Chapter 6 #3
He shrugged. “Your Pa didn’t. Mr Chambers don’t.
Nor did the last rector who was here afore you, by all accounts.
Couldn’t keep his hands to hisself neither.
” He shook his head. “Didn’t dare touch Mrs Fowke, but Milly had a terrible time, poor old girl.
Couldn’t be alone in a room with him but he was trying something on.
You ain’t like that.” He glanced at me. “Won’t hear that sort of thing from Lady Catherine.
” He shrugged. “But then I’ll lay she didn’t know. ”
“No. She cannot have known,” I said faintly.
In fact, Lady Catherine had spoken often of the rector before me, and always in the most glowing terms. I remembered how Milly had been when I had first arrived at Easter-time; pinched and nervous.
Indeed, I had thought maybe she was sickening for something, or perhaps was grieved by the death of the previous incumbent.
Also, while I had not marked it at the time, now I thought of it, it was true that she had seemed to avoid being alone with me. She did not do so now.
“Oh, and you give powerful complicated sermons,” Jem said.
“And that’s a good thing?”
He shrugged. “Oh aye. I mean, there’s some as likes more blood and thunder, but they know Lady Catherine don’t hold with that methodist kind of carrying on, and anyway, there’s plenty as likes your style—all them long words and that.
Proper, ain’t it? And you always keep it to twenty minutes. There’s plenty as appreciate that.”
“I am doing my best,” I said, allowing myself to bask in this unexpected feeling of having done the right thing, it having never occurred to me that my parishioners thought well of me.
Generally, I assumed they were disappointed in me, irritated by me, or, at best, that they did not think of me at all.
“I know.” He nodded, in a considering manner, then fell silent.
We lay like that for a while but my unease began to grow, for in the past it had often been in moments of happiness that I had become less guarded about my remarks or actions, and then, in my joy, I had disgraced myself.
It occurred to me that Jem had told me what others thought of me, but not what he thought himself.
“I hope you know I am doing my best in the garden too,” I said, humbly. “I sometimes wonder if you like me helping, or if you would prefer that I did not.”
He glanced at me. “’Course I like it. There’s always such a sight to do.”
‘Do you really like it?’ I wanted to beg, but my father had taught me that asking for reassurance was vexing and not the mark of a man of character, so I said, in as confident and as final a tone as I could muster, “Well, that is all right then.”
The breeze rustled in the tops of the trees and the water trickled on, an endless amicable conversation.
“Know what you’re like?” Jem asked, suddenly.
“Do I know what I’m like?” I frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“I’ll tell you. You know that little old blackbird what comes when I dig in the garden? Keen, ain’t he? Busy. And smart in his little black coat? Keeps me company, he do.”
I could hear the smile in his voice. I had seen the bird often, sleek as silk. He had no fear of Jem and would hop to his feet, fossicking in the freshly turned soil.
“I’m like the blackbird?”
“That you are. I always look for him, like I always look for you. I’d be that sad if he ever stopped a-coming.”
“He comes for the grubs and the worms,” I said.
“Whyever he comes, he’s welcome.”
It was so unexpected and pleasing a comparison I could not help smiling. “I do wear black. And I do like to help you in the garden.”
“See? You’re a blackbird.” His voice had been light-hearted and jocular, now he paused, and added in a different voice, “ My blackbird. Aye. My little old blackbird. That’s what you are.” He sounded thoughtful, almost tender, as if he was saying something important that he had only just realised.
“Yes,” I breathed.
I should have liked it above all things if it were true, if I really were a blackbird who could hop around Jem’s feet all day and perch upon his spade handle when he stopped to mop his brow.
Of course, I was only myself, but it felt as if Jem’s fancy had lent to me a little of the blackbird’s bright boldness, and I knew I should treasure his words forever.
* * *
S oon after this, I received a letter informing me that the bishop himself had requested that I present myself for an interview. I could barely describe the emotion with which these tidings overwhelmed me. What a morning I did pass! I scarcely knew what I said or did and was in a constant tremor.
When Lady Catherine drove by later that day, she stopped in the lane outside the rectory in her phaeton as she so often did, and I mentioned the matter to her.
She informed me that His Grace was a cousin of hers by marriage, and that, as such, she had particularly asked him to take an interest in me.
She told me I should be greatly honoured, for it was not every country clergyman who attracted the notice of the bishop, most men of my type having to content themselves with visitations from mere archdeacons or rural deans. She awaited only my gratitude.
I tried to express everything that was proper, and she drove away.
I stood by the gate for a long time, wringing my hands, and trying to convince myself that all would be well.
Had I not met the bishop once before when he had instituted me at the church in Hunsford?
It had been a solemn occasion, and I had been tongue-tied and nervous, but he had treated me kindly, afterwards speaking to me in an almost avuncular manner.
Perhaps he might not find fault with me at this interview? He might even give me some good advice.
In any case, I could not refuse.
I was to travel, therefore, to Rochester, for His Grace was not at home in Bromley, but was busy with ecumenical matters.
Usually, if I had to travel such a distance, I stayed somewhere overnight, for it was quite fifteen miles and would take the better part of the morning to get there and a good five hours to ride home.
