He wetted his lips before continuing. “The prospect of light labor didn’t concern me, as I’d been accustomed for most of my life to working hard and learning with few resources at my disposal. Soon after my arrival, I was assigned to wait upon a group of four students of higher ranking, known as noblemen commoners, to shine their shoes and make their beds, to sweep their rooms, to run menial errands for them, and to serve them as though they were my lords and masters and I’d entered not an institution of higher learning as a student but a private estate as a housekeeper or butler. I received no wages for my services and slept with the other servitors in a dirty room that was too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter. Two of the four men I looked after, one the second son of an earl and the other the eldest son of a baroness, gave me their assignments to complete while they whored and drank and gambled with their families’ money. And it was in this way, not by attending lectures, that I received the vast part of my education. These men also entrusted me with their secrets and various tales of indiscretions and, provided no one of any importance or rank was near enough to see, would often enter into conversation with me so that I naïvely came to believe they considered me less a servant than a true friend.”
I listened to his every word, enthralled. It was as though the narrator of one of my novels had materialized in flesh and blood from the pages and was speaking exclusively to me—his sole reader and confidante. Before my eyes, a physical transformation seemed to occur. His figure, previously small and prancing, became enlarged by the glow of the fire. The gravity of his voice, coupled with his eloquence, rendered him nearly handsome. His brow darkened, as the complexions of all heroes were wont to do before the hour of their greatest trials, and my heart quickened.
“I learned otherwise one evening approaching the conclusion of my second year,” Mr. Collins continued. “The two men I mentioned—Master Spencer and Master Randolph, I called them—came to me very late in the night and told me that in return for the services and loyalty I’d paid them, they would invite me to a private costume ball to be hosted in one of the college’s dining rooms. I felt bound to tell them, of course, that I did not possess a costume, nor did I have money to commission one, and, smiling, they said they would purchase one expressly for me, along with shoes and a wig, so that I did not have to worry about my clothes. They said that as my face would be heavily made up, no one would know a servitor had entered their ranks and that they would vouch for me by telling everyone I was a visiting relation.”
“And do you mean to say you believed them?” I asked, incredulous.
“Not entirely,” he replied, and he shielded one half of his face, as though an invisible hand had struck him. “My friends, for that is what I considered them, brought me my costume a few days later. As soon as I saw the nature of the garment and the accessories they’d obtained, I confess I would have gladly forgone the honor of their invitation, though by then it was too late. I was to dress as a French nobleman, and a more exaggerated interpretation of that character could not be found in the best satirical cartoons of the day. They had prepared for me a long white wig and silk stockings and buckled shoes and helped me to draw several large moles on my powdered face, which, they said, would prevent anyone from recognizing me and add some humorous authenticity to my appearance. Observing me fully dressed, they left me with many compliments and went to go prepare themselves. Neither of them would reveal what their own costumes were, but they assured me that they would appear just as foolish as I did and that I wouldn’t be able to keep from laughing when I saw them. Shortly before the party, a letter appeared under my door, instructing me to meet Master Spencer and Master Randolph at the entrance of a certain dining room—you see, previously, we’d agreed to go together. As I’d no wish to keep them waiting, and thinking that something must have happened to prompt them to leave without me, I proceeded at once to the location they’d specified in their letter, with my wig on and my makeup in place, only to discover upon my hurried arrival that everyone had already been seated at the table and that, far from being a costume ball, the affair appeared no more than a typical dinner of several noblemen commoners and a few gentlemen commoners who were lucky enough to be counted among their acquaintance. Neither of my so-called friends were in fancy dress, and on spotting me in the doorway, they clapped their hands, roared as loud as twin lions with laughter, and bid everyone in the room to look at who had come.”
“How horrible! How you must have felt!” I cried out, unable to suppress my indignation any longer. Indeed, my pity for him was so great in this moment that if he had asked me then and there to marry him, I might have been prevailed upon to accept his hand.
Turning away from the fire to meet my gaze, Mr. Collins continued: “I wish I could describe to you, dear cousin, how deep and terrible was my mortification, but there are no words. I had no time to consider my friends’ betrayal, and being too humiliated to summon even the most primitive faculty of speech, I scarcely heard the sarcastic compliments of the young man who sat at the head of the table and who, when I didn’t immediately answer his address to me, bid me sharply to speak up. I later found out that he was the eldest son of a marquis and very soon expected to inherit both his father’s estate and title. All my better feelings implored me to run, to leave these dreadful people behind and salvage what little remained of my pride and honor—but something, a small voice barely discernible between the raucous pounding of the table and the wild beating of my heart, froze me to the spot of ground I stood on. Hardly conscious of my own actions, I found myself bowing to this young man and smiling behind a film of tears. I replied in a voice half-breaking that it was very kind of him to admire my costume, which induced, of course, more laughter and applause from the table and pleased both Master Spencer and Master Randolph, who were glad to find me a willing player in their cruel game. As there were eight of them and only one of me, I hadn’t the luxury to consider my situation until all four courses were served, the plates and leftovers cleared, and wine poured and poured again for all members of the party. It was well past one in the morning when I returned my wig and costume to their procurers. Finding them alone, I took care not to bring up what had just taken place at dinner and offered no accusations or indications of my disappointment. In a few short words, I expressed my gratitude for their having invited me—nothing overflowing, mind you, for I didn’t want to give the impression that I was mocking them—and left.
