“You allude, perhaps,” murmured Mr. Collins, “to the entail of this estate?”
“Yes, sir. It is a very vexing situation.”
“I could say much on the subject,” he observed, grinning at his cousins with a particularly arch and irritating smirk, “but I am cautious of appearing forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies I come prepared to admire them! At present, I will not say any more, but perhaps when we are better acquainted…”
Jane and Elizabeth looked sternly away, whilst Kitty and Lydia did not try to hide their boredom. Only Mary looked at him with curiosity. It could not be denied that he did not make a very impressive figure. He had none of the swagger of the officers Kitty and Lydia so admired, nor the cheerful warmth of Mr. Bingley. And he certainly possessed nothing of Mr. Darcy’s natural gravity, the authority and assurance that commanded deference wherever he appeared. As she watched him talking to her mother, admiring the disposition of the rooms, the elegance of the furniture, and the colour of the curtains, it was hard not to find him foolish. Everything delighted him; he seemed not to understand where appreciation ended and flattery began. Yet, for all his obsequiousness, he frequently failed to please. He seemed not to notice that Mrs. Bennet did not like to hear her sofas compared to those which his esteemed patroness, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, had placed in her second-best morning room. He would do better, Mary thought, to say less and think more; but as he rambled on, she understood that would never happen. He would always condemn himself out of his own mouth, and would do so in complete ignorance of the poor impression he made. She began to feel apprehensive on his behalf about how he would fare at dinner. Mr. Collins offered her father such a tempting opportunity for exercising his wit that she could not imagine any circumstances in which he would forgo it.
Chapter 22
In the event, Mr. Bennet hardly spoke at all during dinner. He allowed himself the merest ghost of a smile when Mr. Collins, praising the food with the same extravagance with which he had admired all the other distinguishing marks of the house, asked to which of his fair cousins he was indebted for its cookery. Mrs. Bennet replied with some asperity, observing they were very well able to keep a cook and none of her daughters had anything to do in the kitchen. Chastened, Mr. Collins rushed to make amends, and continued to do so long after Mrs. Bennet considered herself appeased. It seemed to Mary as if he spent quite fifteen minutes apologising, whilst everyone else stared, embarassed, at their plates. But it was only when all was cleared away and the servants had withdrawn that she saw her father compose his features into an expression of polite enquiry and devote himself to the agreeable task of exposing as many of his guest’s failings as was possible before the coffee was brought in. He began by declaring that Mr. Collins seemed very fortunate in his patroness; could he enlighten them any further about Lady Catherine de Bourgh, who seemed so solicitous of his comfort and well-being?
He could not have chosen a better subject. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise, extolling her affability and condescension, her graciousness in approving his sermons, her generosity in inviting him to dinner, her extraordinary civility in sometimes asking him on a Saturday night to make up her pool of quadrille when another gentleman had disappointed her. For a lady of her rank, such behaviour was as exceptional as it was pleasing. She had even seen fit to distinguish his humble parsonage with a visit and had approved all the alterations he had made there, although she had been kind enough to inform him the upstairs closets required more shelves.
As he blundered on, the pity Mary had begun to feel for him grew. Her sisters, she knew, had already dismissed him. She could not say that she herself found him an admirable character; but she knew how it felt to hear one’s words greeted with puzzlement, scorn, or indifference, and her sympathy for him increased, even as he seemed determined to make his situation worse.
“Lady Catherine seems far more agreeable than many great ladies,” observed Mrs. Bennet. “I believe, sir, that she is a widow, and that she has a daughter?”
Mr. Collins agreed this was so.
“What kind of young lady is she? Is she considered very handsome?”
It was unfortunate, replied Mr. Collins, that Miss de Bourgh did not enjoy the good health usually considered essential to beauty; but, as he frequently assured Lady Catherine, her looks were of the refined kind which marks the young woman of distinguished birth.
“Has she been presented at court, sir?”
“Her indifferent health unhappily prevents her being in town,” Mr. Collins explained. “As I told Lady Catherine, this misfortune has deprived the British court of its brightest ornament.”
He looked around, as pleased with himself as he was with his remark.
“I am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate compliments which are always agreeable to ladies.”
Mary closed her eyes for a moment. He had surely sealed his fate now. She saw her father sit up.
“I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine that her daughter was born to be a duchess,” continued Mr. Collins. “These are the little things which please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay.”
“You judge very properly,” said Mr. Bennet, “and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are they the result of previous study?”
“They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time,” replied Mr. Collins, “and though I sometimes amuse myself with composing such elegant little compliments as may be adapted to any occasion, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible.”
Mr. Bennet nodded, delighted to discover that his cousin was quite as absurd a figure as he could possibly have wished. Nothing in his features betrayed his pleasure; apart from a glance or two at Elizabeth, he gave no sign of it. Mr. Collins himself was quite unconscious of the judgement that had been passed upon him, raising his glass in happy ignorance of his condemnation. But Mary was ashamed. It seemed a dishonourable thing to treat a guest in such a manner, even when he was as foolish and silly as Mr. Collins.