I should have liked to take Jem, but the bishop’s offices were much too close to the naval dockyards, and I would not have taken such a risk even if he had been willing.
However, I did not want to be away from him overnight and since Pilot was no longer lame, and had not had any problems for weeks, I decided I should risk doing it all in a day.
On the morning of the interview, I arose very early, before dawn, and was well on my way by the time the sun came up over the horizon.
I had been afraid of getting lost but found my way with ease, and arrived in good time, for Pilot had caught some of my unease and we had proceeded for much of the journey at a faster pace than usual.
His Grace received me in a small, wood-panelled room that could not have been his main office, but which felt like some sort of ante-chamber to that rarefied place.
I was not sure what this meant, but his demeanour as we greeted each other was friendly and I decided he was trying to put me at my ease by making the whole thing quite informal.
He was a handsome man, in his sixties or thereabouts, quite bald, with a well-modelled brow and a twinkle in his eye.
He invited me to sit and asked me how everything was in the parish.
I perched on the edge of my chair and conjured Trafford, and attempted to give him the correct amount of detail.
He then asked my opinion of how I was settling in and I told him I hoped that Lady Catherine and my parishioners alike found me assiduous in my duties as I was certainly doing my best.
He asked me then if I had any concerns or worries, and so kindly did he seem, and since I spent most of my days being concerned and worried—excepting, of course, the time I spent with Jem—that I cast Trafford aside and unburdened myself, with many apologies for troubling him.
I wanted to tell him I was terrified always of doing or saying the wrong thing, but found myself, primarily, confessing how unworthy I felt to have been preferred by Lady Catherine over men more clever and more capable.
It cost me much to be so candid, especially with a superior, and I was afraid of his approbation, but he merely nodded and told me I must remember I was no longer plain Mr Collins, but was, since my ordination, a clergyman of the Church of England.
“You must not allow your natural humility to come overmuch to the fore, my boy. You must remember that the clerical office is equal in point of dignity with the highest rank in the kingdom, eh? So, bear up, Mr Collins, and behave as befits a representative of the Church and stop apologising. Do you understand?”
His advice struck me as a thunderbolt.
“But, surely, Your Grace, it would be wrong to omit to apologise when one has erred or inconvenienced another? Indeed, I have advised several of my parishioners so, and therefore feel I must not be remiss in my own behaviour. After all, does not the Bible say that if we do wrong we must repent, and if we do wrong seven times we must repent seven times?”
“Yes, yes, and I am sure your advice to your parishioners was sound. Do not trouble yourself on that account. But a man must take care not to further inconvenience the man he has inconvenienced by making his apology a burden to him. Must he?”
“No, Your Grace,” I said, though I did not see how an apology could ever be a burden.
Having been subject to many apologies of such extreme brevity that I had doubted the sincerity of the penitent, I felt the resultant doubt was more of a burden.
Indeed, I should have liked many of the apologies I had received to have been more heartfelt and less brief.
But perhaps there was an ideal length. Five minutes, perhaps, or ten.
Or maybe the length of the apology should hinge upon the severity of the error or the inconvenience.
I would have liked to discuss all this with the bishop, but there were more important matters about my general behaviour and bearing that I wished to raise.
I said, “But with regard to the clerical office being equal in point of dignity with the highest rank; I’m sure your Grace is correct, and yet we all have our place in the world, do we not? I am not, in fact, equal to a duke. It would be impertinent to think so.”
“You are somewhat too literal, my boy. Perhaps you are not equal to a duke, but he owes his allegiance to his God and his King, and you are a representative of the church, and as such it behooves you to behave with dignity.”
“But surely I must remember my place?”
“Yes, and yet your place changed, Mr Collins, on the day you were ordained.”
I detected, not exactly irritation, but a certain reserve, so I told him he had opened my eyes and that I should attempt to act upon his words and never to debase my office but to behave in a grave and stately manner while at the same time maintaining proper humility.
“Well, well, Mr Collins,” he said, a little wearily, I thought, and soon after dismissed me.
I began my journey home feeling weary myself, not only because I had had an early start and a long ride, but because I now realised I had held high hopes of benefitting from the bishop’s advice.
Yet it seemed that his advice, like most advice, was no advice at all.
I must apologise, but neither too much nor too little.
But on when to be fulsome and when to be brief he had given me no guidance whatsoever. So, I was no better off.
I was to consider my office equal in point of dignity with the highest rank in the kingdom, and yet obviously I was not equal and so must remain humble.
So how was I to comport myself? It must be as with apologising; sometimes I must be grand and stately and formal, and sometimes I must be meek.
Yet with no guidance as to which role to adopt at which moment, I was no better off than before.
I frowned over these perplexing matters for a few miles, allowing Pilot his head, giving myself quite a megrim and seeing nothing of the beauties of the surrounding countryside.
But then I remembered that if I got home before nightfall, Jem would be waiting in the garden to show me what he had done that day.
My headache ebbed away, and soon I felt well enough to press my heels to Pilot’s sides and to trot most of the rest of the way home.