Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say

by Jane Juska

  June, from Longbourn

  My dear Jane,

  What a fine sister you are! Too late I have come across the little book you handed me when I was but fourteen. As I did all good sense, I set it aside when you offered it to me and now, of course, it is too late. Allow me to point out those Hints, as they are titled in this little book, so that should you have daughters, they will be made aware of pitfalls and so avoid the errors of my recent past. I know that you yourself must have made use of it, as your Mr. Phillips is a living example of the ideal man revealed in those chapters, which guide us, as they say, on our Journey to the Land of Hymen. I need not tell you that guidance of this sort ought be made available to all young women as they are made aware of their future role as wives and mothers. I have copied out some of it for you:

  1) If the man have thick, red lips, he will be simple, good-natured, and easily managed.

  2) If he speak quick but distinct, and walk firm and erect, he will be ambitious, active, and probably a good husband.

  That, my dear sister, describes my colonel, not my husband. The following is more characteristic of Mr. Bennet:

  3) If he speak and look with his mouth extended, it is a certain mark of stupidity.

  4) If he be beetle-browed, it shows duplicity and fickleness.

  Now, I know you are saying that Mr. Bennet is not as repulsive as all that and reluctantly I would have to agree: He is not stupid even though his lips are thin and lacking in colour, with occasional spittle in the corners. He as yet reveals no fickleness; indeed, he is more faithful more frequently than I would have it. I do not yet know about his duplicity, although his calls for repeated lovemaking, as he would call it, would suggest a certain dishonesty. But then, I suppose one could call me duplicitous as well, for I married as a virgin, withholding from him the secret only you and I share. Still, had I been apprised of such honest words as these Hints offer, I might not have agreed so readily to marry the man who is the source of my constant sorrow.

  My dear sister, I am with child. But then we knew that, didn’t we.

  Yr sister,

  Marianne

  Dear Jane,

  Thank you for your good wishes and your sound advice. I hope Mr. Phillips has got over his cold. Mr. Bennet remains in perfect health. My sniffles have come from within for I have spent many secret hours in tears, though none of them in Mr. Bennet’s presence. He is not a cruel man, but he is without that which would allow him to apprehend my sadness. I hesitate to say something so harsh about the man who is my husband, but he is without feeling, at least when it comes to me. His sympathies are great for his horses, especially the foals, and for the old dog who follows him everywhere. I cannot recall a single time when he has looked directly into my eyes; his own dart about every which way and light only on my belly where my child grows with each passing day. Often I wonder if he is simply shy in my presence, but I cannot know, for there is no conversation between us. And no smiles. In the evening, after supper, he repairs to his library. I sit by the fire sewing tiny clothes for the baby until the fading of the light. He lights our way upstairs with nary a word or even a nod. Could it be that he regrets his insatiability? That I remind him of his coarser nature? Well, there is no sense in pursuing answers. It is time to dry my tears.

  I will send to the village for the name of a midwife to assist me when my time is nigh. I have decided to keep my expectations from Mr. Bennet for the time being; he could very well question the speediness with which I have become pregnant; after all, it has been not even one month since our marriage. Of course, he would put it up to his potency, and yet one can never be sure of this man. When he is not turning from me, his face dark with concentration on one of his books, he is mercurial: laughing, flailing his extremities, galumphing across the bed (and me), his eyes aglow with lust, a terrifying sight. Even during daylight hours I cannot so much as cross from one side of the room to the other without his grabbing at my petticoat and shoving his hands, which for a man who does no manual labour whatsoever are surprisingly coarse and rough, beneath my chemise. And he seems not to care if his behaviour is witnessed by others! Only the other day, whilst I was consulting with Cook in the pantry, in he stormed and all but tossed me onto the counter, where he lifted up my petticoat and began to rummage. The shame of it seems always to be mine, never his. Also the cleaning up after. Cook refuses to come near.

