I propped an elbow over the book. “It’s not a title you would have any interest in, I’m sure. I would have picked up something else, except there was nothing better to read—”
“Don’t make me come over there and get it from you,” Lydia said, sitting up, intrigued.
“Oh?” I replied nonchalantly, reopening the volume that just minutes ago I’d determined to give up for the evening; I’d forgotten what a Herculean effort had been required to get through it the first time. “I didn’t think you or Kitty would want to listen to any more excerpts from Fordyce’s Sermons after how well it was received last night.”
Lydia scowled. “Fordyce’s Sermons?” she repeated, and Kitty echoed her sister’s indignation from her seat at the card table. “Why on earth would you want to pick up that awful book again, unless…”
“Unless what?” I asked, my face and neck burning.
“Unless you are in love with Mr. Collins, of course!” Lydia barely managed to get the words out before her whole body convulsed with violent laughter, as though she were in the grips of a seizure. She rolled off the settee, kicked her legs gleefully in the air, and would have likely performed more acrobatics to express her pleasure had Papa not raised his voice and demanded that she at once restore herself to a proper and upright position.
“You know, I was wondering why anyone would look at an unattractive man so much, unless she were in love with him,” Lydia remarked thoughtfully from the carpet. She cocked her head at me the way birds do when they have spotted something unfamiliar that may yet be edible.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, you stupid girl,” I retorted.
“No name-calling, Mary,” Mama chided.
“Goodness knows you’re welcome to him,” Lydia said, installing herself in a chair. “Certainly no one else will have him, even if he does take his meals with that pompous Lady Something-or-other, as we are reminded of daily.”
“Mr. Collins’s connection with Lady Catherine may not mean anything to you, Lydia,” Lizzy said, “but many others would consider it a great advantage and proof of his respectability.”
“It’s very well that you should say so, Lizzy,” Lydia replied, practically glowing with smugness, “as I have it on good authority that Mr. Collins likes you best of everyone.”
Lizzy’s face turned the peculiar shade of unripe tomatoes. The idea of being distinguished among her family for the poor reward of Mr. Collins’s affections was evidently repellent to her, and so long as the expression of her emotion was not abusive to others, my sister had never seen reason to conceal her true feelings from the world. She professed she had done nothing to encourage Mr. Collins’s regard for her, had, moreover, neither received nor detected any special attention from those quarters, and begged Lydia to learn the difference between the wild conceptions of her fantasies and the banal realities that encompassed everyday life. Lydia, however, would not be so easily put off. She continued to smile at the priceless dramas she had unearthed, while Kitty watched her in awe.
“You can deny it all you like, Lizzy,” Lydia continued. “I heard it myself. I was listening at the door of the breakfast room—”
“Lydia, what did I tell you about listening in on other people’s conversations?” Jane said.
“I was listening at the door of the breakfast room,” Lydia repeated, ignoring Jane, “and I heard Mr. Collins tell Mama, though not in such simple language, that he wanted to marry one of us. That’s the errand, if you like, that Lady Catherine has sent him on in coming here. At first, he liked Jane, but Mama told him Jane was as good as married, what with Mr. Bingley being in love with her, and then Mr. Collins said he wouldn’t mind settling for Lizzy, who, he said, was almost as pleasant to look at as Jane, even if she wasn’t as pretty or elegant.”
“Lydia!” Jane and Lizzy cried together from their corner.
“Lydia, dear, do be quiet,” Mrs. Bennet said, stepping in at last. Making as if to busy herself with the primping of an old cushion, she added, “But since Lydia has put us on the subject, I do hope that whatever attentions Mr. Collins condescends to show any of you will be accepted and reciprocated with the utmost civility and gratitude. I have welcomed his advances on this front on behalf of everyone in the family except Jane. The reason for this should be self-evident.” Setting down the pillow, she smiled at Jane, though her meaning had already been well comprehended by all of us. She alluded, of course, to the expectation that Jane would soon be married to our distinguished neighbor of five thousand pounds per annum. If it were not for Mr. Bingley and his recent attentions to the eldest Miss Bennet, I fear Jane would have been offered as the choicest of sacrificial lambs for the preservation of our entailed estate; the task of saving her mother and four sisters from destitution would have fallen squarely on her delicate and well-shaped shoulders.
