Advent Calendar Day 3: Mr. Collins’s Last Supper (conclusion)

Thank you for opening the third “window” on the Jane Austen Variations advent calendar! Today is the final chapter of my Pride and Prejudice based short story Mr. Collins’s Last Supper – the tongue-in-cheek tale of how that pompous clergyman learned (too late) why gluttony is considered one of the “seven deadly sins.” In case you missed part one and/or part two, please refer back to the previous posts before reading on.  Enjoy!

…Just then, an agreeable breeze wafting from the direction of the kitchen arrived, confirming this opinion. Mr. Collins hoisted his nostrils high into the air to better capture the enticing aroma. He inhaled with eyes reverently closed. “What a fine dinner we shall have today! I fancy you will soon thank me for arranging it, my dear.”

He returned to the house with a light step, humming a little tune as he went.

Charlotte was less sanguine. At such a moment, she could not help questioning the lot she had chosen for herself. At such a time, she could not help wondering how she might have fared had she never encouraged Mr. Collins’s attentions. She had made the pragmatic choice – the only sensible thing to do under the circumstances – for at the age of nearly eight-and-twenty, she could ill afford to be too fastidious. It was either marry the only respectable man available, or be a burden to her family the rest of her life.

Most days, she was quite content with her decision. She had made it with eyes wide open, not expecting (nor indeed finding) grand passion in her marriage, or even the sweet consolation of a like-minded partner. She had asked only for a comfortable home and the claims to reputation marriage provided. These things she had achieved, thanks to Mr. Collins. The more irksome aspects of the arrangement she dealt with by spending as little time in her husband’s company as possible. That, she fervently believed, was the secret to harmony.

With this maxim in mind, Charlotte sat down to pen a letter to a cherished friend who lived at a remote location to the north.

Dearest Elizabeth,

How often I think of you, regretting that so much time and distance separates two friends who were once as close as sisters. Of course, this is a situation easily remedied. Unless some working of fate brings you soon into Kent, may I not come to you at Pemberley? I have a little money set aside that I might use to finance the journey, and I feel the walls closing in about me here.

Charlotte stopped, crumpled the unfinished note, and cast it into the fire. “Enough!” she told herself. “Find some more useful occupation.” She abandoned her writing desk and went to the kitchen to help Mary.

Meanwhile, Mr. Collins suffered no such torturous wrestlings of mind and conscience. He was confident of Lady Catherine’s forgiveness. Once also assured of her safe return from Hunsford, which he ascertained by careful watch of the road outside his window, he put the morning’s misadventure out of his head. He settled down to his work and to await the summons for dinner.

Minute by minute, though, the succulent smell of meat roasting in the near vicinity made it more difficult for Mr. Collins to keep his thoughts centered on the sermon before him. According to his experience, it was nearly impossible to elevate the spirit when one’s stomach demanded its due. The two purposes were at odds with each other and could not be reconciled. Tending to the needs of the body in order to free the soul was the only reasonable course. Thus, he did not tarry when the bell announced that all was ready in the dining room.

Had Mr. Collins known the decidedly inauspicious outcome of the dinner before him, he would hardly have hastened to commence it. Had the lowly clergyman suspected that the formerly friendly elements on the table would soon turn traitor, he surely would not have been so eager to take them to his bosom once again. As it happened, however, no alarm sounded in the region between his ears when he served the first juicy slice of mutton onto his plate. His hand betrayed no tremble of trepidation as the fork bore one substantial bite after another to his mouth. He chewed and savored, oblivious to all else, including his wife’s attempts at conversation.

So thoroughly occupied was he, that it required the clanging of the clock tolling the hour to rouse him from his private reverie at last.

Mr. Collins’s placid countenance tightened as he apprehended the gravity of the situation. “Why did you not say something about the time?” he demanded of his wife. “You heard Lady Catherine’s warning against tardiness only this morning, and yet you allow me to tempt her disapproval this afternoon. My dear Charlotte, what were you thinking?”

Charlotte took a deep breath, sat back in her chair, and calmly regarded her husband. “I suppose I was thinking you were capable of reading the time for yourself. Was I mistaken?”

“I will not debate the matter with you, Mrs. Collins. Lady Catherine awaits.”

He got to his feet at once, but then lingered in excruciating indecision, looking from the clock to the uneaten remains of his dinner and back again. The appeal of his plate ultimately prevailed, and he took one final bite of his entrée. It was an unfortunate choice, but all might yet have been well had he listened to his wife’s counsel.

“For goodness sake, Mr. Collins,” she said patiently, “do sit down and take your ease. You had much better finish your dinner at the table, like a gentleman, instead of rushing off to Rosings with a mouth full of mutton. Since the old lady was so anxious that the meat not be spoilt, I daresay she would not begrudge you the time to consume it properly.”

Mr. Collins paid no heed. He pressed ahead toward the door as if his life depended on it. And indeed it did, although not in the way he might have supposed. In his haste, Mr. Collins must have mistakenly inhaled rather than swallowed, for that last tender morsel lost its way. Instead of sliding safely down his gullet to the stomach where it belonged, it unhappily wound up firmly wedged in his windpipe.

He coughed. He sputtered. He retched. He reached for a glass of wine to wash the trouble down. However, this only proved to make matters worse, for he could then draw no breath at all. Mr. Collins suddenly envisioned himself rushing headlong, not to Lady Catherine’s abode as planned, but toward his maker’s habitation, a crossing he had fervently hoped to postpone till many years hence. The dire look of dread that presently overspread his face was a fearsome sight to behold.

