{ psl: the storm }

[moralized]

[ The countryside around Meryton can be a delightful sight to take in on a mild day where white clouds glide slowly across the sky to far off places. This, however, is not one of those days. It had started out overcast and gray, and ordinarily Mary Bennet would have lit a candle in her room and read the day away, but today such an arrangement is not meant to be. Today her mother has been yelling all morning and has been in the most foul of moods that Mary cannot recall having ever witnessed its equal.

Today is the servants' floor washing day and that has sent Mrs. Bennet off on a tirade about that man and how he has ruined her floors with his blatant unconcern and cavalier attitude. Mr. Bennet escaped the breakfast room soon after realizing that his teasing was merely adding to the powder keg that was his wife's mood and Mary quietly excused herself to her studies. Studies which she simply could not focus on due to the yelling. And so she had done something that had truly been a last resort. She had put on her walking boots, spencer, bonnet, and picked up her reticule. With the housemaids so busy, she had decided to walk to Meryton alone to pick up the daily post. Perhaps when she returned the yelling would have stopped.

Naturally her plans were thwarted by her Aunt Phillips spotting her through her parlor window and uncouthly shouting down for Mary to come visit. Mary had been obliged to go, hearing the latest gossip about that mysterious Mr. Cartwright, of course, and after fifteen minutes Mary made her excuses and left. By now the sky was turning very dark indeed, but she decided to risk a little rain rather than spend more time in her Aunt's company.

And that is how Mary has come to find herself completely soaked as the heavens have opened up over her head as she travels the lane back home. She's miserable, with mud splattered across her dress and petticoat's hem, and the rain is coming down in sheets that are blinding. The only reason she is not completely lost is due to the ditch beside the lane keeping her on course. She's adopted somewhat of a jog in hopes of reaching home faster and that's lead to blisters forming from her not oft worn boots. Such a storm must not have been seen in England in an age. And suddenly the ditch veers and she follows it in confusion until a gate appears before her. Exhausted, she leans against it to catch her breath, trying to see what lies beyond. Whose house lies there? Surely she has not reached the village of Longbourn yet? Sneezing twice in a row, Mary places a hand to her nose and then her forehead. She's overheated from the exertion of jogging and is starting to feel a little faint. ]

Comments

[moralized]

[ Her heart leaps at being recognized as musically inclined. The sentiment is of course shared by everyone in town, but here is a new person also saying the same. In Mary's mind, "musically inclined" means the same as "musically skilled" so she feels it as if it was a great compliment. And as he begins, she listens with the quiet judgment she gives all young women whom she considers competition for accomplishments. It's in her nature to do so, because she has never learnt to appreciate music for the feelings it creates. Being self taught, Mary has always focused on playing well, but that has resulted in her playing without passion or freedom of expression. She focuses only on the skill involved with playing difficult pieces; playing Scottish reels affords her no pleasure as no one is acknowledging her talent while they dance merrily. She never deviates from the instructions on how a piece should be played and trains herself relentlessly on playing every note correctly. And therefore she soon becomes aware that Mr. Cartwright is not doing that at all.

His eyes close and he seems to be experiencing what he plays in a way Mary never has. The way his body moves suggests a lightness of mood, but the expression on his face seems to war with that notion. There is a calmness there; a satisfaction at what he's doing that Mary only obtains once the last note rings out from the pianoforte and there is polite applause. The whole time she's playing her body is rigid — as tight as his bowstring — while she tells herself to play perfectly without a single mistake. She must be better than all the other ladies in order to be noticed, because this is all she has. This is the only time she's mentioned in conversation or even remembered to exist. This is the only reason people speak to her at dinners and parties: to ask her to play.

Suddenly all the judgment and critique she was prepared to silently have in her head melts away and her shoulders sag. He enjoys the music so much more than she does. It always seems like a challenge to overcome to reap the rewards, but this? This is someone playing music because they enjoy it. It strikes her so suddenly that she feels overwhelmed, but she's trapped here in this chair and cannot simply rush away without notice. Despite her best efforts, tears come to her eyes and she quickly closes them, willing herself to regain her composure before this movement ends. She trembles slightly and clutches her hands together in her lap while the beautiful music washes over her and she allows herself to just listen and appreciate it for once.

