Pride and/or Prejudice
When considering negatives to positives, Elizabeth Bennet will be the first to admit a public ball has far more adjectives weighing down the 'negative' column than the positive ('sweaty,' 'awkward,' 'claustrophobic' being just a sampling). Yet, she places more value in the single word in the positive column, as she thinks it's the most essential when it comes to balls, public or otherwise. Meryton public balls, dear reader, are enthusiastic. Lizzie will forgive a lot for enthusiasm.
She'll forgive her toes being pranced upon, her elbow conking another lady's side, her own side being conked, and even being bodily twirled into a pillar as long as her partner wears a smile, dances with gusto, and at least says 'sorry' after. Or, so Lizzie relates to her dear friend, Charlotte Lucas, when she collapses into the free chair at her side.
To exactly no one's surprise, Lizzie and Charlotte have found their evening to be equal amounts dancing and gossiping, which is a very agreeable balance, indeed. This gives the girls a chance to flirt and flit (though Lizze would qualify her flirting and flitting as more dignified than the buffoonery her younger sisters engage in) and thoroughly recount every interaction to each other. "Mr. Ellis is in fine form," Charlotte replies to the great sigh Lizzie lets out. "I do believe he's attempting to dance with every single female in the county."
"Does he plan to do it all in one ball?" Lizzie replies, craning her neck to follow where Charlotte points out her previous dance partner, the aforementioned Mr. Ellis. If she's feeling generous, Lizzie would say that he's somewhat unfortunate appearing. If she's not feeling generous, she'd admit to his toadlike appearance. Currently, he's filling his epitomes toadiness by hopping quite fleetly around his dance partner. Lizzie presses a hand to her mouth to keep from laughing.
Charlotte, meanwhile, pulls on a solemn expression. "I believe he's performing the mating dance now-I've read about it in encyclopedias about exotic toads."
Lizzie laughs, delighted, into the basin of her balm, elbowing her dear friend and declaring her 'very bad, indeed' though she's thoroughly delighted by the 'badness.' Charlotte returns to her surveying of the dance, grin wide. They comment on the number of dance partners Jane has had-she hasn't sat down once-speculate on which number of sherry glass Mrs. Bennet is drinking based on the redness in her cheeks, and which topic Charlotte's father, Mr. Lucas, could possibly be subjecting poor Mr. Danvers to (there are only two options: the excellence of beaver furs from the New World, and the excellence of squirrel furs from the New World). Then, a door bangs open, the music squeals off, and the girls' fun is abruptly interrupted.
Standing from the little alcove they tucked themselves away in, Lizzie and Charlotte stand and crane to glimpse the disturbance. It's obvious at once.
There, standing in the rectangular, black mouth of the dancing hall's open doorjamb, stands a refined quintet. The man at the center, a fellow with a blond mane that reminds Lizzie of a young male lion cub she once saw-all awkward, earnest, and aspiring towards a yet-unknown greatness-stands at the center, two young women of equal coloring flanking his elbows. Compared to their cub-like broke, the sisters are lionesses. Then, to complete the fan of newcomers: a heavier, older man and a swarthy younger gentleman of heavy countenance.
He looks close to crying. Or sneering. Lizzie cannot yet tell.
Though she could reasonably guess, Lizzie leans close to Charlotte and whispers: "Who do you suppose these fashionably-late Town-dwellers might be?"
"Well, the delegation out of Netherfield, of course," Charlotte replies, knowing her cue. "Father went and introduced himself before the dust from Mr. Bingley's carriage even settled." Lizzie wonders if the Bingleys were treated to a diatribe about beavers or squirrels. Perhaps both, considering the importance of their personage. Charlotte continues:
"That's Mr. Charles Bingley in the center, the blond and glorious one, with his sisters, Mrs. Louisa Hurst and Miss Caroline Bingley. The heavier man is Mr. Hurst."
"And the dour-faced one?" Lizzie prompts, mindful to keep her voice low as the Bingley delegation migrates-stately and gliding-into the cleared path the stupefied dances allow them. If any of the quintet feel chagrin at so thoroughly disrupting the proceedings, none of them show it.
"A Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. Apparently, he owns half of Devonshire," Charlotte whispers. The girls' eyes track how Mr. Darcy carefully sidesteps Mr. Ellis, mindful to not even brush the fabric of his overcoat and casts his eyes away for meeting any of the preening females' gazes.
"The miserable half?" returns Lizzie, smirk bordering on wicked.
Charlotte barely contains a snort of amusement, and Lizzie fights nobly to squelch her giggle.
It's then she feels an urgent tug on the sleeve of her dress. She turns to find her mother, red-faced and glassy-eyed, staring up at her. "Lizzie!" she whisper-shouts. It's a fortunate thing the musicians choose that precise moment to begin playing again, otherwise the entire dance hall would have herd the following: "Lizzie! We must go snag an introduction for our Jane to that Bingley before those sniveling Burtons do! Come along, Lizzie! Come along!"