  When he is not asserting his dominion in the bedchamber or the parlour or even the kitchen, he sulks, is surly in manner, broods, and spends much time in his library—where, not surprisingly, I am not allowed to go. On the rare occasions that he takes a stroll about his property I do enter the library and have found there many books about the creatures that live nearby, a very fat book called The Sermons of John Donne, whose very title puts me off, but also some novels! O la! One such is Pamela by a Mr. Samuel Richardson. Although Mother taught us to read when we were but small, she forbade either of us to read that very book; but now that I am a married woman, she could have no objections. Mr. Bennet is fastidious about the arrangement of his books so I have been very careful to tuck the book beneath my skirt so that no servant can notice and then to return it to its proper place before Mr. Bennet returns. O Jane! It affords me such pleasure even for so short a time. Here is her story: Pamela, a young servant girl, is pursued by an older and titled man. Oh, Jane, she is only fifteen years of age—as am I—and she vows to lose her life before her virtue. I will her to succeed; however, I have read only to page 9 of the first folio and cannot imagine her maintaining her purity for another 400 pages! We shall have to see; in the meantime, she brings me great delight. I am her champion on every page. She is my friend.

  I must hush, here he comes.

  Yrs affectly,

  Marianne

  Reflections on Married Life

  Natura homo nundum et elgans animal est.

  “Man is by nature a clean and delicate creature.”

  —SENECA

  I was for a time a happy man. I found my wife much to my liking. Her nether regions were plump and promised the sons who would, I was certain, resemble myself in appearance and temperament; that is, they would have my broad forehead and strong jaw; they would have my love for the animals of the field and the birds of the air. They would grow into manhood appreciative of their rights as gentlemen and landholders of this most agreeable property which I have spent much time contemplating from the windows of my library. It would not be long now, given my unceasing efforts, until fruitfulness would show itself in the person of a son. I would perhaps have to cease and desist in the delights of matrimonial concupiscence, at least until nature had done its duty, but, and here I sighed, ’twas a small price to pay for so rewarding a return. After that, back to business. I smoothed my trouser flap at the thought.

  A Summer Evening at Longbourn

  Dear Jane,

  It is hands off for Mr. Bennet now that I have informed him of my condition. He was at once so happy and so proud I could not but help myself in smiling at this man who has done so much to make himself loathsome to me. He is like a boy in his delight and at the same time, for the first moment since our marriage, solicitous of me and my comfort. Nothing will do but that I sit instead of stand, that I leave off any thought of the kitchen or of the housekeeping; and under no circumstances am I to ride in the carriage. He has even hired an upstairs maid and a housekeeper who will take over the management of this house. I will admit coming to this marriage ill-equipped to direct the two servants who reside here, but now, with the addition of Mrs. Rummidge, who appears good-natured and capable, I can attend more closely to my burgeoning self.

  I find, dear Jane, that I am enjoying this pregnancy. It is a relief not to be pursued but attended to. It is pleasurable to have time to wander about this glorious countryside. Against Mr. Bennet’s advice—he fears I will stumble and fall so is happiest when I am still—I stroll along what I have come to
call the Wood Walk bordered by copsewood and timber, beneath its shelter primroses, anemones, and wild hyacinths. It is so lovely and untouched. The other day I found a bird’s nest upon the ground and quickly returned it to a low-lying branch of an alder. When I mentioned having done so to Mr. Bennet he scolded me that I had contaminated the nest. Then he warned that I must never be so careless of my own nest, and he made me sit down in the parlour all alone for what seemed like an hour “to contemplate the seriousness of your behaviour, my dear.” Pfah, it is my nest, not his. I will wander where I like until such time as my condition prevents my doing so. I am after all about to turn sixteen.

  Do you have news of Colonel Millar’s regiment?

  The Frustrations of Married Life

  Humani a se nihil alienum putet.

  “Let him not think himself exempt from that which is incidental to other men.”

