Mr. B Speaks! 5th Installment

Chapter 2: Day Two
Committee for Literary Fairness v. Mr. B

Mr. B entered the court, deliberately ignoring the interfering busybodies from the Committee for Literary Fairness.

He still couldn’t grasp why he was here. He had never excused or dismissed his mistakes with Pamela. Settling at the fictionals’ table, he said to Mr. Shorter, “I encouraged Pamela to publish her account of my misdeeds. She forgave me everything.” She’d married him. “Aren’t any of these people Christians?”

Mr. Shorter shrugged. “I don’t think it matters.”

It mattered to Pamela. Mr. B didn’t see who else it should matter to.

But then, he wasn’t always sure the people in this hearing were talking about his and Pamela’s novel. His testimony followed Pamela’s account: he’d read and reread her letters so often, he knew the order she gave to events. Her writing style was a tad effusive, but she and Mr. B concurred on who said what when, where, and even why.

But the people in this courtroom—more precisely, the people at the opposite table—seemed to think Pamela’s writing said something other than it did, that Pamela was not honest when she spoke of softening towards him, of loving him.

Perhaps, these non-fictionals wouldn’t leave Odysseus alone.

“Do you think they hate novels?” he said to Mr. Shorter.

“I’m not a huge fan of them myself.”

“Because they endanger society’s morals?” Mr. B said, surprised. Mr. Shorter had never struck Mr. B as an alarmist.

“What? No. I just prefer reading news.”

“They seem frightened,” Mr. B said, glancing towards the CLF table. “Like they don’t want novels to exist.”

Like they didn’t want Pamela to have ever been.

Under the table, Mr. B clenched his hands.

* * *

At the opposite table, Dr. Matchel murmured to the CLF psychologist, Mr. Hatch, “I thought we agreed to leave Pamela in Herland.”

“We did. She’s there now.”

“But you extracted her yesterday.”

“Our therapy sessions have to take place in the courthouse.”

“She doesn’t need therapy,” said Professor Gary. “She needs to get away from her bullying husband.”

“She doesn’t behave like an abused wife,” Mr. Hatch said.

Dr. Matchel said, “Women in these situations don’t always know they need help, Mr. Hatch.”

“That’s why I have to interview her.” Mr. Hatch was annoyed. His was the awesome responsibility of acquainting Pamela with non-repressive forms of self-expression. “Last night, I used yesterday’s transcripts to point out patriarchal assumptions in Mr. B’s testimony.”

“How did Pamela respond?”

Mr. Hatch twitched defensively. “She demanded to see her husband.”

“You see!”

“I’ll get through to her eventually.”

* * *

Leslie Quinn and Lonquist strolled into the courtroom together. They'd met at the coffee stand in the rotunda where they’d shared a pastry and discussed Wilkie Collins’s Woman in White.

“Our judge would be more comfortable with a murder mystery,” Lonquist said.

“Oh, he’ll find his legs. The eighteenth century is a lot to take on.”

“You’re just pleased he’s giving you access to the transcripts.”

“I’ve fleshed out two chapters in my next book.”

“So Pamela is simply a resource on eighteenth-century conditions?”

She twinkled. “I confess, I confess. The context matters more to me than the story. But then I don’t pretend anything else.”

“An honest scholar.”

“Oh, sure, there’s a few of us.”

“A voice crying in the wilderness.”

“Now, now,” Leslie Quinn scolded. “Don’t go using Biblical references. People will start thinking you’re a fictional character who actually reads the standard works of Western civilization.”

“I do, I do,” Lonquist admitted.

* * *

Judge Hardcastle’s robes bunched around his thighs as he sat down. The audience members were in place—Leslie Quinn with her notebook; Lonquist, the librarian, with his jaundiced gaze. At the character table, Mr. B sat, hands folded, beside Mr. Shorter, who had added an official looking pile of papers and a cup of coffee to his area.

Fictional lawyers always adjusted quickly to real life.

The CLF team members were also seated. They looked ready to make objections about yesterday’s testimony, particularly Gary the professor.

