Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say

by Jane Juska

  Women, however, were not books; they spoke at once and they spoke back and they seemed to speak all day and into the night. “I’m sure you’re right, my dear,” became my conversational companion and, most of the time, served to soothe Mrs. Bennet’s occasional flare-ups. These days I rarely contradicted her or insisted on examining her opinions or demands. So when she tossed her curls at dinner and announced, “I have changed my plans. I will have Mrs. Salther in the village make my ball gown. I am much too busy, and she has a fine reputation,” I nodded and said, “I’m sure you’re right, my dear.” She looked at me querulously, unconvinced by my ready response, and said, “Are you a friend to good health, Mr. Bennet?” Such had been my behaviour of late—all the rubbing of my lower parts she could not help but notice—that my willingness to consent to her every request she found suspect. To her question, I nodded a yes and added, “my dear.” I rose from the table to “see to matters in the fields” and hurried out.

  I noted that Mrs. Bennet frowned, but only for a moment, for now, with my permission, she would send a note to Mrs. Salther announcing a visit within the week.

  I found something akin to conversation in the person of Tom Watkins, one of my tenant farmers. I had on occasion stopped by to watch this man of strong body and sensible mind as he gathered hay, washed out the hog slop, scrubbed down the walls of the creamery. Every so often, I would growl as befitted a landlord, “Fine weather we’re having, Tom.” Tom would stop whatever he was doing and answer, “Indeed it is, sir.” “Any difficulties with the animals, Tom?” I would enquire. Then Tom would list and explain problems with calving, with binding the sheaves, with warming the chickens. Never did he complain about his own circumstances or those of his large family. With a healthy wife, three boys, and two girls, he seemed a contented man; to be sure, he was an enviable man. And so I was hopeful, nay, desperate, that I could find a remedy for my condition by way of Tom, for surely Tom, with his sheep a-graze in the common lands and his wheat fields alive with all manner of creepy-crawly beasties, would have knowledge of what to do when these mites got out of hand and into the trousers of even so genteel a landholder as myself. I pulled on my galoshes and plunged out onto the muddy path which would lead me to relief from suffering.

  “Mud, sir,” said Tom, pulling on his forelock. “I’ve heard that mud or, better yet, fat from a duck packed upon the place will smother the little bastards, if you’ll forgive my forwardness, sir. That and ash.”

  “Ash?”

  “Ash from the grate, sir.”

  Ah, simple enough.

  “My wife uses mud or if there is no mud, such as in the cold weather, chicken fat, duck being beyond our means. She makes it into a paste with the ash and before you know it the children’s head lice are on the run.”

  I explained to Tom that the remedy was for his sheepherders who had complained of discomfort. “Ah yes,” said Tom, “sheep are lousy beasts.”

  I thanked Tom and strode back up the path until I came to a copse. I bent down and began to scratch at the earth until I extracted not what one would call mud but what looked to be a sufficient amount of earth for application to the affected area. Holding it in my left hand, I tugged at my breeches with my right until the affected area was liberated to the air. Carefully, I smoothed the dirt upon myself and then more onto my parts of honour and felt at once a diminishing of the prickling that had been my constant companion for these past weeks. The problem now arose of what to do next, what with my nether region covered with flakes of earth. I decided to sit beneath the grove, now leafless in this late winter, until the dirt had caked itself upon me and I could continue on my way with minimal damage to my linens. I breathed deep sighs of relief. I was at peace.

  (And may I say here, in this journal, that I am relieved that only my male heirs will read this.)

  “Drat!” I exclaimed, for here came Mathilda, the most comely daughter of Tom, switching the cow that would provide her infant brothers their milk. She had no business being here, for she and the cow belonged in the common field some distance away, not here so close to the home farm and to her landlord whose breeches encircled his ankles and whose bare bum was on view. Hastily I covered myself with my waistcoat, then struggled to hide behind the largest tree, trailing shards of earth, now mostly dried, and my breeches behind me.