Poor Charlotte immediately sent the manservant off to summon help from Rosings. At the same time, she rushed to her husband’s side, seeking to assist him by administering several sound blows to the broad surface of his back. Mary stood by, crying and violently wringing her hands to no avail. It was a desperate situation, and all these considerable efforts on Mr. Collins’s behalf failed to alleviate the crisis.

The end came swiftly. Slumping to the floor at Charlotte’s feet, Mr. Collins soon slipped irretrievably from this life into the next, wearing a permanent expression of surprise at such an unexpected exit.

~~ * ~~

A wise woman once observed that a young person who either marries or dies is sure to be kindly spoken of. So it was with Mr. Collins. Having at such an early age accomplished both these difficult undertakings, his reputation was forever secured. His not insignificant faults promptly vanished from view, leaving the general impression that he had been one of the most congenial creatures to grace fair England’s shores.

Mourners flocked to Hunsford church to speed William Collins on his way to God: a sister; a collection of cousins; members of the little flock he had endeavored to shepherd during his brief term as rector; even persons of considerable rank and influence. Lady Catherine could hardly avoid the obligation. Her wealthy nephew from Derbyshire, being related to the deceased by marriage, also came. And the bishop himself delivered the eulogy.

“Dearly beloved,” he began in a commanding voice that penetrated even to the darkest corners of the nave. “While it is sadly true that I only met our fallen brother some once or twice, he was, by all accounts, as worthy a man as one could chance to encounter in this life – pious, devoted to his duty, a loquacious orator, a credit to his profession. So say all who knew Mr. Collins, and I hear nothing to the contrary from those who did not. Why the Lord chose to take such a fine specimen of humanity from our midst, we may not fully comprehend. We, who are left behind, must simply be grateful that God gave us the privilege of, for a short time, sharing Mr. Collins’s pilgrimage upon this earth.

“I think there can be no more fitting tribute to our absent friend than the sentiments expressed in his own words. I refer specifically to a portion of the sermon Mr. Collins was preparing for you only moments before his death.”

The bishop paused for dramatic effect, and then made a show of clearing his throat before resuming.

“He writes:

It is not for any of us to question the circumstances to which the Almighty, in His infinite wisdom, has chosen to consign us. Quite the reverse, for I submit that it is each person’s sacred duty to accept his appointed place, and to make a careful study of patterning his conduct accordingly, to treat with respectful deference those positioned above and with kind condescension those below. Whether one’s situation be exalted or extraordinarily mean; whether one’s days be many or few: these are matters best left to providence.

I humbly offer myself as an example. I am but a simple clergyman who has been called into some distinction by the bounty and beneficence of a higher power – I refer, of course, to the Right Honorable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, whose reputation for charity is so well deserved. Ever since my preferment, it has been my earnest endeavor to demean myself with grateful respect towards her Ladyship, to be always ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which she and the Church of England require, and to promote by all available means the blessings of peace to those within the reach of my influence. This is my calling, and from this determined path I flatter myself that I have never wandered very far astray.

Do I complain about my lot in life? Nay, for it is as providence has ordained it. Do I chafe under the yoke of servitude? Heaven forbid! I count myself supremely fortunate, for no one could boast of a more benevolent mistress.

“He continues in a similar vein at some length, but you have heard enough of this essay to draw an unmistakable character portrait of its author. I ask you, then, have you ever before come across such a picture of loyalty and dedication? Mr. Collins’s own words have, after the fact, given us his proper measure. Had he known that he was setting down his own eulogy, he could not have made a finer job of it. Let each one gathered here …”

The bishop leaned forward over the rail of the elevated pulpit, hovering, as it were, above the congregation. His sharp eye searched face after face until every soul present felt its scrutiny.

“Let each one gathered here honor Mr. Collins’s memory by striving to be found similarly praiseworthy when summoned to that great day of reckoning!”

It was an eloquent speech delivered to powerful effect, and from which no immediate recovery was possible. Thus, the congregation sat some minutes in sober silence before filing out of the church to the sound of scattered sobs and whimpers. Mr. Collins would have been highly gratified to have witnessed the spectacle played out on his account. Could he have but heard the fine sentiments expressed therein, he might have thought it almost worth his trouble. In many ways, it was truly his finest hour.

Alas, as with the span of his life, Mr. Collins’s moment of posthumous triumph proved comparatively short. The bishop soon moved on to more pressing matters of business in London. The common folk returned to the drudgery of their daily lives, too tired and downtrodden to spare a thought for their departed spiritual leader, except perhaps on the Sunday when a different man took the pulpit. Lady Catherine appointed a new rector within the month. And while the Reverend Mr. Chesterfield failed to live up to his predecessor’s standards in certain trifling respects, on the whole he filled the bill.

A year later, would anybody even remember a relatively insignificant clergyman? Mr. Collins, unfortunately, left no legacy of children behind as a lasting reminder that he had passed by. It was, therefore, incumbent upon his dutiful wife to keep his flame alive into the future.

In her own way, Charlotte did so. After the shock subsided, she found she could weather her husband’s departure surprisingly well. Yet Mr. Collins left such an indelible impression in her mind of the connubial union that she earnestly vowed never to marry again. This vow she faithfully kept. She lived out her long span of days in the quiet retirement of the country, surrounded by friends, and she carried Mr. Collins’s proud name with her to the last.

The End

Postscript:  If you enjoyed this short story, continue reading in The Darcys of Pemberley, Ms. Winslow’s Pride and Prejudice sequel for which Mr. Collins’s Last Supper offers an introduction.