Lizzie stares down at her mother, knowing she has two options:
She'll forgive her toes being pranced upon, her elbow conking another lady's side, her own side being conked, and even being bodily twirled into a pillar as long as her partner wears a smile, dances with gusto, and at least says 'sorry' after. Or, so Lizzie relates to her dear friend, Charlotte Lucas, when she collapses into the free chair at her side.
To exactly no one's surprise, Lizzie and Charlotte have found their evening to be equal amounts dancing and gossiping, which is a very agreeable balance, indeed. This gives the girls a chance to flirt and flit (though Lizze would qualify her flirting and flitting as more dignified than the buffoonery her younger sisters engage in) and thoroughly recount every interaction to each other. "Mr. Ellis is in fine form," Charlotte replies to the great sigh Lizzie lets out. "I do believe he's attempting to dance with every single female in the county."
"Does he plan to do it all in one ball?" Lizzie replies, craning her neck to follow where Charlotte points out her previous dance partner, the aforementioned Mr. Ellis. If she's feeling generous, Lizzie would say that he's somewhat unfortunate appearing. If she's not feeling generous, she'd admit to his toadlike appearance. Currently, he's filling his epitomes toadiness by hopping quite fleetly around his dance partner. Lizzie presses a hand to her mouth to keep from laughing.
Charlotte, meanwhile, pulls on a solemn expression. "I believe he's performing the mating dance now-I've read about it in encyclopedias about exotic toads."
Lizzie laughs, delighted, into the basin of her balm, elbowing her dear friend and declaring her 'very bad, indeed' though she's thoroughly delighted by the 'badness.' Charlotte returns to her surveying of the dance, grin wide. They comment on the number of dance partners Jane has had-she hasn't sat down once-speculate on which number of sherry glass Mrs. Bennet is drinking based on the redness in her cheeks, and which topic Charlotte's father, Mr. Lucas, could possibly be subjecting poor Mr. Danvers to (there are only two options: the excellence of beaver furs from the New World, and the excellence of squirrel furs from the New World). Then, a door bangs open, the music squeals off, and the girls' fun is abruptly interrupted.
Standing from the little alcove they tucked themselves away in, Lizzie and Charlotte stand and crane to glimpse the disturbance. It's obvious at once.
There, standing in the rectangular, black mouth of the dancing hall's open doorjamb, stands a refined quintet. The man at the center, a fellow with a blond mane that reminds Lizzie of a young male lion cub she once saw-all awkward, earnest, and aspiring towards a yet-unknown greatness-stands at the center, two young women of equal coloring flanking his elbows. Compared to their cub-like broke, the sisters are lionesses. Then, to complete the fan of newcomers: a heavier, older man and a swarthy younger gentleman of heavy countenance.
He looks close to crying. Or sneering. Lizzie cannot yet tell.
Though she could reasonably guess, Lizzie leans close to Charlotte and whispers: "Who do you suppose these fashionably-late Town-dwellers might be?"
"Well, the delegation out of Netherfield, of course," Charlotte replies, knowing her cue. "Father went and introduced himself before the dust from Mr. Bingley's carriage even settled." Lizzie wonders if the Bingleys were treated to a diatribe about beavers or squirrels. Perhaps both, considering the importance of their personage. Charlotte continues:
"That's Mr. Charles Bingley in the center, the blond and glorious one, with his sisters, Mrs. Louisa Hurst and Miss Caroline Bingley. The heavier man is Mr. Hurst."
"And the dour-faced one?" Lizzie prompts, mindful to keep her voice low as the Bingley delegation migrates-stately and gliding-into the cleared path the stupefied dances allow them. If any of the quintet feel chagrin at so thoroughly disrupting the proceedings, none of them show it.
"A Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy. Apparently, he owns half of Devonshire," Charlotte whispers. The girls' eyes track how Mr. Darcy carefully sidesteps Mr. Ellis, mindful to not even brush the fabric of his overcoat and casts his eyes away for meeting any of the preening females' gazes.
"The miserable half?" returns Lizzie, smirk bordering on wicked.
Charlotte barely contains a snort of amusement, and Lizzie fights nobly to squelch her giggle.
It's then she feels an urgent tug on the sleeve of her dress. She turns to find her mother, red-faced and glassy-eyed, staring up at her. "Lizzie!" she whisper-shouts. It's a fortunate thing the musicians choose that precise moment to begin playing again, otherwise the entire dance hall would have herd the following: "Lizzie! We must go snag an introduction for our Jane to that Bingley before those sniveling Burtons do! Come along, Lizzie! Come along!"
Lizzie stares down at her mother, knowing she has two options: