Mrs. Bennet Has Her Say by Jane Juska

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, itsfootpaths 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