_Characters._
_Mrs Bennet, Elizabeth Bennet, Mr Collins._
_N.B._—“_Her_ (_Mrs Bennet_) mind was less difficult to develope.
She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and
uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself
nervous. The business of her life was to get her daughters married;
its solace was visiting and news.”—_Pride and Prejudice_, Chap. I.
“The greatest part of his (_Mr Collins_) life had been spent under
the guidance of an illiterate and miserly father.... The subjection
in which his father had brought him up had given him originally
great humility of manner, but it was now a good deal counteracted
by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and
the consequential feeling of early and unexpected prosperity....
Having now a good home and a very sufficient income, he intended to
marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family
(_The Bennets_) he had a wife in view, as he meant to choose one
of the daughters, if he found them as handsome and amiable as they
were represented by common report. This was his plan of amends—of
atonement—for inheriting their father’s estate, and he thought it an
excellent one, full of eligibility and suitableness, and excessively
generous and disinterested on his own part.”—_Pride and Prejudice_,
Chap. XV., Vol. I.
“The situation of your mother’s family, though objectionable, was
nothing in comparison of that total want of propriety so frequently,
so almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger
sisters, and occasionally even by your father,—pardon me—it pains
me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your
nearest relations, and your displeasure at this representation of
them, let it give you consolation to consider, that to have conducted
yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure, is praise
no less generally bestowed on you and your eldest sister, than it is
honourable to the sense and disposition of both.”—_Quotation from
Darcy’s letter to Elizabeth Bennet_, Vol. II., Chapter XXXV.
_Scene.—The morning-room at Longbourne._
_Properties required: There is a good-sized table L. Chairs, sofas,
and other tables about the room. The furniture is good, but a little
shabby and vulgar, and formal. Door R. enter Elizabeth with household
needlework. She walks to the table._
_Elizabeth._ Well! if my father was hopeful of finding our cousin, Mr
Collins, far from sensible, I cannot think he is disappointed, for the
deficiencies of nature have been but little assisted by education, and
though he has belonged to one of the Universities, he evidently merely
kept the necessary terms without forming there any useful acquaintance.
_Enter Mrs Bennet_ (_going to her work_). Well, Lizzie, what do you
think of your cousin, Mr Collins? I am sure he is a very fine young
man, in spite of his being next in the entail—though, to be sure, I
cannot bear to hear that mentioned—and I do think it is the hardest
thing in the world that your father’s estate should be entailed away
from his own children, and I am sure, if I had been him, I should have
tried long ago to do something about it.
_Elizabeth._ My dear ma’am, let me try and explain again the nature of
an entail.
_Mrs Bennet._ Not one word, Eliza. It is trying enough to my nerves to
know that we must submit to such a thing simply because of Mr Bennet’s
indifference to what becomes of us all when he is dead, without having
it all explained to me. However, I don’t suppose Mr Collins can help
it, and as he has seemed, since the very first day we saw him, a week
ago, willing to make amends by one or other of you girls, I am not the
person to discourage him.
_Elizabeth._ Certainly not, my dear ma’am.
_Mrs Bennet._ Not but what at first I thought he wanted your sister
Jane. It was quite right and proper, considering she was the eldest
and by far the best-looking of you all. But when I found that he was
thinking of her, I gave him a hint that she was not to be had for the
asking. I don’t want to spoil Jane’s chance with Bingley, and so I just
put it right, you know.
_Elizabeth._ I have no doubt you acted wisely, ma’am.
_Mrs Bennet._ Well, Lizzie, I did for the best. When he told me his
plans, and that he had come to Longbourne to choose a wife among you, I
said, “Mr Collins, I cannot but be very gratified by your confidence,
and as to my younger daughters, I cannot take upon myself to say—I
could not positively answer,” for I did not want to appear _too_
pleased with his attentions, “and I do not know of any prepossessions,
but my _eldest_ daughter, I must just mention—I feel it incumbent on
me to hint—is likely to be very soon engaged,”—and it is marvellous
how soon he abandoned all idea of Jane. But hush, here he comes.
(_Enter Mr Collins_).
_Mr Collins._ May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair
daughter Elizabeth, when I solicit for the honour of a private audience
with her in the course of the morning.
_Mrs Bennet_ (_starting up_). Oh! dear! yes—certainly. I am sure
Lizzie will be very happy. I am sure she can have no objection.