  —TERENCE

  Bored with the interminable wait for the birth of my son, I contemplated taking on a few students. One or two might provide me with companionship and serve to enliven my mind, dulled by the banality of my wife’s pregnancy and by her constant good cheer. To my dismay, she has refused my advice on comportment during her gestation and will walk about the countryside at will, eat puddings doused with treacle, ingest great quantities of beef roast, and even wild blackberries picked during her peregrinations. She lumbers about the house clutching a wedge of Cheddar, and on one occasion I discovered her sipping from a glass of brandy taken from my very own cellar where I have forbidden her to go! She grows ever larger in the belly. The encroachment of her cheeks over the entirety of her face obscures what had been a twinkle in the eye and remains barely a glint. She speaks rarely to me although I detected a small smile over some amusement kept entirely to herself. She appears to be living a life far removed from me and over which I have no say whatsoever. I find myself living with a stranger and I must confess to being lonely.

  Before the New Year, at Longbourn

  Dear Jane,

  Oh, how I wish I could have been with you and Mr. Phillips for this Christmas season, my first as a married woman and heavy with child to boot. But, as you know from Mr. Bennet’s greeting to you in early December, it is best that I not travel—or do much of anything else if you would know the truth. I am inclined to wish that he were still be-deviling me to conceive; at least, when ’twas done, ’twas done. Now he hovers; he never leaves my side, not in the day, not at night. He is forever pulling up footstools, has had the carpenter raise my favourite one so that my feet, when Mr. Bennet places them onto it, are level with my hips. “No sense in forcing the little tyke out before his time,” he says with a gurgle he believes is a chortle. Believe me, Mr. Bennet is not capable of chortling; gurgling is as close as he can come. And now he does it all the time, believing it to recommend his suitability for fatherhood. I have warned him that the child may not wait the requisite nine months; indeed, that the little tyke, as he would call him, could appear as early as this month. He agrees instantly, eyeing the enormity of my belly. “The sooner the better,” he gurgles and rings for Cook to bring me the camomile tea replete with herbs known only to him that he believes will facilitate the birth of his first son. I sip. I know otherwise, of course, and have decided to name her Jane. What better beginning could I bestow upon her than the blessing of the name of one so dear to me. You can be sure I have not consulted Mr. Bennet on this matter. Occasionally I admit to a pang of sympathy; he knows so little of the woman who is his wife. But then he does something like cock-a-doodling about the dining room proclaiming his approaching fatherhood in tones so stentorian that Mrs. Rummidge claps her hands over her ears. You are fortunate that we did not visit you this holiday; there is no telling when Mr. B.’s outbursts will occur or what form they will take. One would think it was he who was carrying a child.

  Yrs affectionately,

  Marianne

  Late December at Longbourn

  Dear Jane,

  My time is near. The winds howl, snow drifts against the windows; the fierceness of winter threatens our every comfort. How I wish you were here with me. That your duties to your husband overwhelm your love for your sister I well understand. The demands upon our role as wife are not to be denied. I do hope Mr. Phillips regains his health soon. In your absence, Mrs. Rummidge, herself a mother several times over, has summoned a midwife to assist in the birth and lying-in soon to be mine. Mr. Bennet, as you might imagine, is loudly insistent on calling for a doctor when the time is nigh. He has read a monograph on forceps, an ugly-sounding instrument used to draw the baby from the mother should contractions be reduced. A doctor, he insists, would have knowledge of this procedure along with the proper use of opium or chloroform should the pain be too great. I laugh at him. He can read all he likes, know all there is to know, but in this regard I reign supreme. I will not have a doctor or drugs; I will not be bled as he urges, for my humours have never been more balanced than now and my sense of well-being protects me and my baby from the interference of strangers, albeit men of medicine. The very thought of a man present in the birthing chamber repulses me. Mrs. Rummidge, it would seem, agrees with me so wholeheartedly that she would absent herself, too, from my chamber. She who when I first arrived at Longbourn seemed so capable, so comforting, so experienced in the ways of motherhood, has fallen into bits and pieces now that my time is close upon me. She has agreed to boil water though she continues to ask the reason—why ought I to know?—but will leave the rest to me and the midwife. No matter. I am content and confident that my beloved is with me though still so far away.

