscured our view of his face.
As soon as it became certain that the chaise would not be moving off, Cassandra took up her sketchbook and started to draw the horses. Meanwhile, one of Mr. Morris’s clerks hurried over to meet the gentleman, and with a great deal of bowing and scraping escorted him back across the road.
I watched them enter the house from which Mr. Morris conducted his business and although I knew Cassandra would not approve the sentiment, I could not help remarking: “I wonder that such a fine young man should be calling on Mr. Morris.”
“I daresay he has come to look at Netherfield Park. Mr. Morris is the owner’s agent, is he not?”
“Yes, of course!” (Netherfield still had a hold on my imagination; the mere mention of it excited me.) “What a grand thing for the neighborhood if he should take it. It has been empty for far too long.”
Cassandra made no answer, intent on her drawing, and I again took up my book. A few minutes later Helen burst in.
“La, my dears! Have you seen the carriage? The drollest thing—there is a man inside, fast asleep.”
And upon my getting up to look out the window: “Oh! but you cannot see him from up here! You must needs come down to see it—the man I mean—he is lying there with his mouth open. I thought he was dead but then Mr. Jones’s shop-boy tapped on the glass and he stirred—” (giggling) “Come quick or he will wake.”
Cassandra and I followed Helen downstairs—Cassandra still holding her sketchbook—and I could see through the open door, which gave directly onto the street, that a crowd was gathering. Most people were admiring the horses or talking to the groom and the coachman but a few were looking through the carriage windows at the unconscious occupant. He lay sprawled on the seat with his mouth agape—a big man, aged about thirty, fashionably dressed except that his coat was rucked up over his unbuttoned waistcoat.
Cassandra at first gave him only a cursory look, but then she looked again and—seeing a subject worthy of her art—immediately went to work sketching him.
Within minutes a recognizable portrait grew up under her hand. People were watching the progress of the sketch and complimenting Cassandra on her skill when the gentleman in the blue coat returned, accompanied by Mr. Morris. He at once exclaimed at the size of the crowd, crying out (but in the most good-humored way): “Why, what’s amiss? What are you all looking at, pray?”
The crowd at once dispersed, but Cassandra did not think to conceal her sketch and in an instant the gentleman was at her side, requesting to be shown it, holding out his hand—elegantly gloved in York tan—in a manner that would not be gainsaid. (I was surprised nevertheless to see Cassandra comply so readily.)
“Oh! this is famous,” said the gentleman, laughing. “An excellent likeness. You are to be congratulated.”
Helen piped up then: “My sister is a very accomplished artist, sir.”
“Oh Helen, hush.” Cassandra’s face was quite pink. “I did it for my own amusement, sir. I meant no disrespect, I assure you.”
“I should very much like to have this if I may. And when my brother-in-law wakes I shall make him a present of it.” (smiling at Cassandra) “So you must name your price, ma’am, if you please.”
“My price?”
Cassandra’s face was now bright red and the gentleman, seeing it, said gravely: “It is my turn to assure you that I meant no disrespect. But I cannot ask you to give it to me, you know.” (taking out his card-case) “I find I must trouble you for a pencil.” And upon Cassandra supplying him with her own, he wrote upon the back of the card, saying: “Here is my note of hand, and Mr. Morris will act for me. There.”
He bestowed the card on Cassandra, who in turn wordlessly presented him with the sketch. A bow, a touch of his hat, and he was climbing into the chaise once more, followed by Mr. Morris. And before the door was shut upon them I heard him say, “Hurst! Wake up, man, I have something to show you.”
The chaise then took off with a great lurch, whereupon Helen linked arms with Cassandra and me, saying: “I’ll wager that woke him.” And when Cassandra failed to respond (being lost in contemplation of the gentleman’s card): “Did you ever see anyone so à la mode, Mary? The other gentleman, I mean. Did you see his coat? Made by a London tailor if I’m any judge. But what business could he have with old Morris?” She turned back to Cassandra.” Are you going to show us his card then? Or do you mean to keep it all to yourself?”