The judge preferred to get on with the story. He’d been tempted to read Pamela the night before, but during hearings, he tried to treat each text as a fresh experience—like meeting new friends or eating a new dish (the judge's wife liked to experiment with unusual recipes). Characters never failed to leave their own distinct impressions on the court.

He said, “We will proceed with Mr. B’s testimony. However, I must tell you, Mr. B, I am of the opinion that you should have helped Pamela get home to her parents.”

“I was enamored. I knew I should let her go. I wanted her to stay. Pamela liked talking to me.” A soft, reflective look crossed Mr. B’s face. “She’s careful around most people. A caustic wit isn’t always appreciated. I went back for more. And she liked being able to say what she thought to me. She will claim she tried to avoid me, but I managed to see a lot of her during those weeks.”

“You stalked her,” Gary said.

Mr. B directed his gaze at the courthouse windows.

Mr. Shorter said, “It is in Mr. B’s nature to form passionate attachments.”

“I think we’d better tackle this stalking charge,” the judge said. “You wanted to overhear Pamela talking about you—is that right?”

Mr. B nodded and began.

Mr. B’s Testimony Corresponding to Letters XXV-XXVII

Closet in Ham House

Treasure Hunt

National Trust Collection

I hid in Mrs. Jervis’s room. I went there while the servants were at supper and sat in her closet. I had to wait a while, so I read Robinson Crusoe—the tale of a resourceful hero. Quite appropriate to my situation.

Pamela and Mrs. Jervis came in. Pamela was sleeping with Mrs. Jervis by then. They were arguing. Apparently, Pamela hadn’t wanted me to see her in her peasant clothes; she accused Mrs. Jervis of deliberately exposing her. The motherly woman tried to soothe Pamela’s feelings, but Pamela wouldn’t listen. So much wrath and self-pity over so much ordinary human fallibility—Pamela was quite young at the time.

“There’s something in the closet,” she said, and Mrs. Jervis said, “Perhaps the cat” and tried to get Pamela to talk about me, but Pamela kept claiming to hear noises and the next thing I knew, we were face to face. For a moment, she looked bemused, and then she took in my silk dressing gown and bare feet and rushed for the bed.

I honestly hadn’t planned a seduction. I’d wanted to hear Pamela’s opinion of me, to discover what lurked behind her clutched-after front of propriety. But we’d suddenly become participants in a French farce with Pamela huddled under the covers and Mrs. Jervis trying to shoo me out.

I got fed up. “I can always dismiss you,” I told her, an unworthy threat. She’s a good housekeeper, Mrs. Jervis. She wasn’t impressed by my bluster anyway and told me to go to the other side of the room.

“Pamela’s fainted,” she said then.

“Hell’s bells,” I said.

“You’d better go.”

I left, feeling a fool.

The next morning, I went out hunting with two of my neighbors. I desperately wanted to shoot something. When I returned home, I found my entire household discussing the conflict between me and Pamela. This was intolerable. One cannot have servants making bets over a maid’s virtue.

I called Pamela to my dressing room. “Last night,” I said, “you frightened me as much as I frightened you.”

“You ought to be more afraid of God Almighty.”

I grinned. “Nicely urged, my pretty preacher! When my Lincolnshire chaplain dies, I’ll put thee in a gown and cassock and thou’lt make a good figure in his place.”

She glowered. I was trying on my court dress, and she studied my silver-laced waistcoat, head tilted. She came forward, smoothed out a wrinkle, then backed away, head still tilted.

“I’m considering a wife suitable to my station,” I told her, which was a lie. My sister wanted me to marry Lady Betty, but I’d refused to contemplate the match. Lady Betty is one of those aggressive teasers; I prefer my lovers to take me somewhat seriously.

Still, the lie was a handy way to distance myself.

“I’m glad for you,” Pamela said, but her voice shook.

“You should look more cheerful,” I told her, “or people will think you regret leaving me.”

“I will smile and laugh more.”

“A noteworthy moment,” I said. “This is the first time you’ve taken my advice.”

She pulled a face. “It is the first good advice you’ve given.”

Touché. “I wish you were as quick with your kisses as you are with your answers.”

She blushed and bolted. Naturally.