Chapter 4 #4
Kitty gave a suppressed snort; even Jane’s lips trembled, though she pressed them together in gentle forbearance. Elizabeth laughed openly, her mirth bright and infectious, while Mrs. Bennet, caught between maternal rebuke and helpless amusement, fluttered her fan in vague protest.
William, undisturbed, continued with two more lines with unwavering gravity
ex hou dē ta prōta diastēten erisante
Atre?dēs te anax andrōn kai dios Achilleus.
He then bowed and resumed his seat with perfect composure.
“I am gratified,” the lad said, with gentle humility that softened the room, “that it produces mirth, if not admiration.”
Mr. Bennet closed his book with a soft snap and leaned forward, his eyes twinkling more openly now.
“Very creditably delivered, Mr. Collins—though I confess the effect upon my younger daughters is rather different from what Homer intended. Pray favor us with the sense of it, sir; I should like to know what calamity has befallen the Achaeans.”
William inclined his head respectfully. “It is the opening of the Iliad, sir, as you may have already remarked. The poet invokes the goddess to sing of the wrath of Achilles, son of Peleus—destructive wrath, which brought countless woes upon the Greeks, hurled many valiant souls to Hades, and made their bodies prey for dogs and birds; and thus the will of Zeus was accomplished.”
A brief silence followed, broken only by the patter of rain beginning against the windows.
Then Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands together with sudden enthusiasm. “Well! Upon my word, that is quite astonishing—wrath and dogs and Hades, all in such solemn tones! You are a prodigy, Mr. Collins.”
Jane smiled warmly and joined the applause with gentle grace; Elizabeth followed with lively appreciation, her earlier laughter now turned to genuine admiration; Mary, recovering her dignity, offered a measured clap and a solemn nod of scholarly approval; even Kitty and Lydia added their eager, if somewhat unruly, applause—Lydia crying, “Do it again, only sneeze more!”
Mr. Bennet allowed the applause to continue a moment before raising one hand in mock solemnity. “Enough, enough—we shall have the young man reciting the entire epic if we are not careful. But I thank you, sir; you have provided more entertainment than I have seen in this house for many a week.”
William colored faintly but bowed again, his quiet pleasure evident. “I am glad to have given satisfaction, sir.”
Elizabeth laughed then, openly and without restraint, her mirth bright and infectious. “You must forgive us. We are ill-qualified judges. But I think you very brave.”
Jane added softly, her voice a soothing counterpoint, “And very patient.”
Mrs. Bennet, who liked bravery and patience exceedingly when they did not inconvenience her, and who had been observing from her chair with growing approval, declared that young men who could endure Greek aloud deserved every encouragement, adding with a complacent nod that such accomplishments were sure to recommend him in the best circles.
***
Thursday morning arrived too soon for Lydia’s satisfaction—who lamented the loss of her new playfellow with dramatic sighs—and too late for Mrs. Bennet’s nerves, which had begun to fret over the disruption to routine.
The carriage was prepared to leave for the early afternoon, and the household assumed that air of gentle disturbance which accompanies departure without sorrow, servants moving with subdued haste and the girls casting occasional glances toward the clock.
Breakfast was quieter than the day before, the usual chatter subdued by the impending farewell, and William Collins himself appeared more thoughtful, though not uneasy, his gaze lingering upon the familiar faces around the table with a quiet gratitude he did not voice.
As it was not Sunday, Mr. Bennet proposed that the family should assemble briefly in the drawing-room before noon, a practice observed at Longbourn only on occasions of particular sobriety, and one which he introduced now with a gravity that silenced even Lydia’s restlessness.
Prayers were read with simplicity and without display; even Lydia was still, her hands folded demurely though her feet twitched beneath her gown, and Kitty attentive, her eyes fixed upon William with a soft regret.
Afterwards, Jane thanked William for his company with a sweetness that needed no ornament, pressing his hand briefly with genuine warmth, and Mary wished him improvement in his studies with such earnestness that he promised, quite sincerely, to remember her advice, his tone conveying a respect that pleased her exceedingly.
Elizabeth walked with him as far as the front steps, where the carriage waited, the gravel crunching softly under their feet in the mild morning air.