“Though I could never forget, much less forgive, the trick they played on me, I remained in their good graces for the next two years and was, in this time, appointed by the provost to become a Bible clerk, for which service I received a small annual stipend. My other duties, of cleaning and looking after the rooms of the four men, remained largely unchanged, and it was in this way that I stumbled one evening across an opened letter. The note was from an acquaintance of Master Randolph’s who’d set his sights on entering the church, and in it, he mentioned a vacancy at the Hunsford parsonage, near Rosings Park, where a noblewoman and her daughter resided, a Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Miss Anne de Bourgh of extensive property and even greater fortune. As Lady Catherine and her late husband were well acquainted with Master Randolph’s family, this acquaintance now begged his friend to put in a good word for him in the attainment of this vacancy. I saw my opportunity and at once acted on it. Losing no time, I spoke with Master Randolph in confidence, and though he was at first enraged by my confession that I’d read his private correspondence, I had only to remind him of one or two indiscretions which he’d divulged to me in the past, before he quickly changed his mind. Taking up his pen, he wrote by my dictation a letter to Lady Catherine on my behalf, which I watched him sign and seal with his signet ring and which I took immediately from him to post. Not long afterwards, he received a short but encouraging reply from that great person, who thanked him for the introduction, and I was promptly summoned to visit Lady Catherine at Rosings Park, where she could as
certain my worthiness for herself. Satisfied by what she saw, she discussed the appointment with her daughter, who echoed her feelings, and I assumed my position as the rector of Hunsford parsonage no less than two months later.”
Mr. Collins released a sigh whose heaviness filled the room, and for some moments, both of us sat staring at our feet. I wished desperately for something to say—and, indeed, he seemed to wait for me to make a reply—but my thoughts ran wild, and nothing cohesive emerged. Had my sense of propriety not been so strong, I might have given vent to my admiration and confounded both him and myself in doing so, but, fortunately, I said nothing and offered only the inviting silence of a captivated audience. Turning back to the fire, he closed his book and swept his fingers over the dusty cover, leaving a clean black trail on the leather. He seemed to me a new man; I could look upon him now with full comprehension of his speech and feelings and motivations. Where there’d been from the first a dramatic and exaggerated obsequiousness, even a laughable servility, at any mention of those persons whose private fortunes entitled them to conduct their affairs many levels above the rest of us, I perceived that this flattery, this mood that was always obliging, humble, and grateful, was merely the means with which he had secured his aims. Mr. Collins knew better than any of us that neither pride nor honor could feed or clothe him; a good word from the eldest son of a baroness…that, of course, was an entirely different matter.
“To be sure, it was a painful time, but I’ve no regrets,” Mr. Collins said, shrugging. “It is only through the trials of life that one attains a kind of wisdom. Because I was poor, others believed I should remain as poor as my father had been before me, but I did not think this should be my lot in life. And because I smiled and simpered while sweeping the floors of my superiors’ rooms, they probably thought I was unable to differentiate between cleaning for them and attending class or being permitted to access the library, which none of the servitors, including myself, were ever allowed to do. Perhaps they believed that when they sent me into town to run errands for them, I considered the exercise as educational for my soul as the recitation of Homer or Virgil, but it is good they believed this, for they let down their guard and then…” Mr. Collins smiled. “And then there might not be any going back for them, if there was something very important that they could one day do for me. So you see, dear cousin, the lesson to be learned from this is that one should never settle in life for what others may think is best and right for you. There is always the larger and more delicious fruit hanging from a higher branch, just out of your grasp, and which might easily be yours, if someone would only lend you the ladder to reach it. And the ladder is what will make all the difference.”
The determination which had entered his face as he’d concluded his story emboldened me to speak. I, too, had been humiliated, and in our shared experience, we were kindred spirits. I wished him to know this, and I’d already leaned forward in my chair, prepared to launch into the unhappy memory which had risen to the forefront of my thoughts, when something stopped me. I opened my mouth, but the words would not come. It was different for him—he had proven himself, turned his circumstances to his advantage, but I’d remained exactly where I was, despite my hardships. I remained unchanged. Perhaps it was best to say nothing, I thought, and I looked bashfully away from him, even as my mind traveled back to that fine-weathered afternoon in May, many months ago, which had ended so miserably.
Earlier this year, the youngest child and only son of Sir William Lucas had accompanied his two sisters, Charlotte and Maria, on their walk to Longbourn. Charlotte, who was twenty-seven and still unmarried, had been in the habit of visiting us often and was considered the particular friend of Lizzy, whom she admired greatly for much the same reasons everyone else did.