Cassandra’s response was to detach herself from Helen and head back to the house. Helen caught up with her in Mrs. Long’s front parlor. “What on earth is the matter with you?”
“I cannot bear to be patronized, that is all.”
I said: “He didn’t patronize you, Cassy.”
“He has given me a note of hand for two guineas. I cannot—the situation is intolerable.”
“Two guineas!” Helen was incredulous. “For that paltry little sketch?”
“It was a very fine sketch,” I objected. “And an excellent likeness.”
Cassandra handed Helen the card. “See for yourself.”
There was no mistaking the two guineas. He had written it in words, not figures, and all as clear as could be. Helen turned over the card to read the name engraved thereon, Mr. Charles Bingley, before returning it to Cassandra. “Well, I daresay he is as rich as Dives, so what does it matter?”
“It matters to me. I intend to take it up with Mr. Morris. And in the meantime I must ask you both not to mention it.”
“Of course we will not.”
“Oh, certainly.”
But as soon as Cassandra left the room, Helen laughed and said: “Poor Cass. She is so sensitive about money matters. But entre nous, I suspect that there may be rather more to it.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”
“La! Do I have to spell it out for you? She has obviously taken a fancy to this Bingley fellow and wants an excuse to recommend herself.”
At the time, I thought—and said—that Cassandra was the last girl in the world to adopt such tactics. But later I was forced to acknowledge that she had indeed conceived a tendre for Mr. Bingley and that her refusal to accept his two guineas might not have been entirely disinterested. The gesture certainly brought her to Bingley’s notice. Within a fortnight of his settling at Netherfield, he had commissioned her to paint a portrait of his sisters.
7.
The news that Netherfield had at last been let spread fast. Mrs. Long carried it to my mother (whose raptures need no repetition here) and within days of his visit, Bingley’s name was on everyone’s lips. My elder sisters partook of the general excitement. They began at once to refurbish their wardrobes, trimming their hats and so on.
I was astounded at the fuss and said as much to Cassandra: “All that my sisters know of Mr. Bingley is that he is rich—rich enough at least to rent Netherfield—and on the strength of that they are preparing to set their caps at him! It is not as if they have he
ard he is exceptionally clever or virtuous—or even good-looking, for you may be sure that I have not breathed a word about our seeing him. Who would have thought they could be so mercenary?”
Cassandra made no answer—we were in Mrs. Long’s kitchen, where she was busy kneading dough. (Both Helen and Cassandra had to help with the cooking, as there was but one servant—a maid of all work—and Mrs. Long had been called away to nurse her bedridden brother.)
“They are exactly like the girls Miss Wollstonecraft writes of in her Vindication,” I went on. “Marriage is the grand feature of their lives, although they would never admit it.”
“You can hardly blame them for seeking to marry well, Mary. Indeed, with your father’s estate entailed away from his daughters, it would be imprudent for them to do otherwise.”
This was unanswerable, and after a pause I said: “But I have not told you what happened yesterday evening. Papa—after vowing and declaring that he would not call on Mr. Bingley—announced that he had actually visited him that morning.”
Cassandra stopped kneading. “Did he indeed?”
“Mama and my sisters could scarcely contain themselves. All they could talk about for the rest of the evening was when Mr. Bingley was likely to return the visit. Indeed, Mama was so sure he would call this morning that I made up my mind to come to you early—so that I might avoid him.”
I watched as Cassandra covered the dough with a cloth. The subject of Mr. Bingley was not allowed to rest, however. “What did your father think of him, pray? Did he find him agreeable?”
“Oh, there is no telling what Papa thinks. Everyone was questioning him—everyone except me, that is—but he would say nothing to the purpose. My father loves to tease.”
The Forgotten Sister: Mary Bennet's Pride and Prejudice Page 9
