by Jane Juska
Not long into Act I Edward realized that this was a play about man’s sexual fortitude and focused his attention on Romeo. Here was this whippersnapper, the estimable John Kemble would have us believe, rampaging about the stage because some girl he barely knew refused to lift her skirts for him. “She hath forsworn to love,” Romeo bleats. Edward considered leaving early. But then comes Juliet, who it seems is thirteen years old and who will be married soon to County Paris. Ye gods, thought Edward, she is Mrs. Bennet’s age almost, though almost twice as tall, taller than Mr. Kean. He sighed and thought, And soon Juliet will have a child, probably a girl, just as Mrs. Bennet had, and nothing good can come of this play. He did, however, decide to see it through. Will Juliet complain and refuse the County Paris? Will Romeo take matters into his own hands? Will Edward see his own domestic tragedy enacted before his very eyes?
“Under love’s heavy burden do I sink,” says Romeo. Edward shifted in his seat, impatient with the melodrama over a girl the boy had never laid a hand to. The lady in the seat next to him shifted, too, it seemed to Edward, away from him. From the stage Romeo sulks over love: “It is too rough, / Too rude, too boist’rous, and it pricks like thorn.” His friend Mercutio speaks sense to him: “If love be rough for you, be rough with love.” Now, that I understand, thought Edward, relaxing into the cushions. We’ll just see if Romeo has the good sense to heed good advice. But no. Unsuccessful in his drive to unseat Rosaline from her virginity, he simply turns his efforts into tossing up Juliet. Unfair, simply unfair that this scarcely more than a boy gets all these chances. Edward crossed his arms over his chest, touching slightly the elbow of the lady who sat next to him. “I beg your pardon,” he whispered. She smiled a polite forgiveness, her downward glance pricking him in the same place as Romeo’s. Alas, it seems that neither he nor the young hero onstage is to find satisfaction: “O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?” Edward leaned forward in his seat. So did the lady next to him.
Well, by the holy rood, if Juliet doesn’t come across! And willingly, passionately, and gloriously! And so soon, it’s only Act II! Romeo leaves off his adolescent maunderings and settles down to loving. “Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!” Edward capitulated. He, too, felt great stirrings—and knew at once that they would come to naught.
In fact, they came to worse than naught, they came to the end of love and life and of the play, and, when the lady next to him rose to leave with her escort, the end of possibility. Edward was moved beyond words or movement and remained in his seat until the theatre had emptied itself of all but those even more forlorn than he, the cleaning women. “A glooming peace this morning with it brings. The sun, for sorrow, will not show his head.”
And now, dear reader, the worst is over and I can resume my role as self-confessor and teller of my tale. The sun did show its head, as so far in its history it does, and the following morning dawned as brightly as it was possible to dawn through the fog- and smoke-streaked window of my chamber. I sprang from my bed, the gloom of the previous evening dispelled by the promise of what this day would bring. This was the day I would call on Mr. Clark, bookseller, and by day’s end be the proud owner of Burton’s Anatomy of Melancholy.
I had been waiting to own this book for the entirety of my reading life. And now, if Arnold Clark’s message held up, that very book awaited me at the shop. “It is the fifth edition,” Clark had warned, “not the first, but it is in fine shape for one that is more than a hundred years old. I think you will be pleased.”
I was pleased. Clark placed the volume in my hands, heavy from its almost 800 pages, bound in calf so Clark said, the title lettered on the spine in gold: The Anatomy of Melancholy. Very carefully I opened the book to a page that began, “Borage and Hellebore / Sovereign plants to purge the veins of melancholy and cheare the heart / of those black fumes which make it smart / To clear the Brain of misty fogs which dull our senses and Soul clogs / the best medicine that ere God made / for this malady, if well asseid.”
I am not a religious man, as you no doubt know, but surely some spirit greater than my own had brought me to this book. The price was beyond what I had expected but I paid it readily and, tucking the volume safely beneath my waistcoat, I promised silently to purchase hellebore and borage, though their location remained unknown to me. “I bid you a fond farewell, Mr. Clark,” I said, and with a smile I did not have when I entered, I exited into Covent Garden, warmed by what I held close. So great was my delight that I passed without noticing the cockfights and the dwarves and the puppet shows, the growing crowd, gaily drunk, on its way to another public hanging. The stench of London, the filth of the streets, the sight of raw sewage failed to trouble me even as the glow of the coal fires lit my way and hurried me on to the inn where, on my final night in this great city, I would lay down both book and head.
Covent Garden, rightly named Venus Square, was perfect for assignation, prolonged or spontaneous, its footpaths lined with girls, five or six of them, most dressed in genteel fashion. Taverns nearby were ready for those shy of taking their pleasure in the open air, but I paid little attention to the solicitations of the girls. I hugged my new companion to me, eager to return to my chamber where I could lay my very own book flat and read with my own eyes the wonders of Mr. Burton’s cogitations.