In Hertfordshire, she was thought by her general acquaintance to be a practical young woman of sound intelligence—in other words, the “good sort of girl” a mother can count on to sit obediently for as long as she is told and to never get into any kind of trouble.
In spite of her respectability and the fair prospect she had of making a good marriage, owing to the comfortable fortune her knighted father had acquired in trade, she remained an unexceptional human being with an appearance so forgetful that her frequent attendance of balls and dinners had never succeeded in generating any stories of which she had played a larger role than the report that “the eldest Miss Lucas was also in attendance.” Except for Mama, no one considered Charlotte to be especially plain, but the consensus was, among the females of the neighborhood, that her face was too long, the space between her eyes too wide, and her mouth too big for her face. By way of consolation, the same females added that there was a fleeting kind of prettiness to be detected whenever she smiled while tipping her head at a certain angle, like a piece of glass that will at rare moments catch the light of the sun. Her sister, Maria, was an even less noteworthy person than herself, and there is little to be said about her other than that she was fond of dancing, sported many lavender and pink frocks at balls (these being her favorite colors), and was as well pleased with her father’s knighthood as, no doubt, he was himself. As for their young brother, Thomas, who plays a central role in this story, he had always been of a romantic disposition and entertained very grand designs of one day making something of his life, though he hadn’t yet determined at seventeen years old what this would be. For as long as anyone could remember, he’d also been in love with Jane.
This itself was not surprising, as Jane had always had her share of admirers. But I imagine the chivalric strength of his affections, when mingled with the fevered and self-tormenting behaviors symptomatic of first love, must have caused him no shortage of private suffering. No subject could be too trivial, no observation too irrelevant, if it afforded young Thomas Lucas an opportunity to exchange a few words with his beloved. The rare and joyous occasions in which Thomas could share with Jane his thoughts on a week-long succession of rain or his preferment of ragout to a plain dish were sufficient to elevate him to the very heights of paradise.
On this visit, Thomas was in particularly lively spirits, and as the afternoon boasted sunlight and warm breezes, our group walked together along the gravel path to the copse where Papa had conveniently installed a few stone benches. Mrs. Hill brought us raspberry shrubs, and as we sipped our cool drinks, Thomas, who had been shyly glancing at Jane, suddenly declared that he had an idea. He guzzled the remainder of his drink and ran off in the direction of the garden before any of us could delay him with questions. Nearly a quarter of an hour later, he returned with his arms full of flowers and his boots coated in dust. He was out of breath, but this did not deter him from speaking—primarily to Jane—of the diversion he had in store for us.
“I have here collected seven samples of flowers from Mrs. Bennet’s garden, which I think best represent each of you,” Thomas said, briefly exhibiting the bouquet to all of us. A few of his audience seemed very pleased by this entertainment and accordingly voiced their approval with the delighted coos which females are especially prone to in the company of men. “And I will now distribute the flowers that I have matched to each of you with some words of commentary as I do so,” he continued. Some fool among us began to clap her hands and laugh, which compelled the rest of us to follow suit.
“I’m not sure Mama would approve of having her garden ransacked for the sake of an idle game,” I said, frowning in the direction of the flowers he clutched.
“Oh, do shut up, Mary,” Lydia replied. “Will you never tire of ruining other people’s fun? I want to know what flower I am, and the rest of us do, too.”
As no one ventured to disagree with this sentiment, our performer felt confident enough to proceed. He stopped in front of Jane, his face and neck flushing a brilliant shade of scarlet, and tentatively passed her three peonies in full bloom. “The most beautiful flower in the garden,” he said, his voice wavering, “for the most beautiful girl in the country.”
Jane, too, reddened and, in a voice barely audible to the rest of us, whispered her thanks. To my right, I heard Maria utter a small “Oh Lord” in the ear of her sister.
Next, Thomas presented a large cluster of lilacs to Lizzy and said the flower had reminded him of how her many virtues succeeded in making up the loveliness of her entire person, just as the lilac’s tiny blossoms composed the splendor of the whole. Lizzy was visibly gratified by this and smiled more conceitedly than was her custom, which is not surprising, given that most females who have just been told by a man that they are perfection feel very pleased with themselves, even if they don’t think anything special of the man himself. Lydia and Kitty both received small bouquets of sweetbriar, accompanied by a few pretty words extolling their youth and levity, which at first perfectly charmed and contented them. But then Lydia asked why she hadn’t received a different flower than Kitty and Thomas was forced to admit to the difficulty he always had with telling them apart. This, of course, diminished Lydia’s original enthusiasm for the game. Tossing her sweetbriar roses aside, she protested that this could not be so, as she was the tallest of any of her sisters even if she was the youngest, and said anyone who should mistake her for Kitty must be a “dumb and disagreeable simpleton with glass eyes and a hollow skull.”
Mary B Page 7
