"We Neither of Us Perform to Strangers"

            A regency girl cannot be described as truly accomplished unless she plays the piano forte, right? Well, that’s what I told myself when I registered for a unit of beginning piano at school this semester.

            Don’t get me wrong because I love music. I’ve played the violin for upwards of twelve or thirteen years now. And messing around with random instruments has always been one of my favorite things to do.

            But music in front of people? That’s another story. Not only my fingertips but my entire body used to vibrato when scratching out a violin concerto at a recital or sawing away at Christmas carols for a group of friends. Mom still refers to me as the “closet violinist” because I simply don’t play in front of people. They might hear me.

“Just look at the lights,” a best friend’s mom encouraged me before a second grade choir performance. Lights or no lights to focus on, my knees tremble, my hands quake, and my voice jars as though I’m withstanding an earthquake.

             So this fall, when my piano professor informed me that part of the course included performing in two recitals, I first felt a wave of anxiety course through my veins. But then I thought of Elizabeth Bennet when she plays for Colonel Fitzwilliam and Mr. Darcy at Rosings.  

            When Darcy excuses himself as a poor conversationalist, Elizabeth expertly retorts, “‘My fingers […] do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women’s do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I would not take the trouble of practicing. It is not that I do not believe my fingers as capable as any other woman’s of superior execution.’

            “‘Darcy smiled and said, ‘You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers.’”

            On top of the incredibly gracious manner in which Darcy bends to this criticism, which might just possibly make me want to stand and cheer, this scene also provides a beautiful description of balance. Elizabeth’s knees don’t have to rattle as she sits at the piano because she realizes that her comparatively meager musical ability isn’t going to be a defining mark of her character. The woman was apparently too busy walking about the country, visiting with friends or “improving her mind with extensive reading” to spend a great amount of time practicing piano. But Darcy doesn’t knock her for any deficiency. Rather than placing hope in doing everything, and doing everything like superwoman, Elizabeth realizes limitations and doesn’t fret about the impossibility of perfection.

            So as I walked up the stage steps for my first piano recital last Tuesday, I thought like Elizabeth. Everyone here listening knows I’m not attempting to become a concert pianist. My hands still shook a bit, but I made it through the song, and the audience even clapped at the end. I continue to internalize the fact that a balanced life leaves little room for perfection, and that’s okay.

However, this doesn’t mean I won’t practice. In fact, I’m working on the next recital piece right now. In case you hadn’t guessed already, it’s the theme from the 2005 Pride and Prejudice soundtrack.