“There, Mary,” Lydia said, twisting a lock of hair around her finger. “You will have your chance with Mr. Collins after all. Doesn’t that make you happy?”
I said nothing. Taking my silence for submission, she soon moved on to the equally inane diversion of asking Lizzy and Jane whether they thought she or Kitty would look better on George Wickham’s arm once he was dressed in regimentals. This subject being exhausted after a quarter of an hour’s heated discussion, everyone professed their desire to go to bed, and it was not long before I entered the welcome seclusion of my room and undressed in the cool and unseeing dark.
That night, I recalled various instances of praise from respectable gentlemen who, in viewing all five of us sitting carefully arranged across settees and chairs, would exclaim that we were the handsomest women they had ever seen and that they felt quite overwhelmed by the concentration of so much beauty in a space as small as our drawing room. Decorum demanded that they address their compliments to all of us, but I have always known better. To pretend otherwise would be laughable—the beggar playing the part of the king. I have, as a result of the episodes already mentioned, refrained from showing much emotion in public. I prefer that those who do not know me should consider me aloof rather than believe I am invested in concerns which will always be the birthright of the attractive, the titled, or the wealthy. It is a small consolation for a stranger to think that I don’t dance because I do not wish to, not because no man in the room will ask me. And there is, of course, a reason that people will not generally discuss the marriage prospects of an ugly woman. This reason, I imagine, is not so very different from why we do not ask a fat man how many helpings he must eat before his stomach feels full or why we take pains to avoid the subject of age to a woman who has spots on her hands and whiskers on her chin.
In truth, not all five of us combined could have equaled the worth produced by a single son, had he ever been born, and the daily reminder of my father’s mortality and of Longbourn’s entailment had often compelled me to revisit the poor contribution I made to my family in my birth and subsequent survival.
For several hours that night, I could not sleep. As soon as I shut my eyes, I felt the fresh cut of Lydia’s teasing, sharp as the first, ravenous bite into an apple. You will have your chance with Mr. Collins after all. Doesn’t that make you happy? I saw Jane’s face, a ghostly apparition taunting me with its loveliness. I saw Papa, the little smiles he had exchanged with Lizzy and Lizzy alone over dinner. The sheets were damp by the time my body gave in to its exhaustion. Outside, the first light of dawn glowed like pale fire behind threadbare clouds. I dreamed I had curled my body into Mr. Collins’s black cloak and that his delicate chin rested on the very top of my skull. I’d whispered, “Save me” into the cavity of his ear, which in my dreams was as smooth and luminescent as the inside of a seashell, and from the opaque hollow his voice had answered in dulcet tones: “I will.”
The arrival of Mr. Collins, though initially dreaded by Mama, who’d determined to thoroughly dislike the man on behalf of us poor and unfortunate females, ha
d conversely been anticipated to some small degree by our father, who, in having every expectation of finding his nephew an individual of weak understanding and meager scholarship, had hoped to derive some amusement from his stay at Longbourn. Soon after Mr. Collins’s arrival, however, Papa began to despair of his original assurance of pleasure, and Mama, who’d always been inclined to think things settled at the very first indication of victory, joyously admitted to herself the probable hope that Longbourn would, after all, remain the property of at least one of her daughters, even after our father’s passing, by the happy means of marriage. And what with Mr. Bingley’s continuing attentions towards Jane, Mama was in extraordinarily bright spirits on the third day of Mr. Collins’s stay, for she had every reason to be confident in the prospect of marrying off at least one of her children before the conclusion of the year and, with any luck, a second by the beginning of the next.
