To Make Sport for our Neighbours

by Ronald McGowan

  But, to return to the beginning of those forty years, finding myself engrossed in such duties and obligations as these, I very soon discovered that I had spent six months without opening a book or writing one word of the exceeding learned thesis with which I was yet to astonish the world.

  I mentioned this, very tentatively, to Mrs. Bennet one morning over breakfast, and she was good enough to agree entirely with my suggestion that I should return to my academic studies forthwith.

  “For you know, Mr. Bennet, such a clever man as you are, it would be a shame, a disgrace to deprive the world of the benefit of your knowledge and wisdom. Why, I was saying to my sister Philips just the other day……….”

  Precisely what my dear wife had been saying to her sister the other day was, I confess, lost in reflections upon the apparent contagiousness of matrimony. Mrs. Bennet’s younger sister had not even been out when we left for Brighton, but we had returned to find her already engaged to her father’s chief clerk. That the actual marriage had been celebrated with neither the haste nor the elaborate ceremonies involved in our own, I put down to the comparative inferiority of the ‘catch’, but the proverbially happy couple had recently returned from their honeymoon in Clacton, and relieved my dear Jane of the burden of being the neigbourhood’s ‘new bride’. To make up for this, and to garner what reflected glory she might, she referred to ‘my sister Phillips’ at least five times a day, and took care to take part in any such ceremonies as the relationship might occasion.

  Whatever Sister Phillips may have contributed to the discussion on that particular occasion I no longer recollect, but I do remember that it ended with the resolution that I should resume my studies in earnest upon the morrow.

  Upon my comment that it was a pity that the library at Longbourn was in such a state of disorder, Mrs. Bennet immediately volunteered to have it set into order that very day.

  “But are you sure, my dear, that such a task will be within your capabilities, and in such a short time?” I enquired. “It will need a general clear-out, you know, which will be a great labour, and the books sorted, first into subject, and then alphabetically, by author, so that I can lay my hands upon my references without having to search throughout the shelves.”

  “As to that, Mr. Bennet, I am sure I know my ABC as well as any. It will be a comfort to me to know that I am assisting in your great work. Molly will do the heavy work, of course, while I direct her, and we shall take the opportunity to have a good clean up while we are about it. There must be years of accumulated dust about the place. Men never notice dust, I know, but it really is a disgrace in there. Someone should have taken the servants in hand long ago, I am sure. Why it has been allowed to deteriorate so I cannot think. It is not as if….”

  I fear I could not think either, through this constant verbal assault upon the senses, so I stemmed it by agreeing to Mrs. Bennet’s proposal. After all, what could be so difficult about setting a few books into order? I gave exact and detailed instructions, however, and was assured that they would be followed. I wrote them down, very clear and large, so that there might be no possibility of misunderstanding or want of recollection.

  Perhaps I am to blame for not overseeing the operation myself. But I did have other business to deal with, and in any case, my offers of assistance were chided away with cries of “Do take yourself out of the way, Mr. Bennet. You will only hinder us, you know. We know perfectly well what we are about.”

  So I left them to their own business, and set about mine. I was still a newcomer to the world of matrimony. I was perfectly confident that I could trust the good sense, intelligence, and responsibility of my wife.

  I was late returning and dinner was serving, so that I had no opportunity to inspect the new arrangements that evening. The following morning was bright and sunny, I recall, and as the library faced the east, the new logical arrangement of its volumes should be immediately apparent.

  “There,” said Mrs. Bennet as she opened the door for me, “is not that a great improvement?”

  A great alteration, certainly. As to whether it was an improvement, I found myself unable to express an unguarded opinion.

  In fact, I confess that I was at a loss for words.

  I had been expecting the result of my carefully planned scheme, the collections arranged subject by subject, author by author, alphabetically exact, so that I could immediately lay my hand upon the desired volume. Instead what I found was arrangement by colour and size, with all the volumes covered in red next to each other, ranging from small to large, followed by brown, similarly arranged, with blue, green, black etc. following in order. The whole effect was like a series of multi-coloured waves. As a means of wasting time and assaulting the eyes it was perfectly effective. For the purpose of serious research, it was worse than useless.

  There was, however, no trace of dust.

  “But, my dear,” I ventured to enquire, “did you not understand my instructions?”

  “Oh, Mr. Bennet!” was the reply I received, “How could you ask such a question, especially when you went to such trouble to write your requirements down so clearly, and so neatly, too? But in the event, all that raking around trying to find this that and the other was far too tedious. We should not have been done this sennight had we continued. And is not this much the prettier?”

  “Oh, yes,” I was constrained to reply, “very prettily done.”

  “Now, Mr. Bennet, shall we get down to this famous book of yours. See, I have laid out the pens and paper, and I am here to mend your quill and seek out your references for you.”

  I tried. I tried all morning. It is not the easiest thing in the world to find evidence to substantiate a theory, or even to formulate such a thing in one’s head, while being constantly plied with -

  “I am sure you cannot be comfortable on that chair, Mr. Bennet, let me adjust your cushion.”

