Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say (24 page)

Yet another entry, this one with no wise prologue.

Jane's visit, while providing me excellent company and the children the kindly attention they hungered for, did nothing to alleviate Mrs. Bennet's illness. Here is a woman, I often thought of Jane, of substance, a kind companion, calm in the storms of temper exhibited by her sister, soothing to her and to me. Here is a woman who might have made me a most suitable wife. Alas, too late, and I have had to remind myself to leave off such longings. As for my wife, I am at a loss to explain her behaviour as anything other than that, an illness for which apparently there is no cure. To my regret, Jane returned to her home much the sadder, for she, too, was forced to admit that her efforts to restore her sister to reason were for naught.

I retreat further into my study and contemplate carving into my bookshelves those words which Montaigne, on his thirty-eighth birthday, carved into his own shelves when
he retired forever into his library: “Michel de Montaigne . . . will [here] spend what little remains of his life, now more than half run out. If the fates permit, he will complete this abode, this sweet ancestral retreat; and he has consecrated it to his freedom, tranquillity, and leisure.” As will I.

Dear Jane,

I write this hastily, while I am in my right mind; I cannot predict how long that might be. But I wish you to know that I do not blame you for abandoning me to my empty life at Longbourn. Try though I might, I could not succeed in restoring my virtue; instead, my conduct was such that it did not recommend itself to those unfortunate enough to be in its path. You, I fear, were its foremost victim, my husband and children having accustomed themselves more or less to the aberrations that I presented. Indeed, since your departure, they see to it that they live their lives as separate from me as possible. For me it is too late; I pray that it is not so for them.

My children, whose affection I have always enjoyed, avoid me; thus, I am quite alone although never so alone
as when I place myself in their midst and demand that we all dance or sing or skip about. One would think that children would take readily to my suggestion, but my children do not; instead, they shy away from me. Only yesterday, thinking to remedy this sad situation, I picked up my Jane and began to dance, to waltz. One-two-three, one-two-three, I dipped and turned until even my head was spinning. Elizabeth from the sideline began to cry, out of envy, I suppose; Jane screeched in delight, but just as we were waltzing our way into the foyer, Mr. Bennet burst forth from his library and with that strong arm of his swept Jane from my arms. “See how silly your mother is today,” he said. Elizabeth pointed at me and repeated, “Mama silly.”

Increasingly, I choose not to help myself, for while I have only to listen to those around me to know that I am behaving foolishly and ought to shake myself free of such nonsensical behaviour, I prefer flightiness to despair; if I can maintain the former during the day, I can almost endure the nighttime, when the emptiness of my soul drives me further into the latter. Surely I am doing a good turn by my silliness; better that than the grave demeanour which is its opposite. At least, I am providing my children with a semblance of feminine behaviour, a model to emulate as they grow into womanhood. Or perhaps not, I do not know.

The truth is, dear Jane, that I do not know who I ought to be or who I am any more than I did in the years when
we were but girls. In these dark hours, in the absence of soul and spirit, I am incapable of denying memory its presence. It is a constant shadow which, come evening, spreads itself over all and sends me to my bedchamber, where it falls upon me like a cloak too heavy to throw off. And, like a spirit unbound, in he comes to torture me with memories of his touch, of his voice, of his very body as we lie together. Memory is my true punishment; would that I knew when or if it would end.

I would confess to the world at large that I did wrong if I believed that doing so would send memory scurrying away. I would confess that my unthinking behaviour threatened my marriage, that I humiliated my husband, and that I risked even the love of my children. And I have tried. I have wept alone. I have begged there in the darkness to be forgiven. I have promised myself to change my ways, to re-make myself in the image of you, Jane, to cast out the demon in me that has led to so much grief. My efforts have been to no avail. Morning finds me exhausted and without hope of restoration.

I am incapable of my own life.

And so I shall adopt another. You, in your most sisterly fashion, believing that speaking forthrightly to me would accomplish what your letters have not, proceeded to upbraid me for being foolish. Mr. Bennet, too, thinks I am but a silly woman. My children agree. Likewise Mrs. Littleworth. And most painfully, Colonel Millar. Well, if that is
what you think of me, then that is what I shall be: forever a girl, never a woman. Silly. Foolish. Unworthy of serious concern.

Let us see what comes of that.

Marianne Bennet

How in the world did this novel come to be? I am still amazed that it exists and that I wrote it. I was never an ardent fan of Jane Austen's novels, though I had read them with pleasure. Still, I had no particular interest in reviving Mrs. Bennet and was quite content with the 1940 film starring Greer Garson and Laurence Olivier. I adored it, in fact, and nobody since, except for Colin Firth, comes close to Sir Laurence's Darcy. Granted, Greer Garson is not the perfect Elizabeth, but Keira Knightley? Too skinny. Jennifer Ehle? Coarse. And the other Darcys? I don't even remember their names.

Let's blame this novel on feminism. It got hold of me sometime in the 1970s and has never let go. I was not a bra burner, nor did I join my sisters on the kitchen table where with mirrors aplenty they viewed their private parts. I did not march for women's rights, though I don't remember anyone asking me. I didn't make speeches, though if they had asked me, I wouldn't have known what to say. Yet things were not the same; I began to think about the girls
and women in literature and in magazines of the day and I began to say, Wait a minute, let's take another look at Curley's wife in
Of Mice and Men.
Let's take another look at Hester Prynne and at Anna Karenina and at Scout Finch. Doing that made life—and teaching—infinitely more interesting.

So one day, around 2009, primed by forty years of feminist wondering, I was taking a walk and thinking. With me was William, the man to whom this novel is dedicated. Always when we walk we wonder about a lot of things: how to write a bestseller, whether or not Kafka is overrated, how many people have actually read
Moby Dick
, and who is the sexiest writer in South America. On this particular day, I said, “You know, I think Mrs. Bennet got a bad deal.” And because I had been thinking about this for some time, I said, “Five children in eight years is enough to unsettle anybody. On the other hand, maybe she was always dotty, or do you think she got that way after she married Mr. Bennet or only as all those daughters were being born?” And William said, “There's your novel.”

And so it was. Of course, I nay-said the whole ridiculous thing: I didn't know how to write a novel, it would take too long even if I tried, and I knew nothing about the particulars of that century. Best to drop the whole thing. However, I needed to find the answer to my question! So I reread
Pride and Prejudice
, this time searching for clues. Why, Jane Austen hadn't even given Mrs. Bennet a first name, let alone told us how old she was when she married!
Then, on another walk, alone this time, the first line came to me: “O la! If only poor Mother had lived to tell me of the infamy that would be my wedding night.” The rest is what you have read, and I thank you for doing so. I hope you were pleased. Or amused. Not bored. Not upset. I hope you are smiling.

The lesson herein is: When puzzled, troubled, out of sorts, bored, angry, or happy as can be, take a walk. Something will
happen.

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