As for Papa, I’m sure that Mr. Collins hadn’t intended any offense in following his host to the library after both breakfast and lunch and enthralling my father with firsthand accounts of the grandeur of Rosings. He could not have known the insult he paid Mr. Bennet in overtaking his second-best armchair and clumsily handling the largest and heaviest tome that Longbourn’s small library offered. According to my father, our cousin made a truly convincing pretense of studying this thousand-page historical treatise and even recited out loud passages that, he claimed, resonated with the sensitive chords of his literary soul. Upon Mr. Collins’s insistence that he would complete the entire history of the rise and fall of the Roman Empire before his departure from Longbourn next Saturday, Papa had no recourse left but to remain in his bedroom with enough books to last out most of his waking hours.
For me, Mr. Collins remained a diverting and welcome curiosity. I was able to extract some comfort in the discovery of a character who seemed relegated, like myself, to living as an outsider.
It was in a scholarly attitude that I found Mr. Collins in Papa’s library a second time, with the aforementioned title draped like an unwieldy blanket across his lap. Hunched over the yellowing pages, he appeared to be studying for some duration a single sentence and, on closer inspection, a single word, for his index finger remained motionless, until his head fell so much forward that he tumbled out of his seat, and I realized from his dazed expression that he must have been asleep for some time. Determined to keep from laughing, I committed myself at once to helping Mr. Collins up from the carpet, and with a grateful if not somewhat abashed acknowledgment of my assistance, he asked if I wouldn’t take a seat and hear the impressive progress he’d been making with the book.
“I was just reflecting,” Mr. Collins began, and the tip of his index finger alighted gently across the rounded point of his chin, “on the number of military highways which stemmed from Rome at its peak—no less than twenty-nine, if it can be believed, and tens of thousands of miles of these roads were said to be stone-paved, some of which to this day remain intact.”
I remarked that this was indeed incredible, and Mr. Collins continued with renewed confidence: “Yes, I flatter myself in being a great student of history, and in this, Lady Catherine and I are once more perfectly aligned in our interests, for she is a firm believer that one should be able to extract from the historical annals lessons both moral and political to be applied to the rigors of daily life. Observe, for instance, the decadence of the French philosophers, and the unthinkable chaos which the indulgence of those persons ultimately led to.”
I supposed what he said was true, and seeing that I comprehended his meaning, he began to stare at me with a certain thoughtfulness. I returned his look with curiosity, and in observing that I had become aware of him, he promptly turned away and made as if to continue reading his book, his eyes flitting from one corner of the page to another like a pair of unsettled flies. “I find it fascinating,” he continued in a measured voice, “that where Caesar and Caligula had both failed in their conquest of Britain, a half-deaf man with a limp should succeed instead…and riding on an elephant, too! How extraordinary, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Claudius,” I said.
“Yes,” Mr. Collins replied, his cheeks flushing. He gripped the edges of his book and, raising his head to peer at me again, said suddenly, “I’m afraid my young cousins don’t think very much of me, do they? You may be honest with me.”
I could barely keep from rolling my eyes. “Lydia and Kitty see, hear, and know nothing except the comings and goings of the officers,” I said. “For my part and for my family’s, I am certainly sorry for their behavior, but rest assured it is no poor reflection of you. They would not see a perfectly sensible man standing in front of them, if he were not also dressed in regimentals with his sword drawn.”
“I don’t mean just your two younger sisters,” Mr. Collins said, hesitating. “I’m certain I have caught my cousin Elizabeth laughing at me on at least two separate occasions at the dinner table.”
I sensed here a fine opportunity to put Mr. Collins off the idea of marriage to my sister, if indeed he had entertained such a notion in the first place. “Lizzy can be a little facetious at times,” I began carefully, not wishing to bungle my chance, “but I’m sure she did not mean to laugh at you. I feel obliged to tell you, however, that she takes a great deal after my father, whose continued indulgence has encouraged a bit of a stubborn streak. This may also explain her penchant for being less inclined to listen to the advice of others, since she has always possessed a confident assurance of her own mind.” I hastily added, feeling a flash of guilt, “Though Lizzy is wonderfully adept in all manner of debate, being wittier and quicker on her feet than the rest of us.”