  Mathilda, to whom the sight of bare bums was most likely a daily occurrence and whose brothers rarely donned breeches, passed by, heedless of her landlord’s humiliation. She hummed prettily as she strolled, flicking the backside of the cow as she went, and, as she passed that same landlord, hiding himself behind the tree, she sang, “As Nell sat underneath her cow, upon a cock of hay, brisk John was coming from the plough, and chanc’d to pass that way.” My erection tossed away most of what earth remained, leaving me once again naked as a jay although this time with no Martha, no Mrs. Bennet, no anyone to provide release. The pain of the crabs gave way to the pain of passion unspent and I slumped to the ground, relieved to see Mathilda disappearing into the distance.

  Why, I wondered, was my every effort to exercise my God-given right met with humiliation and despair and now disease. It did not seem fair. Even my encounters with my wife, lawful as they were, left me unsatisfied, albeit spent. Something was missing. My few forays into Mrs. Brown’s brothel had afforded release but no real pleasure. My few years as a husband had brought with them a cold and withholding wife. And my most recent adventure, if that was what one could call it, with the doxy Alice had left me with nothing but suffering and shame. As I thought back on my life as a sexual man, I decided I had never been one. I groaned as I thought of the evening ahead, my wife bent over her embroidery hoop, myself attempting to sit still long enough to read a chapter. Perhaps, though, the earth had done it; perhaps I would be allowed once again to luxuriate within the pages of my beloved books—and ultimately in the company of my adored Elizabeth.

  I struggled up onto the path and slowly made my way home, if that was what one could call it. The itching had returned. Was there never to be an end to suffering?

  Ch. 8

  In Which I Suffer

  Parque per omnes Tempestas.

  “The tempest rages everywhere.”

  —VIRGIL

  (Be warned herewith. This entry may repulse you e’en as it educates you.)

  I struggled to pull my wife’s fine-toothed comb through my pubic mound. Finally, one of her appurtenances was proving useful. I winced as I tugged but continued, for surely my exertions would at last free me from the dominion of these terrible beasties. The beasties, save for a few which fell to the floor, seemed content to remain where they were and quite able to escape the enemies advancing upon them. I would have to shave. A grisly affair.

  I heard the footsteps of the maid. Here I was again, my breeches down around my ankles. What was it about women that brought about such degradation? The comb’s teeth lay sprinkled about the floor, the handle still clenched in my hand. “What is it, Margaret?” I called impatiently.

  “Madam has told me to come clean your room. She said it hadn’t been done in ever so long. I tried to explain that you shooed me away every time I came near. But now she’s having none of it. It wouldn’t take but a moment; I shall be as quick as I can. Oh please, sir, Mrs. Bennet is on a tear. I’ve never seen her quite like this, so quick to anger, so easy to cry.”

  Now what was that about, I wondered. She was indeed more given over to moods than ever I recalled. I had to admit that, by and large, my wife was an even-tempered little thing, even cheery and forever insisting on what she called the sunshine of life rather than the gloom. With “gloom,” she looked pointedly at me, who just as pointedly looked away. However, since my return from London she seemed to be on a rampage: energetic, laughing, running about, slamming doors, her behaviour not unlike little Jane’s, who, not yet two, spent her days copying her mother though at times it seemed the other way round. But litt
le Jane did not descend into equal parts sadness and despair with such moping about as her mother exhibited, such flopping into chairs, toying with her food but eating little, staring endlessly into the evening fire. This was a new Mrs. Bennet and I was just as happy that I had closeted myself, per necessity of course, because certainly her recent behaviour did not draw me to her side. Conjugal relations, at least for the present, were out of the question, so in all honesty, I saw no reason to seek her out. Not that I preferred picking nits or, as would happen shortly, shaving myself, but as frustrating as all this was, I saw signs of victory. Where my wife was concerned, I saw nothing that was in my power to do. A stalemate, that’s what she was.

  “Go away,” I called to the maid. “Tell your mistress I will join her for dinner. Then you can tidy up here. Go on.”

  As the sound of her footsteps subsided I got out my razor strop and began to sharpen the last weapon in my arsenal.

