William hesitated only a moment before agreeing, a faint color rising in his cheeks at the sudden attention, yet his resolve steady. He rose and stood very straight beside the pianoforte, as though addressing a far larger assembly than the small circle of ladies—and Mr. Bennet, who had quietly entered the drawing-room some minutes earlier and now occupied his favorite chair by the window, a book open on his knee though his eyes were fixed upon the scene with evident private amusement.
The lad began in a clear, measured voice, pronouncing each syllable with the careful classical quantity he had been taught:
“Menin aeide, thea, Peleïadeo Achileos
oulomenen, he myri’ Achaiois alge’ etheke,
pollas d’ iphthimous psychas Aïdi proïapsen
heroon, autous de heloria teuche kynessin
oionoisi te pasi; Dios d’ eteleieto boule…”
He had reached only the fifth line when Lydia burst into uncontrollable laughter, clapping both hands over her mouthtoo late to stifle the sound. “It sounds exactly like sneezing!” she declared, her eyes wide with impish glee.
Mary frowned, her brows drawing together in disapproving severity. “It is very improper to laugh at Greek.”
“I am not laughing at Greek,” Lydia returned, undaunted and still giggling. “I am laughing at how he says it—like a very solemn cold in the head!”
Kitty gave a suppressed snort; even Jane’s lips trembled, though she pressed them together in gentle forbearance. Elizabeth laughed openly, her mirth bright and infectious, while Mrs. Bennet, caught between maternal rebuke and helpless amusement, fluttered her fan in vague protest.
William, undisturbed, continued with two more lines with unwavering gravity
ex hou de ta prota diasteten erisante
Atreïdes te anax andron kai dios Achilleus.
He then bowed and resumed his seat with perfect composure.
“I am gratified,” the lad said, with gentle humility that softened the room, “that it produces mirth, if not admiration.”
Mr. Bennet closed his book with a soft snap and leaned forward, his eyes twinkling more openly now. “Very creditably delivered, Mr. Collins—though I confess the effect upon my younger daughters is rather different from what Homer intended. Pray favor us with the sense of it, sir; I should like to know what calamity has befallen the Achaeans.”
William inclined his head respectfully. “It is the opening of the Iliad, sir, as you may have already remarked. The poet invokes the goddess to sing of the wrath of Achilles, son of Peleus—destructive wrath, which brought countless woes uponthe Greeks, hurled many valiant souls to Hades, and made their bodies prey for dogs and birds; and thus the will of Zeus was accomplished.”
A brief silence followed, broken only by the patter of rain beginning against the windows.
Then Mrs. Bennet clapped her hands together with sudden enthusiasm. “Well! Upon my word, that is quite astonishing—wrath and dogs and Hades, all in such solemn tones! You are a prodigy, Mr. Collins.”
Jane smiled warmly and joined the applause with gentle grace; Elizabeth followed with lively appreciation, her earlier laughter now turned to genuine admiration; Mary, recovering her dignity, offered a measured clap and a solemn nod of scholarly approval; even Kitty and Lydia added their eager, if somewhat unruly, applause—Lydia crying, “Do it again, only sneeze more!”
Mr. Bennet allowed the applause to continue a moment before raising one hand in mock solemnity. “Enough, enough—we shall have the young man reciting the entire epic if we are not careful. But I thank you, sir; you have provided more entertainment than I have seen in this house for many a week.”
William colored faintly but bowed again, his quiet pleasure evident. “I am glad to have given satisfaction, sir.”
Elizabeth laughed then, openly and without restraint, her mirth bright and infectious. “You must forgive us. We are ill-qualified judges. But I think you very brave.”
Jane added softly, her voice a soothing counterpoint, “And very patient.”
Mrs. Bennet, who liked bravery and patience exceedingly when they did not inconvenience her, and who had been observing from her chair with growing approval, declared that young men who could endure Greek aloud deserved every encouragement, adding with a complacent nod that such accomplishments were sure to recommend him in the best circles.
***
Thursday morning arrived too soon for Lydia’s satisfaction—who lamented the loss of her new playfellow with dramatic sighs—and too late for Mrs. Bennet’s nerves, which had begun to fret over the disruption to routine. The carriage was prepared to leave for the early afternoon, and the household assumed that air of gentle disturbance which accompanies departure without sorrow, servants moving with subdued haste and the girls casting occasional glances toward the clock. Breakfast was quieter than the day before, the usual chatter subdued by the impending farewell, and William Collins himself appeared more thoughtful, though not uneasy, his gaze lingering upon the familiar faces around the table with a quiet gratitude he did not voice.
As it was not Sunday, Mr. Bennet proposed that the family should assemble briefly in the drawing-room before noon, a practice observed at Longbourn only on occasions of particular sobriety, and one which he introduced now with a gravity that silenced even Lydia’s restlessness. Prayers were read with simplicity and without display; even Lydia was still, her hands folded demurely though her feet twitched beneath her gown, and Kitty attentive, her eyes fixed upon William with a soft regret.
Afterwards, Jane thanked William for his company with a sweetness that needed no ornament, pressing his hand briefly with genuine warmth, and Mary wished him improvement in his studies with such earnestness that he promised, quite sincerely, to remember her advice, his tone conveying a respect that pleased her exceedingly.