(_Going._)
_Elizabeth._ Dear ma’am, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr Collins
must excuse me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not
hear. I am going away myself. (_Also going._)
_Mrs Bennet._ No, no, nonsense, Lizzie. I desire you will stay where
you are (_seeing that Elizabeth is determined to go_). Lizzie, I
_insist_ upon your staying, and hearing Mr Collins. (_Exit._)
_Elizabeth_ (_aside_). Well! if it has to be—I may as well get it over
as soon and as quietly as possible.
_Mr Collins._ Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty,
so far from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other
perfections. You would have been less amiable in my eyes had there
_not_ been this little unwillingness; but allow me to assure you, that
I have your respected mother’s permission for this address. You can
hardly doubt the purport of my discourse, however your natural delicacy
may lead you to dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be
mistaken. Almost as soon as I entered the house, I singled you out as
the companion of my future life. But, before I am run away with by my
feelings on this subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state
my reasons for marrying—and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire
with the design of selecting a wife—as I certainly did.
_Elizabeth (aside)._ The idea of this man being run away with by his
feelings!
_Mr Collins._ My reasons for marrying are—first, that I think it a
right thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to
set the example of matrimony in his parish; secondly, I am convinced
it will add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly—which perhaps
I ought to have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice
and recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of
calling patroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion
(unasked, too!) on this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night
before I left Hunsford, between our pools at quadrille, that she said,
“Mr Collins, you must marry—a clergyman like you must marry. Choose
properly, choose a gentlewoman for _my_ sake; and for your _own_, let
her be an active, useful sort of person not brought up high, but able
to make a small income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such
a woman as soon as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit
her.” Allow me, by the way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not
reckon the notice and kindness of Lady de Burgh as among the least of
the advantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond
anything I can describe, and your wit and vivacity, I think, must
be acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and
respect which her rank will inevitably excite.
_Elizabeth (aside)._ How am I to stop the man?
_Mr Collins._ This much for my general intention in favour of
matrimony; it remains to be told why my views were directed to
Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I assure you there
are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that being, as I
am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured father
(_reverentially_) (who, however, may live many years longer) I could
not satisfy myself without resolving to choose a wife from among his
daughters, that the loss to them might be as little as possible when
the melancholy event takes place, which, however, as I have already
said, may not be for several years. This has been my motive, my fair
cousin, and I flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And
now, nothing remains for me but to assure you, in the most animated
language, of the violence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly
indifferent, and shall make no demand of that nature on your father,
since I am well aware that it could not be complied with, and that one
thousand pounds in the 4 per cents., which will not be yours till after
your mother’s decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On
that head I shall, therefore, be uniformly silent; and you may assure
yourself that no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we
are married.
_Elizabeth._ You are too hasty sir; you forget that I have made no
answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks
for the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour
of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than
decline them.
_Collins (waving his hand)._ I am not now to learn that it is usual
with young ladies to reject the addresses of the man whom they
secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their favour; and
that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second or even a third time. I
am, therefore, by no means discouraged by what you have just said, and
shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long.
_Elizabeth._ Upon my word, sir, your hope is rather an extraordinary
one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not one of those
young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so daring as to
risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second time. I am
perfectly serious in my refusal; you could not make me happy, and I am
convinced that I am the last woman in the world who could make you so.
Nay, were your friend, Lady Catherine, to know me, I am persuaded she
would find me in every respect ill qualified for the situation.
_Collins (gravely)._ Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think
so—but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all disapprove of
you. And, you may be certain that when I have the honour of seeing her
again, I shall speak in the highest terms of your modesty, economy, and
other amiable qualifications.
_Elizabeth._ Indeed, Mr Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary;
you must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment
of believing what I say: I wish you very happy and very rich, and by
refusing your hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise.
In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your
feelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn
estate whenever it falls without any self-reproach (_rising_). This
matter may be considered, therefore, as finally settled.
_Mr Collins._ When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on
the subject, I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you
have now given me; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at
present, because I know it to be an established custom of your sex to
reject a man on the _first_ application, and perhaps you have even now
said as much to encourage my suit as would be consistent with the true
delicacy of the female character.
_Elizabeth (warmly)._ Really, Mr Collins, you puzzle me exceedingly.
If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form of
encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as
may convince you of its being one.
_Collins (smiling)._ You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear
cousin, that your refusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My
reasons for believing it are briefly these—It does not appear to me
that my hand is unworthy your acceptance, or that the establishment I
can offer would be other than highly desirable. My situation in life,
my connections with the family of De Burgh, and my relationship to your
own, are circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into
further consideration, that in spite of your manifold attractions, it
is by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made
you—your portion is unhappily so small, that it will in all likelihood
undo the effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I
must therefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of
me, I shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love
by suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females.
