Lord Byron’s Box (The Darcys in Venice, Chapter 27)

Mr. Collins stood awkwardly in the middle of Lord Byron’s box at the Teatro de Fenice, arms akimbo, looking very much how he felt, like a fish out of water.

“I declare! This is very fine, to be sure, to be in a box at the opera, but I do not know if it will quite do.”

“Not do!” exclaimed Lady Catherine, scandalized. “Why, this is His Lordship’s own box, and I do not perceive how you could hope for better, Mr. Collins. You are not even a member of the aristocracy, and should consider yourself very fortunate to be here..”

“As to that,” he replied, “I believe I have told you of my family – to be sure, the Collins and Bennet families are not titled, but my mother’s family is related to a younger branch of the Wentworths, very distant it is true, but if you do not accept such a peripheral linkage, I beg you to recollect that my dear wife Charlotte is daughter to Sir William Lucas.”

Lady Catherine looked her scorn, but Lord Byron spoke up, genially. “Why, to be sure, you are experiencing a certain privilege through my own title, but I am most glad to bestow it, and hope it does not cause you discomfort. But perhaps you mean that a clergyman ought not to frequent such palaces of pleasure?”

“Oh! No, I do not mean that, exactly, Sir. I believe music is a respectable pleasure that ought to be open to all, not excluding men of the cloth, like myself, who are charged with defending the faith, and overseeing moral manners wherever he may find them amiss.”

“Well, that is all right then. Do take your seat and be comfortable; and once you are settled I will introduce you to the Contessa Guiccioli.” He indicated the pretty young Italian woman sitting pressed up hard against his side.”

“Oh! Pardon me, I did not observe.” Mr. Collins parted the sides of his coat and seated himself beside Lady Catherine. “ A real Italian countess, you say? I am most honored,” and he bowed his head low in the lady’s direction.

The girl simpered and clutched more tightly at Byron’s arm.

“Is the lady your prospective bride, your Lordship? We did not know you were engaged,” said Mr. Collins.

“No chance of that. You know – the whole world knows, I believe, that I am in fact still married. For that matter, Teresa is also secured to matrimony. She only became the contessa a fortnight ago.”

“Yet you seem very – close. Is she a relation, may I ask? Otherwise – “

“I would not wish to distress you with untoward knowledge, Mr. Collins, but you must know, here in Italy, and probably in many other places – even dear perfect England upon occasion – it happens that when an eighteen year old girl marries a man of sixty, there is generally some sort of arrangement.”

Mr. Collins seemed to choke. “I cannot remain,” he said hoarsely. “I knew this was a place of – I felt all along it was a place not proper for me to frequent.”

Elizabeth exchanged glances with her husband, and leaned forward. “Please, Mr. Collins, I feel sure you do not wish to insult our host. You do not know how kind he has been. Ladies are not usually permitted in boxes at the opera here in Italy, but because we are a mixed party, he has employed the rights given to a nobleman in the matter.”

The young Contessa, having understood a part, spoke up with an engaging chirp. “Mio Byron!” she exclaimed. “Il mio amore e un Milord Inglese!”

Lydia had been inspecting the Contessa very closely while she spoke.

“Good lord, what short legs she has,” she observed. “Why, Byron, is she a midget? What taste, when you could have had a fine tall young woman like myself. I declare, she is such a bad figure, why, she might be deformed!”

Byron looked ruffled. The whole party drew in its breath, shocked by Lydia’s approach to referring to Byron’s own crippled, deformed leg, which he never liked to hear mentioned.

After a moment Byron spoke. “Teresa may be little but she is beautiful, and also brilliant. She has read Petrarch and Dante, and been educated in philosophy as well as literature. I like my women to have a brain. A woman who has not one, is of little interest to me. I am really susceptible only to clever women.” He looked meaning at Elizabeth, who made no reply.

Lydia nodded, unperturbed. “Yes, I see. Your own wife was a mathematician, I understand, and look how that ended. Never mind, there is no accounting for taste. But let me tell you, I am no such brainless thing as you seem to think. If I had only been educated, I dare say I could give that silly Contessa a run for her money.”

“Now, Lydia, no one could ever make you read a book,” Lizzy reminded. “But I hope you will like the opera better. I believe they are about to begin, and certainly you will find La Cenerentola a morally impeccable story, Mr. Collins. And Rossini’s music will soothe any real music lover.”

“La Cent who? That sounds dull,” said Lydia discontentedly.

“Why no, dear. It is Cinderella. Surely a tale that will find favor with you?”

Lydia bounced in her seat. “Cinderella! Oh but that is the only story I ever did like to read!  She is like ME. I do hope the Prince is handsome. But what a pity there should be all that boring Italian singing.”