  From her bedchamber I could hear wailing, something about her figure ballooning, then tears, then remonstrating upon whatever her maid was doing. “Tighter!” I heard. “Pull harder!” Then a shriek, then the sound of a body collapsing, probably onto the bed, then tears again. And then clearly, “Mrs. Salther will have my head when next she fits me. She will scold me. She will tell me there is not enough silk in all of London to cover my outcroppings. Dear God, am I never to have a waist again? What use is motherhood if all it does is to make the mother bulge beyond reasonable restraint?” Stamping on the floor.

  Despite this racket, I, who had had the forethought to soap myself thoroughly, propped the mirror against my footstool and, monitoring my progress in the glass, shaved calmly and carefully, not a nick but not a gnat, either, not one that I could see at any rate.

  Apparently my wife had descended to the kitchen, from where she continued her complaints at an ear-splitting volume. This time it was Cook who felt the force of her fury. “What are you doing? I ordered the potato crusts to accompany the salmon. You know how the master enjoys those crusts! And here you seem to be putting together some kind of anchovy crisp. I am so disappointed in you, Nellie!”

  “But, madam, when I went to make the gravy for the potatoes, the duck fat was missing. I cannot imagine where it might have gotten to. I shall look once more in the larder but I do not expect it will appear simply because I have come again to look for it.”

  “Ridiculous. Duck fat does not disappear. Someone has got hold of it. Someone has stolen it away. Though to what purpose I cannot think.” I could hear the commencing of tears.

  Nellie continued, “And my pastry cloths, they are disappeared, too, and so the apple tarts you planned cannot be achieved!” Nellie’s tears commenced.

  “Now my house is full of thieves!” cried Mrs. Bennet. “Is it not enough that I have to contend with corsets that won’t shut and anchovies for supper and . . . most likely the absence of biscuits for the morning. It is too much!”

  “Stop! Oh, please don’t!” Nellie begged. “Not my tossing-pan!” The clang of pan against wall shook the house. And then another shattering, probably the mixing bowls, then two plops, hers, and then another’s, this time, I suspected, atop Nellie’s baking table. Sobs and sighs. The two of them made a duet of misery.

  Upstairs, I smiled with satisfaction. I had almost completed my task; shortly I would be as smooth and as clean as a newborn babe. All I needed do now was to make the poultice according to Tom’s instructions, apply it to the affected area, and bind it with Nellie’s snowy white linens. Careful not to spill, I spooned the duck fat (1/2 C.) into Nellie’s wooden bowl and added ash (2 T.) from the hearth. Mixing well with my left hand, I held my nose with my right, for the aroma was not at all pleasant, and looked out the window, for the grey greasy batch which lay reeking in the bowl did not recommend itself to viewing. Neither was it pleasant to dip my fingers into the bowl and apply the mixture to my now snowy lower half, but I did so quickly and as quickly wrapped Nellie’s pastry cloths around and over the poultice. I felt instant relief. I counted myself cured: smelly but cured. All would be well.

  Downstairs there was no poultice for what ailed Mrs. Bennet. “I am a barrel,” she wept. “No one will look at me, let alone ask me to dance.”

  Nellie tried her best. “But, madam, you are only a year past birthing. It takes time, mum, for female parts to fall back into place. And you have such a lovely face,” she added, desperate to provide comfort and save what was left of her kitchen.

  “That’s what they all say about fat women!” she sobbed, and collapsed onto the bread board. “I will starve myself,” she said resolutely. “I will return to my former self. I will have a waist. I will! And then I will dance at the ball. Someone is sure to ask me, if only Mr. Bennet.” Two floors above the ranting, I winced.