  “Your pen needs mending, Mr. Bennet. Here I will do it for you.”

  “What beautiful writing you have, Mr. Bennet, and such long words you use. To watch you is an education in itself, I make no doubt.”

  And the like, all morning.

  As for finding my references, or even individual books in the polychromatic array that had been my library, one might as soon ask a sheep to herd a pack of dogs.

  This would not do, that much was very quickly clear. But how to put a stop to it, without risking domestic strife?

  I could think of no course that would not involve many days of -

  “Mr. Bennet scorns my assistance. He is too proud to accept the aid of an uneducated female. When I think of how I worked my fingers to the bone arranging his books for him, mending his pens, attending to his comfort in his study, and this is all the thanks I get.”

  “Mr. Bennet has no conception of the labour involved in turning up his books, nor of how difficult it is for the uninstructed person to distinguish between such things as theogony and theology and suchlike. His own understanding is so quick that he never thinks to make allowances….”

  Mr. Bennet this, Mr. Bennet that, etc. etc. ad infinitum. So I resolved to bear with the loving ministrations of my dear wife for now, reasoning that she would soon become wearied with such activities, and return to her round of cronies in Meryton.

  Fortunately, I was correct in my supposition. I had to suffer the services of my new research assistant for but one day. On the morrow it was,

  “But surely, Mr. Bennet, you do not intend to spend such a lovely morning as this shut up in that stuffy bookroom? Come, we must take advantage of the fine weather and walk into town.”

  The following day, nothing more was said about assisting my project, and I was able to begin, surreptitiously, to restore my books into some sort of logical order. I worked on this until I was satisfied that I should be able to lay my hand, with very little difficulty, on any reference I desired. In the course of this task I also became aware of the many volumes I would need to consult which were not at my disposal, and began to think, once m
ore of the riches of learning available in my college library.

  My first achievement was but to compile a list of all the authorities that were not readily available to me, and of possible sources. It very soon became clear to me that I should have to go back to Cambridge, if only on a visit, and to Oxford too, and possibly to the Scotch universities, and various cathedral libraries. This would be a task difficult enough in itself, but compared to consulting the rare volumes I knew to be in the libraries at Paris, Leyden and Bologna, it might just, in time, be feasible.

  All thought of continuing with any such research, for the present at least, was, however, soon put quite out of mind by an unexpected event.

  Chapter Five: Ordained for the procreation of children

  At breakfast one morning Mrs. Bennet complained of feeling unwell. This statement I accepted with the usual degree of credit. Mrs. Bennet throughout our marriage, has made two things her business above all. The main one of late has been that of marrying her daughters, but before she was possessed of this subject with which to divert her mind, its place was filled by that of feeling unwell.

  So I made the usual, placatory noises and carried on with my breakfast, only to be surprised by the rapid departure of my wife halfway through the meal with her napkin clutched to her mouth.

  This sort of thing recurred so often during the next few days that at last I felt obliged to enquire as to what ailed my darling.

  “Oh, Mr. Bennet,” she cried, “these past few mornings I have felt so sick to my stomach and have found myself running to deposit my breakfast in the necessary before it is half eaten.”

  The reason behind this indisposition puzzled me.

  “Why should this be?” I enquired, “Have you eaten something? Or do you feel in any way unwell in yourself.”

  “That is exactly it,” she replied, “I feel hot, and strangely heavy, and all swollen. My dresses have all shrunk overnight. Can it be the fell dropsy? No-one can know how I feel, and it is something very serious, I am sure.”

  There was nothing else for it but to send for Doctor Thomas from Meryton.

  He attended without delay, and after a very short consultation with his patient, came out to me with the air of a man who has been troubled for nothing.

  “Mrs. Bennet is in perfect health,” he said, “which is devoutly to be hoped for, in the circumstances. But it is not a physician that she needs, but a midwife. She will tell you more accurately than I can, but parturition cannot be all that far off.”

  “Parturition?” I gaped.

  “Yes, Mr. Bennet, you are about to be blessed with an addition to your family.”

  Well! It was necessary, it was pressingly necessary, first to congratulate Mrs. Bennet and to see that she had all the comforts she might need or desire, and then to tell my father and publish the news throughout the neighbourhood.

  Through the next month or two, Mrs. Bennet seemed to grow visibly every day, and delighted in holding court among the good wives of Meryton, while they swapped tales of their experiences. Meanwhile I was every day thinking of treats for my sweet, and my father was ordering playthings for the young master and enquiring about putting his name down –although as yet that name was unsure – for his old school.

  The baby arrived in the middle of the night. They always do, in my experience. Certainly none of ours chose a time which could be called in any way convenient. The shrieks and groans audible from the bottom of the stairs were a revelation to me, and more than once I wished that I had the hardiness to join my father in the parlour with the bottle of port with which he was whiling the night away.

  At last the shrieks ceased, and the squawking wail of an infant was heard. I was all set to rush straight upstairs when I felt my elbow held.

  It was my father.