  I have felt the little one moving about for some months now. Much pain awaits me, but I know that the little girl who comes from the deepest part of me will make any discomfort, however severe, momentary. I await her with all the love I can bring to bear. Would it amuse you, as it does me, to know that the name of the midwife, an old woman, her face scoured with wrinkles, and stooped, is Pamela. She seems kind.

  Little Jane is on her way. You are about to become an aunt.

  “Drat!” This the single utterance from the new father with no acknowledgement of my pain and discomfort in the delivery of his first child. It would seem that I have disappointed him anew.

  Ch. 3

  The New Year at Longbourn, 1786

  Dear Sister,

  The winds continue to howl but within all is safe and warm for I have my own darling child nestled close to me. She came easily, so the midwife assured me, and in truth even so close to the birthing I can barely remember the pain. She is beautiful, though of course all mothers say that. And she is good; no one need tell me that. Her little mouth is a rosebud and her tiny fingers grip mine with a strength surprising in one so small. She cries only rarely and then out of hunger. My milk flows boundlessly. Mrs. Rummidge continues to boil water despite my assurances that hot water is no longer necessary and even though Mr. B. has chastised her for steaming up the windows of the entire kitchen, pantry, and hall. I hear him bellowing, “I can write my name on any window in the house! I must wipe them down to see into the fields! Cook has threatened to quit so damp are her bowls and pins and all the things she tells me she needs to keep us well. The laundress no longer starches my shirts. ‘No reason to do it,’ she says, ‘they just go limp.’” Only the sties and coops out back escape the gusts; that is where Mr. B. spends more and more of his time. A good place for him, to my mind.

  Most recently, Mrs. Rummidge has confessed to being widowed early on and left childless. “I never did know the least thing about spilling a child. Forgive me, ma’am.” She bowed her head, where only a few strands of hair remain, and scrunched up her eyes until the tears came. “But I did want to help, you know,” she said wanly. She has given me good reason to let her go. But she is poor, and besides, she plumps my pillows and brings me endless cups of tea and is almost as taken with little Jane as I. “Oh, ma’am, she’s a perfect one, she is.” And then she brushes
my hair off my forehead and with a hand as soft as down smooths my brow. In the absence of dear Mother and of yourself, Mrs. Rummidge will have to do. I am grateful for her ministrations.

  Occasionally Mr. Bennet tramps in from the animal pens and peeks into the bedroom, looking perplexed and out of sorts, his usual mien, I might add. He comes no nearer to his daughter than the doorjamb. “All is well?” he mumbles and stomps off to his library without awaiting an answer. And yes, all is well, even with Mr. B. so testy and grim. Inside this room my daughter and I give life to one another.

  I will draw out my lying-in period as long as I can, complaining of pain and discomfort in that part of myself where Mr. B. claimed dominion on our wedding night, for I suspect that once he discovers that in truth all is well, he will renew his efforts, perhaps even more frequently, to create the son to which he believes himself entitled. Meanwhile, I am content. This luxury of motherhood will not last, but for the moment, all is well.

  Yrs very affec.,

  Marianne

  On Becoming a Father

  Omnia autem quae secundum naturam fiunt, sunt habenda in bonis.

  “All things that are done according to nature are to be accounted good.”

  —CICERO

  Were it suitable for one of my position to confess to anything, I would confess that this child, this little Jane, my daughter, is quite an extraordinary infant, as of course any child sired by myself would be. Mrs. B. called to me as I stood there in the doorway that already her eyes were turning from blue to some mysterious colour I liked to think was mine, a greenish grey, or would they be brown?—’twas too soon to be certain. Out of respect for my wife’s delicate condition, I chose not to enter the room, but try as I might, I could find nowhere in the house safe from the constant crooning of my wife, which for reasons unknown to me caused dyspepsia to rise from within. I quelled my discomfort by reminding myself that only one more month of the drear which sat upon my fields and in my marital bed remained. Then buds of spring would deliver the bounties of nature I so richly deserved. I had not whistled since leaving my boyhood some ten years earlier, but whistling seemed called for now, and so I began.