  I had no intention whatsoever of attending the ball she was so eager to attend. I had heard of nothing but the ball ever since my return from my unfortuitous journey to London. Mrs. Bennet’s current fatuousness, I supposed, was provoked by thoughts of what I considered one of the most useless gatherings of country society. Nothing was to be gained from attendance at such an event. A ball, it seemed to me, was merely a chance for the ladies of the county to dress in a provocative and foolish manner and either create gossip or gather it. Even for something as simple as an assembly on the village green, ladies would dine on it, have tea over it, dash off notes about it for months following. Imagine, and here I shuddered, the spillage into my daily life of something so grand as this ball to be held on the grand estate of the grand and mysterious Colonel Millar. Long ago I had learned to dance in order to secure a wife. Now I had one. I did not have to dance ever again. Nor would I, no matter how loudly and how long Mrs. Bennet’s protestations continued. I suspected that the keening from the kitchen below was just a tune-up. I prepared myself for the worst.

  First, though, I would pay a visit to Tom to thank him for his advice, which had had an immediate effect. I found him standing before his cottage holding his goose, dead of a broken neck. “For shame!” he cried angrily to a heaven as indifferent to him as it was to his goose. “That damnable hunt and look what it brings. This!” He turned to me. “You see what they have done, sir. I have lost six of my chickens and the vegetable plot will not render us our food this summer what with the trampling it has endured. I see no reason for such as they call it, a ritual.”

  I saw no reason for it, either. It had been assumed that, as a member of the landed gentry, I would join the others for the hunt when I reached my majority. But I had begged off, claiming a twisted ankle, then a wrenched thumb, a cold in the head, a misery in the gut, anything that would exempt me from what I considered a barbarity. No one I knew would agree with me, no one would sympathize with my view, but no one would dare call me a liar, either, and so my periodic objections were nodded over in sympathy until finally I was not bothered by invitations to run small animals to ground.

  “I beg your pardon, sir,” said Tom. “I do not mean to trouble you with my woes. You have caught me at an unfortunate time.”

  “Tom,” I said, “I share your anger at the sporting life. Our new neighbor, this Colonel Somebody, is no doubt responsible for this latest insult. But there’s nothing to be done. The hunt will go on long after you and I are gone.” Still, I thought to myself, I can see to it that he does his damn hunting elsewhere, not on my land.

  Tom nodded and stood quietly, wondering as to the cause of this unusual visit from me, at the same time eager to make the best of the goose that lay lifeless on the ground. He would have to bleed her and pluck her soon else she would turn unfit for supper.

  I felt oddly embarrassed and did not meet his eye. “Tom,” I said, “you have had this wife of yours for a goodly number of years, have you not?” Tom looked at me curiously. I persisted, “Have you found her to be, to be . . . companionable?”

  “In what way, sir?” Tom answered.

  I caught his smile
and realized that I was providing him amusement rarely available on such a grand scale. Undaunted, I proceeded. “Has she been . . .” I paused, looking past Tom into the fields, which seemed so orderly, so productive, so unlike anything in my domestic life. “Has she been a good wife?”

  “Aye, sir, she has.” Apparently, Tom decided to fill in the space of my discomfort until I could bring myself to say what was truly on my mind. “She looks after the children, she is a passable cook, and now that our eldest is fifteen and able to look after the young ones, my wife is able to help me in the fields.”

  I could not hide my envy. Tom continued nonetheless. “I am pleased with her in every way. She is of course not the pretty little thing she was in the early years. Five children have had their way with both her face and her figure.” I stared at Tom. Here at last was a man who understood me.

  “Your boys came late, I believe,” I said.

  “To be sure,” answered Tom. “We had quite given up on the notion of ever having sons. We were content with our two daughters and believed our time of begetting to be over.” I nodded vigourously. “But then, nature being what it is,” said Tom, “she grew big again and delivered one son and not long after another son and finally the babe you see there in the cradle. Three sons.” Tom said this proudly. I forgave him his little preening. I must have appeared once more downcast. Tom seemed to know now what was troubling his landlord. “So I guess my advice to anyone, if of course it were asked for, would be to just keep trying. You never know with women. They surprise you from sunrise on.” Then, taking a deep breath, he ventured: “If I may, sir, up there at the house”—he pointed to my domicile—“is what we down here in the cottages call a yeller.”