  “Best not to go rushing in yet.” He said. “They will want to clean things up.”

  So we waited until summoned, but even then I could not keep my feet from rushing up the stairs.

  The first thing I noticed was the heat, and the stuffiness, for, of course, all the windows had been sealed up, and a roaring fire was blazing in the hearth, for cold draughts are mortal to infants, as everyone knows.

  Then there was Mrs. Bennet lying back on the pillows, looking exhausted but triumphant, pointing to my right.

  I turned in the direction of the pointing finger, and there was the midwife, with a bundle in her arms which she thrust into my grasp.

  I bent my head to it, in perfect awe.

  I am full well aware of the received wisdom that to indulge oneself in affection towards an infant is to lay up heartache for oneself. The perils surrounding the cradle are so great, and so manifold, that it is far wiser to avoid all involvement until it is reasonably certain that the emotion invested will be repaid, if possible, with interest.

  My rational being applauds the sentiment as eminently reasonable, but I fear that at heart I am a doting, foolish, fond old man, for the instant I first held that little bundle in my arms, saw the tiny eyes gazing serenely at my face, felt the miniscule fingers curling around mine, such a wave of love, and, yes, joy swept over me as I have seldom felt before or since. This was an entire new being that we had created between us, a little part of me that would, God willing, live on after my departure, and the wonder of it all quite overwhelmed me.

  We called her after her mother, Jane, a fine old, plain name, but plain she never was, but bonny and blithe right from the start and good and gay, too, and has been ever since.

  I know quite well that all this is nonsense, the partiality of every father that ever was, to whom his firstborn is especially dear, but I know, too, that every word of it is the strict, absolute truth, and I defy any man to say me nay.

  I defied my father on exactly that point. He was not best pleased at the infant’s sex.

  “A son is what you need, my boy,” he said, declining even to inspect the infant, “ daughters are nothing but a drain. You need expect no good from this one.”

  I was instantly obliged to quarrel with his judgement.

  “There will be boys enough, in course, There are always more boys born than girls, even though they are more delicate and less like to survive. The next one will be a boy, make no doubt of it.”

  Ah, the optimism of youth! How could I ever have harboured such an emotion?

  For the next one was my Elizabeth, the best companion I have had in my middle years. To my wife I have been very little otherwise indebted, than as her ignorance and folly have contributed to my amusement. This is not the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his wife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given. How I should have got on without Elizabeth to share my feelings and my thoughts, I do not know.

  Chapter Six: Why are you cast down, O my soul

  My delight in this second girl child was just as great as it had been in the first. I was still young and confident that we should eventually be blessed with a son.

  Not so my father, however.

  “I do not blame you, my boy,” he said to me after the christening, “you have done your part. You have done just as I would have you do. But perhaps you should have done otherwise. I blame myself for pushing Gardner’s daughter at you. I know quite well that you were in no hurry to marry. But I was in a hurry for a grandson, and see how I am paid for my impatience.”

  Impatience, from that day forward, became my father’s defining characteristic. He became a different person. Where, previously, he had been imperious but magnanimous, he now became increasingly petulant and demanding. Two subjects, closely related, were all that he would countenance. “When were we going to produce a son?”, and “Why were we so set on passing Longbourn to his Cousin Collins?”

  The latter of these questions seemed to exercise him even more than the former. He had never had a good word to say about his cousin, in private, but in public he had always maintained a façade of common politeness.
Now his constant complaint, in all company, was what cunning and unprincipled reptiles the entire Collins brood were, how they had always coveted Longbourn, and were now set to get it at last. He even repeated, constantly, and not entirely in jest, to all comers, his belief that they must have put a curse upon him, so that he was plagued with useless grand-daughters and deprived of an heir. My remonstrations that my daughters were in every sense delightful to me, and that we had ample time as yet to make up the deficiency, that “it was early days”, as they say, he dignified with no regard whatsoever.

  Contumacity such as this has a way of making itself known to its objects. Which of our kind friends it was who passed on the details, we never discovered, but transmitted they were, in some fashion. Mr. Collins himself made the long journey from the Midlands to protest his innocence, but he might just as well have saved himself the trouble and expenditure.

  Exactly what passed between him and my father I never knew. Their interview took place behind closed doors, and ended with Mr. Collins storming out of the house, vowing never to set foot in it again until it was his own, nor to address a single word to its inhabitants henceforth.

  I will not record the imprecations with which my father urged him on his way. A younger man might have resented them so much as to ask a friend to call upon his cousin. But, such as they were, they served to raise my father’s spirits for the rest of the day. He displayed greater strength and energy that day than he had done for many weeks, his cheeks were ruddier, his voice louder and steadier, and he seemed determined to show that the Bennets’ hold upon Longbourn would log endure.

  The following morning another face of things was seen. His own face, it was, all hollow and shrunken down one side, with the lips curled down into a dreadful sort of comma. He had to be assisted out of bed, he shambled lop-sidedly about the house where before had stridden purposefully, and his voice, now more querulous than ever, was slurred, and indistinct.