“Well!” Mr. Collins cried. To my satisfaction, he appeared somewhat shocked at this revelation. “Though I am grieved to hear this, I cannot but feel sorry, too, for I may tell you in all sincerity that Lady Catherine’s suggestions on a wide range of affairs, both in the running of domestic households and in the dealings of entire countries, have been sought after on numerous occasions by her friends and that she, depending on the season, is sometimes so much in demand that I have had to remind her ladyship not to be too overwrought by the need society has of her. I feel sorry for anyone who cannot think fit to benefit from her wisdom.”
“Lady Catherine seems an extraordinary person by your description,” I commented, grateful for any opening to steer the conversation away from Lizzy and further endear myself to him. “One point, which I’ve always been curious to learn, Mr. Collins, is how you made her acquaintance.”
I had assumed that even the smallest mention of his benefactress would have rendered any further incentive for conversation wholly unnecessary, so I was surprised when Mr. Collins did not immediately answer. Instead, he leaned his diminutive body deeper against the back of his chair and seemed to consider how to reply. The several seconds of silence generated enough discomfort that I felt compelled to apologize for creating any offense by my question, however involuntarily. In hearing my voice, he started a little in his seat and waved my concerns away with one hand while the other gripped the arm of the chair. He then shrugged and said he had not recalled the instance of their first and most fortuitous meeting for some time now and that though it was a pleasant memory, the events preceding it remained considerably less agreeable for him to remember.
“I’d like to tell you the story,” he began, and in his voice, there was an uncharacteristically solemn tone, “though I’d consider it a great favor if you didn’t share what I am about to say with anyone else, not even with your own sisters.”
I quickly assured him of my discretion, and staring into the flames of the library’s hearth, he continued: “My father, who you may have heard tell of from your own father, was an illiterate and miserly man given to drink, and if I’d been so unlucky as to remain under his guidance, I shudder to think where I’d be now. By luck, a relation of mine on my mother’s side who visited on the unhappy o
ccasion of her passing took pity on my situation and, observing quickly that should I stay forever with my father I would suffer greatly, decided to bestow upon me some money and secured, through a connection of his, entrance for me into one of the universities. Having no few children of his own, he could not give me as much money as he wished, but he was convinced by what he had seen of me that I would profit by a good education. Shortly after our first few meetings, my relation died—he’d been ill for some time with a poor heart, and I am unashamed to say that I grieved his death with more sincerity and more tears than ever I did for my own father when he died, God rest his soul. Though what he had parted with in his lifetime was already mine and could not be withdrawn from my possession, I was informed by the remaining members of his family, in no uncertain terms, that I should expect no more gifts from them and that I’d gained too much already by his kindness and charity. The money he’d given me—amounting to some two hundred pounds—as great a sum as others might consider it, given our brief acquaintance, was by no means sufficient to pay my way through university, but in writing a letter to the connection of my relation’s at the college, I was happily informed that my admission still stood. I would enter that most revered institution as a student of, as it was described to me in the letter, ‘comparatively modest ranking,’ that is, as a servitor, who would receive, I was told, as rigorous and comprehensive an education as any of his classmates but must work some light tasks in addition to his studies to pay for his room and board and instruction.”
I knew that my uncle, Mr. Collins’s father, had died only the previous year. Owing to the rift which existed between them, Papa never spoke of his younger brother, though I’d heard from Mama that he was a brutal man and had beaten his wife so terribly on one occasion as to induce a miscarriage. Two of my uncle’s children had died in their infancy; I remember it clearly because Mama had said it was a blessing, and in my innocence at the time, I couldn’t understand how the death of babes could be termed anything but a tragedy. From my seat, I observed Mr. Collins’s hands, the way they alighted upon his forehead to massage the corners at right angles. They were as fine as a musician’s hands, his fingers like delicate white reeds tinged at the ends with soft dashes of pink.
Mary B Page 6