_Elizabeth._ I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretension whatever
of that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable
man. I would rather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere.
I thank you again and again for the honour you have done me in your
proposals, but to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in
every respect forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as
an elegant female, intending to plague you, but as a rational creature,
speaking the truth from her heart.
_Collins (with awkward gallantry)._ You are uniformly charming! and I
am persuaded that when sanctioned by the express authority of both your
excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of being acceptable.
_Elizabeth._ To such perseverance in wilful self-deception I can make
no reply; but if you persist in considering my repeated refusals as
flattering encouragement, I shall apply to my father, whose negative
will no doubt be uttered in such a manner as must be decisive, and
whose behaviour at least will not be mistaken for the affectation and
coquetry of an “elegant female.” (_Enter Mrs Bennet._)
_Mrs Bennet._ Well, Mr Collins, allow me to congratulate you—and
myself.
_Mr Collins (smiling complacently)._ I trust I have every reason to
be satisfied with the result of our interview, since the refusal with
which my fair cousin has replied to my proposals comes naturally from
her bashful modesty and the delicacy of her character.
_Mrs Bennet._ Her refusal? Why, Lizzie, what is the meaning of this—do
you refuse Mr Collins?
_Elizabeth._ I do indeed, ma’am.
_Mrs Bennet._ Oh! Mr Collins, do not pay any attention to her. Depend
upon it, she shall be brought to reason. I will speak to her about it
myself privately, She is a very headstrong, foolish girl, and does not
know her own interest; but I will _make_ her know it.
_Mr Collins (gravely)._ Pardon me for interrupting you, madam. But if
she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would
altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who
naturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If, therefore,
Miss Elizabeth actually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were
better not to force her into accepting me, because if liable to such
defects of temper, she could not contribute much to my felicity.
_Elizabeth (interrupting)._ That is very true, Mr Collins.
_Mrs Bennet._ Sir, you quite misunderstand me. Lizzie is only
headstrong in such matters as these. In everything else she is as
good-natured a girl as ever lived. Yes, you are, Lizzie, and I insist
on you accepting Mr Collins.
_Elizabeth._ Ma’am, ma’am. I cannot, I do not care for him.
_Mrs Bennet._ Now, I do insist upon it, Lizzie, that you hold your
tongue and let Mr Collins and me have a little conversation together.
_Mr Collins (stiffly)._ My dear madam, let us be for ever silent on
this point. Far be it from me to resent the behaviour of your daughter.
Resignation to inevitable evil is the duty of us all. You will not,
I hope, consider me as showing any disrespect to your family by now
withdrawing all pretensions to your daughter’s favour. My conduct may,
I fear, be objectionable in accepting my dismission from _her_ lips
instead of your own. But we are all liable to error—I have certainly
meant well through the whole affair. My object has been to secure an
amiable companion for myself, with due consideration for the advantage
of all your family, and if my _manner_ has been at all reprehensible, I
beg here to apologise. (_Exit, with a bow._)
_Mrs Bennet (calling after him)._ Oh! Mr Collins—(_turning angrily to
Elizabeth_), and there you stand, looking as unconcerned as may be, and
caring no more for us all than if you were at York—provided you can
have your own way. But I will tell you what, Miss Lizzie, if you take
it into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this
way, you will never get a husband at all; and I am sure I do not know
who is to maintain you when your father is dead—_I_ shall not be able
to keep you, and so I warn you. I have done with you from this very
day—I shall never speak to you again, and you will find me as good as
my word—I have no pleasure in talking to undutiful children. Not that
I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking to anybody. People who suffer
as I do from nervous complaints can have no great inclination for
talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! but it is always so, those who
do not complain are never pitied—and it is all owing to you—to your
wilfulness and bad temper.
_Elizabeth (coaxingly)._ Ah, ma’am, do not be hard on me. Think of my
sister Jane. How lovely she is. How much admired. How willing _she_
will be to listen to Mr Bingley. Let us go and tell her about it all.
She will agree with us both.
_Mrs Bennet (softened)._ Well, Lizzie, I suppose I must be content with
_one_ sensible girl among you all, but I should be thankful to have
_you_ off my hands.
(_Exeunt Mrs Bennet and Elizabeth._)
_End of Scene._
[Illustration]