When they rose from the table and made their way to the drawing room to take more coffee, Mary attempted to speak a few kind words to her cousin in recompense. She trusted his journey had gone well, and that he was not too tired? Was this the first time he had been in Hertfordshire? He answered perfunctorily, his eyes searching for a seat which would place him as close as possible to Jane. Throughout dinner, he had smiled at the eldest Bennet sister with a warmth which was not returned; but he appeared not to notice her coolness. When the general conversation petered out, everyone having exhausted their stock of empty politeness, Mr. Bennet suggested that their guest might entertain them by reading aloud. Mr. Collins eagerly assented, and after a brief scouring of shelves and side tables, a book was produced. But when handed to Mr. Collins, he looked at it with disdain. It was, Mary saw, her mother’s latest volume borrowed from the circulating library.
“I beg your pardon, but I am afraid I must disoblige you. I never read novels. Perhaps you have something else?”
Mary considered him hopefully. Perhaps his literary tastes were closer to her own than to her mother’s? In the ensuing bustle, whilst new books were searched for, it occurred to Mary that he might enjoy one of her own favourite titles. Rushing to fetch it from its accustomed place, she handed it to him quickly, before any alternative could be offered.
“Perhaps this might be more to your liking, sir?”
“Ah, yes, Fordyce’s Sermons!” he replied approvingly. “We shall not go wrong with this!”
Mary dropped her eyes and smiled with secret pride as he opened the familiar pages and began. He read exactly as might have been expected, slowly, portentously, and with exaggerated solemnity. But Mary was thrilled to hear the well-known phrases spoken aloud, without irony or disdain. As his voice rolled on, she began to consider w
hether there might be other interests she and her cousin shared—had he read Blair’s Sermons, she wondered, or perhaps even something by Bishop Berkeley? How exciting it would be to discuss them with a like-minded reader. Her thoughts dwelt so keenly upon such rich possibilities that she did not see Lydia fidgeting with boredom on the other side of the room; and her sister’s sudden exclamation was almost as great a surprise to Mary as it was to Mr. Collins.
“Do you know, Mama, that my uncle Phillips talks of turning away Richard, and that if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him? I shall walk into Meryton tomorrow to hear more about it.”
Lydia was immediately bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue, whilst Mrs. Bennet apologised profusely. In truth, only Mary genuinely regretted that they should hear no more, for Mr. Collins was seriously offended and had closed the book with an aggrieved frown.
“I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes me, I confess.”
Just at that moment, coffee finally arrived; and in the distraction created by its being laid out, Mary leant across to Mr. Collins and sought to soothe his ruffled dignity.
“I am very sorry you did not continue, sir. I am a great admirer of Dr. Fordyce and have read the sermons through on many occasions. This is my copy, you know.”
“I am glad to hear that one amongst you is interested in advantageous instruction. It is true nothing is so beneficial to young ladies as well-directed reading, though not all are disposed to appreciate its importance.”
He shot an affronted glance at Lydia, who, absorbed in a low, confidential conversation with Kitty, did not notice at all. Mary persevered.
“As you think so highly of Dr. Fordyce, I should very much like to hear what other authors you enjoy. Not all young women are indifferent to works of a serious nature. I myself am very keen to discover other books that may be of benefit to me.”
“That is very commendable in you, and I am glad to hear it. But I hope you will forgive me if our conversation is postponed for another time. If you will excuse me, I intend to propose myself to your excellent father for a game of backgammon. I feel I can be of no further use amongst the ladies.”
With the smallest of ingratiating bows, he was gone.
* * *
As she lay in bed that night, Mary turned the events of the day over in her mind. There was no doubt Mr. Collins could not be considered an amiable man. His manner was pompous, he was puffed up with self-regard, and during the short time he had spent in their company, he had done everything in his power to make himself look ridiculous. And yet, for all his failings—or perhaps even because of them—the flicker of sympathy she had felt for him, as her father encouraged him to display ever more incriminating evidence of his foolishness, had not been entirely extinguished. Beneath his stiff and artificial manner, she thought she had caught a glimpse of something uncertain, a nervousness hidden behind his smirk. He was not at ease with himself, and she could not help feeling a little sorry for him. She knew what it was to believe herself out of place and always in the wrong, and thought that he might too.
His choosing to read from Dr. Fordyce had only increased her sense of fellow feeling. It was true he had not seized the opportunity to discuss with her other works of a similar nature; and she had to admit that his conversation did not suggest his intellect was of the most acute and brilliant kind. But perhaps during his stay, she could learn more about his tastes. They might read together, discussing their opinions at the end of a morning of quiet study. She saw herself, little by little, winning his confidence, encouraging him to think of her as a partner in serious study. It would be agreeable to have a companion in pursuits she had hitherto undertaken alone.
Suddenly she was startlingly aware of the direction her thoughts were taking. Was it possible she was considering Mr. Collins as a possible suitor? She was shocked and a little ashamed. She had not consciously intended to think of him in such a light, and yet she could not deny the possibility had begun to take shape in her mind. What was she thinking? She had met him only for a few hours, and his character had hardly been such as to captivate or amuse. It was true she had felt sorry for the treatment he had received at her family’s hands; and of course, there was Fordyce. But a shared taste for improving literature was surely not enough to begin thinking of him as a potential husband?