Without having paid attention to where I was or where I was going, I found myself, at dusk, on Westminster Bridge, the Buildings of Parliament nearby, once the home of kings and princes grand and glorious. There in their shadow, leaning against the low wall of the bridge, elbows akimbo to afford a passerby full view of her ample bosom, a woman neither old nor young, neither beautiful nor ugly, smiled amiably at me. “What’s your hurry, dearie?” I smiled back; indeed, I was in no particular hurry: my mission to London had been fulfilled, almost, and here with her dark hair blowing in the wind and her skirts raised to show easy entry, she looked to be the final piece. Pleased with my accomplishments so far and confident beyond measure, I drew near. She held out her hand, I dropped four shillings into it, her smile grew wider. “Name’s Alice,” she said, “if you like.” In the growing darkness, to the sound of the Thames flowing below, I grew bold. In full command I ordered, “Raise them high.” Alice’s skirts billowed about us and with one thrust I found my mark and plunged. So great was my exertion and so pleasurable that I forgot that only the darkness obscured me from public view, I forgot that I had forgotten my sheath, I forgot that my most precious possession was about to fall from my waistcoat. But fall it did. “Ow!” cried Alice, and I looked down to see her foot crushed beneath all 732 pages of my Anatomy. At once I withdrew, but not soon enough, for alas, all that I had stored within came rushing forth and spent itself onto Melancholy. I fell to my knees, clutching my breeches about my naked haunches, and with my coat sleeve swiped at the cover of my beloved book. “Could have been worse,” called Alice as she limped away. “Might’ve dropped into the water. I’d say you had a bit of luck there, dearie.”
I had desecrated a sacred object and it wasn’t Alice. It was time to leave this bridge, this city, and return to the country where I and my book might be restored to cleanliness and perhaps even a touch of godliness. The journey looked to be a long one.
And I, the present-day Mr. Bennet, am relieved that this tale is ended and that the moral therein will be heeded by those who come after.
Ch. 6
January at Longbourn
My dear sister!
How fierce this winter! The driving rain makes roads impassable and we are locked inside most of the day. I do so wish the weather had allowed a visit from you and Mr. Phillips; your company would have made Christmas here less dreary. The children are still too young to take part; Mr. Bennet is even more peevish on holidays if you can imagine and spends most of every day in his library with his recent acquisition, an enormous book with Melancholy etched upon its spine. He emerged only to tell me be sure and plant some hellebore, whatever that is. I
was happy to see the end of the season.
But not all my news is doleful, for there is to be a ball! At the grandest house in the county and perhaps all of England! And the host and the man who has leased this fine establishment is none other than Colonel Millar! I hear he is retired from the guard and is to become a man of leisure, lord of Northfield in all its glory. The gardens alone make it a paradise! What shall I wear? I have nothing. I shall have to sew something. Thank goodness Mama stood over us all those years ensuring that our skill with the needle matched the manners she was equally insistent upon. And thank goodness the ball is not so near at hand. I shall have ample time to order fine silk and to turn it into something beautiful. Or perhaps I will seek Mr. Bennet’s permission to engage the talents of Mrs. Salther, the seamstress in the village, whose reputation quite precedes her. He will of course refuse me as he does all my little requests. No matter. I shall not wear a cap at the ball even though married women do. I shall seek to appear as fresh and lovely as I was the day Colonel Millar made me his. I shall go capless and show a proper amount of my breasts, which are as creamy and pert as ever despite little Jane, who would tug them downward at every opportunity. Elizabeth of course apparently sees them not as the fount of life but as weapons against which she fights with her little fists and her surprisingly bellicose jaw. I would swear she was born with teeth.
And so, to save her from starving and me from throttling her, Elizabeth now lives with a wet nurse at the far end of the village. I visit her every week and often Mr. Bennet joins me; he seems amused at his tiny red-headed vixen who tightens her little fists into balls of fury every time I come near. Truth be told, Mr. Bennet visits her more than once a week and without me. Clearly he favours the impossible Elizabeth over the sweetness of Jane. Perhaps he senses in her rage something akin to his own feelings. I shall never know because he does not confide in me any more than does Elizabeth. Both of them insist on going their own way, preferably without the one who is their wife and mother.
I have never sought to concern myself with Mr. Bennet’s darker moods and where they might come from. If pressed, however, I would admit that he returns from his visits to this irrepressible little creature seemingly lighter in mind, often a tiny smile on his usually dour mien.
I must defend myself to you, dear sister, for my actions even though I am not the only mother to place her infant with a wet nurse. You who hoped for so long to become a mother yourself must wonder at my willingness to give over the nourishment of my child to a stranger. I, too, believed for many weeks that I was a failure as a mother even though little Jane seemed happy and content. But with Elizabeth’s first breath, she would not take nourishment from me and believe me, dear sister, I tried until my nipples burned like fire and the milk ran dry even for my adored Jane. I had no alternative but to seek out another source of milk lest both my babies cease to grow. Strange as it may seem, once Elizabeth was settled with Mrs. Dugan, my milk began to flow again and Jane continued to thrive. Elizabeth herself grew fat and happy. Her howling gave way to gurgles and she was quite the wonderful baby, at least in my absence.