When he finishes and speaks, she knows she must open her eyes. She does so, hoping the dim evening light masks the redness of her eyes or the wetness of her lashes. She forces a weak smile and nods her head in acknowledgment. ]

I should like to hear it then.

[ Her voice betrays her, heavy with her tears and she half turns in her seat, embarrassed at her emotions. ]

[enswathe]

( to live without passion's gale is to accomplish nothing of note in the world as passion is the spring that enriches the soul. consistent cultivation of it and its accretion will sow seedlings in others. accomplishing that should be a soul's greatest aspiration. merely inspiring another to feel is experience enough in this puritan society, which values propriety over emotion. the overwhelming attitude of their world shackled him for most of his life, eroding his individuality and passions. his few escapes were the brief moments he was allowed to read in solitude or play his violin. however, the caveat with the former is that he was not to read too much and with the latter is that it had to be in the company and enjoyment of others. simply playing for oneself to become and let one's soul grow was disapproved of and rejected.

becoming and being — a concept atticus could only discover in despair and loss. it is just to spend each day becoming and fostering passion for the health and growth of one's soul. though he may be poor in wealth, he is rich in spirit, which neither moth nor rust doth corrupt. for now, in the presence of others, atticus does not play for them nor indeed even think of them — only of thoughts replete with gratification that his passion and efforts will be rewarded in glorious providence. of his accomplishments, his satisfactions, his joys, and of the sentiment of his late mother's pride in his skills and performance, atticus plays with his entire being. it's his belief that a display of passion such as this will sow seedlings in others. )

Quickly, Miss Bennet. ( his eyes narrows, attempting to discern her expression, obscured by her half-turned position in the dim light, by the softness of her voice. ) For you must be tired, I think.

( a trek in cold rain can drain the strength from anyone, whether they be a veteran mariner or a demoiselle, so atticus mustn't keep her up any longer. as the second movement is mostly a harpsichord piece and quite restrained in dynamic and notes, he will move on to the last movement, which is a more cheerful piece that should send miss bennet to bed in good spirits. thus, he plays that, lifting the violin, playing with the same feeling and skill, and again becoming. )

[moralized]

[ The lack of conversation is appreciated as it gives her time to compose herself as he focuses on the music. Before long she has put a stopper on her emotions and sealed away her tears. Now she can listen once more without incident, because she expressly forbids herself from comparing his style of playing to herself this time. She listens, she enjoys, but she refuses to lament. It is something that will surely keep her up tonight, but it shall not be visited in front of him.

The music is a lively piece, made all the more so by his movements. Once he finishes, she claps politely and smiles ever so faintly since it's not a common expression her face makes. ]

Very beautiful. You take much enjoyment out of the instrument.

[ More than she ever does. No; she must not think on it. ]

Have you played long?

[enswathe]

( as he returns the violin to its case, his shoulders regress to their customary hunched position and the genteel air about him furls. within the span of a moment, the unfamiliar stranger vanishes and familiar sight of mr. cartwright, the perhaps untrustworthy but certainly interesting enigma, is restored. )

Long enough to learn a few pieces. ( the response is deliberately vague. as are most of the answers to prying questions regarding his past.
this is no willful cruelty or deception towards his acquaintanceships and certainly no scheme, but rather an abundance of caution. possibly an overabundance of caution at times when it's illogical and unnecessary.

but there's comfort in anonymity. before, he had to operate and live in the narrow confines his father, his family, and society had entrenched him. now, stripped of his titles, wealth, and connections, his person is bare. without anyone's preconceptions, atticus can enter a room and let only his character define others' opinions of him. and the knowledge of whom is his neighbour and whom is merely a sycophant amuses him. on his part, his altruism and courtesy will never at a price. after all, he always was and is the same as everyone else. but neither statements are the creed of all, especially those in meryton. he is still unsure which category miss bennet falls under — either a neighbour or a sycophant — but he will be her neighbour until distance, malice, or fulsomeness arises. )

As soon as I could hold up a violin, I played ( , he admits. )

[moralized]

[ She allows herself a moment to reflect on that before deciding that's all she wishes to know for now. He has a way of slipping past anything too deep about himself, but this is at least a hint. ]

As did I. My home has always had a pianoforte, but I was the only one who took an interest and pursued it with vigor.