Charlotte of course would have laughed at her misgivings, arguing that a couple brought together by a common interest stood as good a chance as any of finding happiness; and that an appreciation for the works of Dr. Fordyce might be a firmer foundation for marriage than the turbulent emotions of love. Mary’s rational mind saw the sense of such arguments; but when she applied them to herself and Mr. Collins, her spirit faltered. She thought she might in time learn to live with a man whom she did not love, if that was her destiny. Perhaps she would become as adept as Charlotte in fixing her eyes on the practical benefits of a loveless union. But she was not sure she could endure to be tied forever to a husband she could not respect. The marriage of her parents, always before her eyes, demonstrated only too clearly the miserable consequences of such a choice. Where there was no real esteem, contempt and bitterness soon followed. If she was seriously to consider Mr. Collins as her partner in life, she must find something worthwhile in him, or she really should not continue to think of him at all.
At first this did not seem an easy task. When she recalled the many ways in which he had exposed himself during the evening, her heart sank. But she urged herself to think more coolly, to try to rise above the first impressions he had made; and with a little effort, her determination eventually proved almost equal to the challenge.
Looked at with dispassion, it might be argued that none of his sins were of the very worst kind. Yes, he was foolish and silly; but he did not seem vicious or degraded. No scandal attached to his name, he was neither a drunkard nor a debtor, and his temper gave no suggestion of violence. Most of his faults, thought Mary, lay in the way he presented himself to the world, and that perhaps was not so grievous a crime? He was still a young man, and his errors need not be fixed and unalterable. Some of the worst might be corrected in time, especially if he were to fall under the influence of a sensible woman. Under her gentle discipline, he might learn a little restraint; encouraged by her delicacy, he might acquire some dignity; and directed by her taste, he could perhaps become the kind of man for whom a wife could eventually come to feel, if not love, then at least some mild regard.
And if Mr. Collins was capable of becoming a better man, why should she not be the one who effected his transformation? None of her sisters would be prepared to take on such a task, nor equal to achieving it. She was the one Bennet daughter who, by accepting Mr. Collins, might make it possible for him to grow into a more sensible being. Mary shifted in her bed, aware of where her thoughts were leading her. Perhaps it was her duty to marry Mr. Collins, to save him from himself?
Of course, in becoming his wife, she would secure her own future as well as his. As Mrs. Collins, she would be both comfortable and secure. At the same time, she would deliver the greatest prize of all, for marriage to him would keep the Bennet property in the Bennet family line and remove forever the looming shadow of the entail. She smiled bitterly to herself in the darkness as she imagined her mother’s response when she understood it was the least loved and most disregarded of her daughters to whom she owed the prospect of a happy old age. It was a triumph that would offend Mrs. Bennet very deeply. That alone rendered the prospect of marriage to Mr. Collins almost worthwhile.
She turned over, unable to settle, and vigorously shook out her pillow. All this was very well, but what chance did she have of securing him? There was little doubt he was ready to marry. He had hinted to Mrs. Bennet this was his intention, and his very presence at Longbourn suggested he was disposed to make a choice from one of his five cousins, although Mary was candid enough to admit there was no reason to suppose
Mr. Collins had any preference for her. It had been Jane’s lovely face which had attracted his attention. But then she remembered Charlotte’s insistence that a man’s preference might be turned round by a woman truly determined to win him. Charlotte would have told Mary her task was clear—she must communicate her readiness for matrimony by any means necessary, flattering Mr. Collins’s pride, and pumping up his self-regard, guiding him step by careful step towards the realisation that she and she alone was the only sensible choice for him to make.
As she turned it over in her mind, it seemed to Mary that dispassionate reasoning—of the kind advocated so forcefully by Charlotte and, indeed, by all her favourite authors—admitted no doubt in the matter. Marrying Mr. Collins was the rational thing to do. Both of them would benefit from such a union. He offered her escape from an uncertain destiny, the possibility of a comfortable home, and the salvation of her family’s finances. She promised him a sympathetic temper, an interest in serious subjects, and the prospect that, by managing his worst excesses, she might enable him to present a more pleasing figure to the world.
But even as Mary congratulated herself on the clarity of her thinking, something within her resisted, her heart rejecting the conclusions her head had so easily arrived at. Could she really imagine herself as Mr. Collins’s wife? What if she were wrong, and there was no better Mr. Collins for her to discover? Could she bear to be yoked to man who could not open his mouth without provoking derision? Even if it proved possible to cajole him into making her an offer, was there really any possibility of their making each other even tolerably happy? Pity and self-interest on her part, coupled with ignorance and naivety on his, seemed very fragile foundations on which to build a life together, whatever Charlotte might say. Unbidden, an image sprang into her mind of John Sparrow at the Meryton assembly, holding out his hand to invite her to dance. She remembered them smiling together, their shyness dissolving under the pleasure they discovered in each other’s company. He had held her little bag and offered to take her spectacles out and clean them with the cuff of his shirt when no-one was looking. They had both laughed, and then they had danced again.
The Other Bennet Sister Page 12