What is it that makes for enmity between those who should be close? What can it be in an infant that makes for such anger, for angry is how she appears to me. She seems furious with me, not with Mr. Bennet or Mrs. Rummidge, or now Mrs. Dugan. It is I who unleashes the squalling. No one, least of all I, understands where her rage comes from. Perhaps, I have wondered, she blames me for not feeding her properly. Perhaps she blames me for feeding Jane so happily. Perhaps she was simply born angry and I am her chosen target. We shall see. In the meantime, she will remain with Mrs. Dugan and I will peep in on her every so often. A quiet home is a blessing and so is Mrs. Dugan.
Indeed, “quiet” is the word for Mr. Bennet, though “absent” might be more to the point. He has not come near me since his return from London. Contrary to my expectations, he did not bring with him onion skin papers with ladies penned naked upon them. I know this because I scoured his library shelves and cupboards one day while he was seeing to the rents. Instead, everywhere in the house or out, he carries the large, heavy book called Anatomy of Melancholy. He is scarce seen without its company; he holds it close to his chest as he paces back and forth in his library as if to keep it safe or perhaps to draw from it whatever wondrous knowledge it holds. It is his constant companion and for that I am grateful. He no longer paws me or assaults me in my chamber or in the kitchen, not even in the barn loft, a place that leaves me with nothing but sneezes and itching in my most private parts.
Which is what Mr. Bennet does much of: itching. It is clear that he is uncomfortable. He cannot sit still for more than a few seconds without scootching about, without excusing himself from the parlour, from the dining table, from his bedchamber to which, dear sister, he repairs even before the evening candles are lit. Not at all as it was before he made his way to London, when he sought me out in my chamber, the pantry, the clothespress, even the dining room, beneath the sideboard, where he insisted no one would think to discover us. I prefer this present to the difficult past. I do, however, wonder at the cause of his discomfort and while I do not wish it to persist, I am grateful for the freedom it gives me in my daily life. I am free to wonder about Colonel Millar, free to imagine placing his daughter, my own Jane, into his arms, free to hope for rescue from my unhappiness. At the same time, I imagine that Colonel Millar will not come to his new home unaccompanied. If I allow myself to do so, I fret and stew over who she might be and what her position is. Wife? Sister? Bespoken? Common sense tells me that a man of his position and reputation and good looks would not remain single for long. What then, dear Marianne? I lie awake nights, alone (I thank the good lord for Mr. Bennet’s itch), little Jane at my breast, aching for the colonel to come to his rightful place, beside me—or else to take me to my own rightful place, the magnificent Northfield. But then I scold myself, Oh, Mrs. Bennet, you are a married lady, a mother of two, this dreaming is such nonsense. And I answer, Oh, Mrs. Bennet, you are seventeen and ought not to wear a cap at all.
I cannot wait for the spring. I cannot wait for the silk that will be my gown, the laces that will trim its bodice and its neckline. My dear sister, would you consider lending me your pelisse in case the spring is more cruel than I anticipate?
Affctly,
Your loving sister
Postscript: Mr. Richardson’s Pamela has been carried away to a far-off estate where she is watched over by the odious Mrs. Jewkes! What will befall her? Nothing good, I expect.
Ch. 7
In Which I Fall Victim to My Folly (and Rightly So)
“Evils have their life and limits, their diseases and their recovery.”
—MONTAIGNE
I was no longer melancholy. I was burning in hell. I had not slept a night through since my return from London. I had not sat at table for the entirety of a meal. I could not sit for more than a single moment with my books in my library without feeling the fires of my inconstancy, of my thoughtless and momentary lustfulness, of my failure to protect myself and my own anatomie from the hideous mites that had clawed their way into my groin and showed every intention of remaining, intent on burying their heads into the very life of me. That I knew the cause of my agony and the name for it gave me no ease whatsoever. What mattered now was to find the remedy.
I did not know of a remedy. Not one of my books addressed the matter of crabs. I could scarcely enquire of the servants; already they looked at me suspiciously, and Cook, for one, had forbidden me entry into her kitchen. “What with the two little ones and such illness about,” she said, “I must ensure that all surfaces of my kitchen are kept clean and polished. You had best keep away, sir, at least until the children are older.” I knew what she really meant, that my rubbing myself up and down every door jamb, my grinding against every counter edge, spelled disease or at the very least was so disturbing to witness that barring me from her premises seemed the only reasonable
course.
Forbidden, too, was the child who had become my beloved Elizabeth. The mere thought of the mites infesting her tiny body was enough to keep me from the path to the cottage of her wet nurse. I no longer wandered alone down that path where my beloved daughter awaited my cooing and petting and bundling, away from the criticisms of those to whom my behaviour would appear unmanly. I no longer accompanied Mrs. Bennet on her weekly visits, much to her consternation. “But Mr. Bennet,” she exclaimed, “you showed such promising signs of fatherhood, how is it that suddenly you choose to ignore her!” I could only growl, satisfying neither of us.
I growled because I was not accustomed to speaking aloud, especially in defense of myself. At Grandison’s, with the exception of conversation in Latin with Master Winthrop, I found no use for speaking. The boys spoke to each other and, in the din of their own sounds, to the halls and the walls of the school. No one spoke to me and so I became comfortable with silence. My books spoke to me and, in a most vibrant way, I answered them.