Chapter 41 #2
“More than that, your company has been enjoyable to me in every possible way. To have someone to talk to, who appears to find interest in my conversation, who does not disdain or ignore me—that has been a new sensation, one, I regret to say, which has not often been vouchsafed me.”
He walked to the window and stood staring out at the rooks in the trees.
“I have always known I did not possess a talent for making friends. My father, you know, was a bitter and disappointed man. There were many things that made him angry, but chief among them, I fear, was myself. He made it plain enough I was the worst of the many vicissitudes life had inflicted on him. He told me often enough I was worthless, and I soon learnt to take myself at his valuation. Then he died, and I thought it within my power to change my life forever.”
Mary was astonished at the unexpected turn of his conversation. She sensed these were confessions he had not volunteered to anyone before, but she did not rush away, as she had intended. He had been kind to her, and she owed him her honest attention.
“So what did you do, sir?”
“I went up to the university. I was ordained. I thought once I went into the world, I could turn myself into someone different, easy and obliging; but it did not work. Other men seemed to have the knack of it, but I could not see how it was done. I was stiff and odd and awkward. No matter how hard I tried, I always struck—and, I suspect, still continue to strike—the wrong note.”
Mary looked down, embarrassed.
“I longed to be what I saw others were, charming and always ready with a pleasing remark. For a while, I thought that I could learn what came naturally to others. I imagined that if I acquired the appearance of confidence, the reality would follow. It never did, of course. And yet I worked so hard at it! Do you remember your father asking me once at dinner if I made up in advance the compliments I then thought were so pleasing to ladies? I was such a fool that I told him the truth. Of course I did. How else would they occur to a man such as myself?”
It had begun to grow darker in the room as dusk came on. Outside, Mary heard the cattle pass down the lane to their evening milking.
“I consoled myself with imagining how different life would be when I inherited Longbourn. Then I should have a fine house and a fine wife, for I never doubted the prospect of one would produce the other. And now I have both, and I find myself no less solitary than I was when I had neither.”
He sighed but did not turn round.
“There is my William, of course. My hope is that as he grows older I may have more success with him than has been my lot with everyone else, and that he may come to like me a little. That prospect has sustained me in some of my most unhappy moments. Otherwise, I thought myself resigned. I expected nothing more.”
Suddenly, he turned away from the window and looked directly at Mary.
“But then you arrived, and we began our lessons. I did not think much of it at first. But you were clever and eager, and I liked that. I was easy in your presence; I found myself happy when we were together.”
“Oh, sir, please don’t say any more, it makes me so sad.”
“Our minds are congenial, our tastes are similar. I began to think how different my life might have been if I had been less foolish when I first arrived here looking for a wife. I did not understand then what makes a marriage work. I did not see what was right before my eyes. If I had not been so thoughtless or so hasty, I might have chosen someone who, in time, could perhaps have learnt to love me. I might have chosen you.”
Mary could not speak. Two emotions rose up in her, with such power that she closed her eyes, waiting for them to abate a little so that she could control herself again.
The first was pity. It moved her very much to see Mr. Collins expose his secret self to her, to confess his loneliness and despair.
She was no stranger to such sensations, and they provoked in her the strongest response of fellow feeling.
But at the same time, she found herself consumed with rage, with a fury so intense that she wanted to hammer her fists at him, to shout and scream.
Why were you so blind? Why didn’t you see me, when I did all I could to make you notice?
Why did you not understand that of all of them I was the only one, the only one, who might have suited you?
Why didn’t you ask me? Then I would be here and settled and secure and content—and we would have lived better together than you do now, because I would have been more grateful, kinder than she is—but she took a few deep breaths and looked up, certain of what had to be said.
“I am very touched, Mr. Collins, by your words. You speak so warmly that I cannot fail to be moved. Like you, I have not been used to much affection and, for those reasons, will always think fondly of what you have said. But I think you understand as well as I do that nothing can come of it.”
She picked up the little Greek dictionary and held it in her hand as she spoke.
“I too have greatly enjoyed our lessons and have found much pleasure in your company. But I beg you, sir, not to let that enjoyment run away with you. I think you see me in far too rosy a light. I fear my main attraction is one of variety. I am like a twist of salt and pepper, a new flavour in a habit of life that has become very familiar to you. I’m sure that once you grew accustomed to me, my shortcomings and irritations would become only too apparent. ”
Mr. Collins tried to interrupt, but Mary did not allow it.
“It makes me very miserable to see you so sad. But in truth I think you have the prospect of happiness within your grasp if you choose to reach for it. I have no doubt Charlotte has the capacity to become the wife you want, the companion you say you long for. She is steady and generous and good-hearted and I’m sure she yearns for affection just as you do.
May I suggest you talk to her as you have talked to me over the last few weeks?
And then I am sure you will not fail in what you hope for. ”
Suddenly her voice shook.
“I have said all I can say—I am sorry, but now I really must go.”
She left the room hurriedly, and Mr. Collins did not attempt to stop her. Once she had gone, he sat for a while at the window, before closing the shutters against the darkening evening.
On the far side of the garden, Charlotte sat on a small bench which offered a clear view into the library.
From there, she had watched her husband and Mary engage in such animated conversation that neither noticed her dim presence as dusk enveloped her.
For a while, she stared at the ground, motionless, until it grew too cold to remain.
Only then did she return to the house, gathering her shawl round her shoulders, her step as determined as the expression on her face.