[ But not with passion. It sinks into her again and she looks away around his room. It's so stuffed full. Surely one can get a sense of who the man is from how he lives alone and keeps his things. He could do with being a little neater but she will never discredit someone with such a collection of books. ]

I suppose I should retire.

[ It's not that she wants the morning to come with what that will mean for her, but she has never excelled at holding successful conversations. ]

[enswathe]

A smart idea, Miss Bennet. ( atticus goes to the kitchen, plucks a rushlight out from a box next to the stove, then returns to the sitting room to light the rush at the fire. it takes little effort for the fat soaked rush to light and he is careful not to let it touch miss bennet's still damp clothing. from the speed of the flame licking the drippings, she shall have roughly fifteen minutes of light before being plunged into the darkness of his chamber. the sky is still choked with rainclouds, preventing any moon or starlight from providing relief.

however, he hopes that any turmoil on her mind should be eased by the cosiness of the horsehair mattress, the warmth of the wool blanket, and the perfume of the dried lily of the valley flowers hanging above her head. he hopes the gentle rain tapping on the window lulls her into a restful sleep. tomorrow will be filled with vexation and obstacles, which she may have to face it alone as further interference from him may yield further complications. but that is for tomorrow.

he holds the rushlight out to her to take. ) Before I depart for Longbourn, I shall let you know so you have adequate time to dress and prepare yourself. If you don't mind the company, I will leave Dustros behind. ( he smiles and hopes the gesture will additionally put her at ease. ) He is not inclined to rise before midmorning anyways.

[moralized]

[ Rising to her feet, Mary takes the rushlight and nods silently. These things might be faced and she will do her best to stay rational and calm. For some reason she doesn't want Mr. Cartwright to see her crumble under her mother's ire. ]

That would suit me well, sir. Good night.

[ With that she retires to his bedroom for the night, feeling most uncomfortable at having kicked a man from his own bed. After setting the rushlight in a holder, she quickly works on unpinning her hair and braiding it to one side, though she has no ribbon to secure it. Letting it go, it unravels a bit as she sets herself on the bed, looking around the space that seems so much smaller in the low light. How strange that he should use this for light as opposed to a candle. Even one of tallow would make more sense than what the poor farm tenants use. He is such an enigma in that way. Here he has a home full of books which must have cost a fortune, not to mention a violin which also has a great cost. Yet he uses a rushlight, he keeps no servants, no one knows from where exactly he hails. A little shiver passes over her and she slips under the blanket.

He is wholly a mystery and she has never found herself so curious to dig down and see what she might discover. These thoughts preoccupy her mind until she falls asleep. ]

[enswathe]

( atticus bows at miss bennet's retreating figure into his chamber. while she sleeps in a bed, he will sleep on the couch. a sacrifice he does not take delight of, but one that is kind and necessary. the couch could provide no relief to her. nay, it will provide no relief to him either. however, he has experience and talent in finding sleep in places which only offer discomfort.

the news that an unattended woman spent a night at his home will spark outrage, such of the palpable kind which will only be heightened by the fact that she slept in his bed. however, if she had slept on the couch while he slept in his bed, the outrage would remain the same. indeed, none of the circumstances of this situation will attenuate the disgrace they will suffer from the town.

the stew is forgotten. instead, he sits by the fire and smokes a cigar for roughly an hour. what he thinks and mulls over is not worth recalling but, suffice to say, his thoughts are mostly occupied by the memory of a garden in florence, heavy with perfume and spice, and gazing upon the full moon. at this point, dustros is deep in slumber.

afterwards, atticus snuffs out what little remains of his cigar and goes into his writing room, which is next to his chamber. even without miss bennet's presence so nearby, ordinarily he is silent, bar the scratching of his quill pen against parchment. conversation, discourse, and debate occur silently within him. there is no need to articulate what he feels in his soul.

he writes about moonlight. )