“I am glad you came, Cousin William,” she said frankly, meeting his eyes with her customary directness. “You have made us all wish you well.”
“That is more kindness than I deserve,” he replied, his voice low and earnest. “But I hope to deserve it in time, Miss Elizabeth.”
Mr. Bennet, observing them from a little distance, his hands clasped behind his back in habitual pose, allowed himself a look of quiet satisfaction, the faint curve of his lips betraying a deeper contentment than he often permitted to show.
When William turned to him at last, ready and composed, he said only—
“Come, sir. Oxford will not admit us the later for punctuality.”
William obeyed at once, with a nod that acknowledged both command and trust.
Mrs. Bennet, in a burst of maternal feeling that surprised even herself, kissed him lightly upon the cheek, her earlier reservations quite forgotten in the moment of parting.
“Do not forget us, Mr. Collins,” she cried, her voice trembling with unaccustomed emotion. “And pray remember that Hertfordshire has its merits, even if Oxford thinks otherwise.”
“I shall remember both,” he answered, with a gentle bow that encompassed the entire family.
As the carriage turned from the sweep and took the road, Mr. Bennet leaned back against the cushions and allowed himself a moment of reflective silence, his thoughts already travelling beyond Hertfordshire.
In the boot behind them lay a small but carefully packed chest of books—volumes gathered over years of quiet accumulation, some duplicates, others long since read and set aside—selected with deliberate care for Professor Saunders.
A portion he intended as a gift, in acknowledgment of past friendship and present kindness; the remainder, by prior understanding, Saunders would purchase at a fair valuation, the sum to be held in readiness against the expenses of William’s first year, should the trial at Oxford conclude as Bennet cautiously hoped.
The arrangement pleased him—not merely for its prudence, but for its propriety. No debt incurred, no favor abused, no dependence encouraged beyond what necessity required. If the boy succeeded, he would do so with means honestly contrived and responsibility clearly apportioned.
After a mile or two, during which William sat upright and silent, gazing steadily ahead as if fixing the road in his mind, Mr. Bennet spoke at last.
“You understand, sir,” he said quietly, “that nothing is yet decided. Oxford will judge you on what you show them—not on my opinion, nor on anyone else’s.”
“I understand, sir,” William replied at once. “I ask for no indulgence.”
Mr. Bennet inclined his head, satisfied. “Very good. Then we shall proceed as we ought.”
And the carriage went on, bearing them toward Oxford—not with flourish or expectation loudly proclaimed, but with that steadiness of purpose which, when it succeeds, appears afterwards to have been inevitable.
***
Oxford received them in the late afternoon, when the heat of the day had softened and the light lay broad and golden upon stone that had known centuries of scholars, disputations, prayers, and ambitions both fulfilled and disappointed.
To William Collins—who had never before been beyond the bustle of Portsmouth and the measured quiet of Longbourn—the place seemed at once austere and alive, grave without gloom, and ordered without rigidity.
Towers and quadrangles rose about them with a solidity that spoke not of fashion, but of endurance; the very air appeared steeped in study, as though thought itself had taken lodging there and refused to depart.
Mr. Bennet observed his young companion with a discreet attentiveness as their carriage passed beneath ancient arches and along streets where gowns brushed the paving-stones and voices floated in learned fragments of Latin and English alike.
William sat upright, his hands folded upon his hat, his countenance composed but intent, his eyes moving with quiet absorption from facade to facade, taking in the carved dates, the narrow windows, the doors worn smooth by generations of hands.
There was no vulgar astonishment in his manner, no display of awe; yet it was plain to any careful observer that the sight pressed upon him with a weight both solemn and exhilarating.
“You need not look as though you were entering a tribunal, Cousin Collins,” Mr. Bennet remarked mildly, after a moment. “Oxford prefers curiosity to fear, and diligence to either.”
“I am not afraid, sir,” William replied, after a brief hesitation. “Only—very desirous not to be found unequal.”
“That,” said Mr. Bennet, “is an anxiety more likely to serve you than to injure you.”
They were received first at the lodgings of Professor Saunders, who, though attached by fellowship to another college, resided conveniently near St. Edmund Hall, and had long since acquired a reputation for plain living, exact habits, and a judicious kindness toward those placed under his informal guidance.