Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say (3 page)

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.

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.

Then from the bedroom: “The sound you hear, Mr. Bennet, is the clapping of my hands over little Jane's ears.” Mrs. Rummidge, having positioned herself at the top of the stairs where I was sure to see her, raised her eyes to heaven and made the sign of the cross. She believes herself to be Irish and the mother of many, hence her claim that she is duty-bound to protect them. A likely story.

May at Longbourn

Dear Jane,

I do believe Mr. Bennet will have his boy. Already the quickening is upon me and the black bile rises daily. He is tumbling within my womb so that I cannot hold down food of the least sort and each morning what little breakfast Mrs. Rummidge has managed to urge upon me spills forth into the basin. Who could have imagined that I would be with child so soon and so miserable. I sense a battle brewing between me and this little one. I am fatigued ever so much sooner in the day than I was with oh so easy little Jane. If this one wears me out before he is even born, what will he do once he is here?

Lest you think me an unworthy mother, please know that I have a mother's love for him despite the discomfort he is thrusting upon me. Yet it is a love different from what I felt for Jane. This little boy comes from my womb but not my soul. His eyes will not be the deep blue of Jane's; he will not have the sweetly firm chin of his sister, nor, clearly, her disposition. This child comes from Mr. Bennet, my lawfully wedded husband, and will have some of Mr. Bennet's traits
to be sure. I can only hope they will not include Mr. Bennet's failure to clip from within his nose and ears the unsightly tufts he seems oblivious to. If I did not pull away from him every now and then and scorn his ardent pleadings, insisting that unless he saw to his personal hygiene there would be no continuance of this so-called lovemaking, I am certain that from his face and neck would sprout a veritable vegetable patch much in need of weeding. I may be a dutiful wife but I am not a gardener. “Tend to your garden, Mr. Bennet,” I said to him more than once, “if you wish me to be fruitful and multiply.” He sighed but obeyed. “With obedience comes reward,” I reminded him. And now he claims that my morning sickness serves as proof that he was right. “
Who
was right?” I enquire of him. “Wasn't it I who was right? Was it not I who insisted on clipping and pruning?” He answers as he always does with a twist and a twirl against common sense: “Ah, but my dear, it was I who was obedient.” He chuckled. “And it is my child who rests within.” Another chuckle. “The child within,” I answer, “is not resting, you may be sure of that.” “Ah yes”—and he came close to a chortle—“the boy is master even now.” Lest you have forgot, Mr. Bennet has three utterances: the chuckle, the growl, and a moanful shudder to signal the end of his interminable lovemaking, the absence of the latter the single advantage of this difficult pregnancy.

Because yes, dear sister, Mr. Bennet and I, always the dutiful wife, did resume relations. Mrs. Rummidge assured me, bless her ignorant heart, that nursing little Jane would
ensure that not even the frequent and energetic proddings of Mr. Bennet would end in pregnancy. “Now, ma'am,” she said, “believe me. Suckling the little one will deliver you from another babe until such time as you choose.” And so Mr. Bennet, whose pacing and growling outside my door I could no longer bear, came into my bed. Shudder and moan, moan and shudder as he tilled his soil, and here I am now, miserable and forlorn, with little Jane not yet even a year.

Do you recall Miss A——, the kind and temperate woman who lived not far from us in Meryton? She who advised us so long ago, “Anything is to be preferred or endured rather than marrying without affection”? Surely she told a truth, but truth does not necessarily rest on fact, in my case the presence of a child within my womb and I without a husband. I wonder if Miss A——, were she to know the facts of my young life, would scorn me or amend her words of wisdom. At the very least, she would preface her statement with “
Almost
anything.” . . . Or perhaps not, for Miss A—— never married. So far as we know, she never even fell in love. Alas, wisdom comes at a price. Mine certainly has.

Next month I turn seventeen. I am soon the mother of two and a stranger in this house and to the man who is my husband. I am a stranger to myself. I was too long a child made too soon a woman. What is to become of me?

Yr Marianne

On the Trials of Being a Husband

Mus in pice.

“A mouse in a pitch barrel.”

—MONTAIGNE

It is a truth universally acknowledged that every man in possession of a wife must be in want of a son. I take pen in hand to underscore that very conviction and to offer in writing a defense of my own position in a household suddenly and unexpectedly ruled by women. Perhaps one day this record of events will bring into balance the events of my unfortunate married life. Please understand that with the birth of this second child—another girl—I have been twice disappointed. I feel myself punished for something I did not do and was not guilty of and had only the briefest acquaintance with, that being those few moments during which I planted my seed within this same wife who, against my wishes and no doubt due to all her complaining and whining during the nine months of waiting, had the temerity to spew forth yet another girl! Beyond understanding! The world does not need another girl. One
is sufficient to carry out the continuation of life as I believe it should be. This second girl, this Elizabeth so-named for no reason I have been made aware of, is an insult.

I keep to my library save for meals, but even there I am not provided with the peaceful comfort I have come to expect because upstairs, from Mrs. Bennet's room, comes the endless squalling of the infant Elizabeth. Morning, noon, night, nothing seems to soothe her, not even my threats. “Do not touch her!” screams Mrs. Bennet from her bed where Elizabeth twists away from her mother's breast to cast an angry eye on the man—her own father!—who looks as if he means to kill her. Devil child! Her hair has already turned red, her only saving grace, my hair having been once that very colour. There are moments, I will admit, when she is not unpleasing to my eye. But her apoplectic behaviour stems certainly from Mrs. Bennet's family; nothing in the history of my own peace-loving family would account for the baleful glare and the ear-splitting yowls that come from this fulvous-faced creature, arms and legs beating the air above her and upon anyone beside her, such as her mother. Only Mrs. Rummidge, unaccountably, can quiet her. “Here, here,” she croons as she rocks Elizabeth against her bony chest. “Abide with me, sleep close, sweet dreams.” And for a time Elizabeth becomes an infant like any other, though only for as long as it takes to gather the energy to recommence her violent
objection to her father should I poke my head into the room.