Tales and Novels — Volume 06

Mrs. Somers was much affected by this letter, and by the information that Emilie and her mother had declined taking refuge with Lady Littleton, lest they should occasion jealousies between her and her friend. Generous people are, of all others, the most touched by generosity of sentiment or of action. Mrs. Somers went to bed, enraged against herself—but it was now too late.

In the mean time, Emilie and her mother were in an obscure lodging, at a haberdasher’s near Golden Square. The pride of Mad. de Coulanges, at first, supported her even beyond her daughter’s expectations; she uttered no complaints, but frequently repeated, “Mais nous sommes bien ici, très bien—we cannot expect to have things as well as at the Hotel de Coulanges.” In a short time she was threatened with fits of her vapeurs noirs; but Emilie, with the assistance of her whole store of French songs, a bird-organ, a lap-dog, and a squirrel, belonging to the girl of the house, contrived to avert the danger for the present—as to the future, she trembled to think of it. M. de Brisac seemed to be continually in her mother’s thoughts; and whatever occurred, or whatever was the subject of conversation, Mad. de Coulanges always found means to end with “à propos de M. de Brisac.” Faithful to her promise, however, which Emilie, with the utmost delicacy, recalled to her mind, she declared that she would not give M. de Brisac an answer till the end of the month, which she had allowed her daughter for reflection, and that, till that period, she would not even let him know where they were to be found. Emilie thought that the time went very fast, and her mother evidently rejoiced at the idea that the month would soon be at an end. Emilie endeavoured, with all her skill, to demonstrate to her mother that it would be possible to support themselves, by her industry and ingenuity, without this marriage; and to this, Mad. de Coulanges at first replied, “Try, and you will soon be tired, child.” Emilie’s spirits rose on receiving this permission: she began by copying music for a music-shop in the neighbourhood; and her mother saw, with astonishment, that she persevered in her design, and that no fatigue or discouraging circumstances could vanquish her resolution.

“Good Heavens! my child,” said she, “you will wear yourself to a skeleton with copying music, and with painting, and embroidery, besides stooping so many hours over that tambour frame. My dear, how can you bear all this?”

“How!—Oh! dear mamma!” said Emilie, “there is no great difficulty in all this to me—the difficulty, the impossibility would be, to live happily with a man I despise.”

“I wish,” cried Mad. de Coulanges, “I wish to all the saints, that that hero of yours, that fellow-prisoner of ours at the Abbaye, with his humanity, and his generosity, and his courage, and all his fine qualities, had kept out of your way, Emilie: I wish he were fairly at the bottom of the Black Sea.”

“But you forget that he was the means of obtaining your liberty, mamma.”

“I wish I could forget it—I am always doomed to be obliged to those whom I cannot love. But, after all, you might as well think of the khan of Tartary as of this man, whom we shall never hear of more. Marry M. de Brisac, like a reasonable creature, and do not let me see you bending, as you do, for ever, over a tambour frame, wasting your fine eyes and spoiling your charming shape.”

“But, mamma,” said Emilie, “would it not be much worse to marry one man, and like another?”

“For mercy’s sake! say something new to me, Emilie; at all events, I have heard this a hundred times.”

“The simple truth, alas!” said Emilie, “must always be the same: I wish I could put it in any new light that would please you, dear mamma.”

“It never can please me, child,” cried Mad. de Coulanges, angrily; “nor can you please me, either, as you are going on. Fine heroism, truly!—you will sacrifice your duty and your mother to your obstinacy in an idle fancy. But, remember, the last days of the month are at hand—longer I will not listen to such provoking nonsense—it has half killed me already.”

Neither lap-dog, squirrel, bird-organ, nor Emilie’s whole stock of French songs, could longer support the vivacity of Mad. de Coulanges; for some days she had passed the time in watching and listening to the London cries, as she sat at her window: the figures and sounds in this busy part of the town were quite new to her; and, whilst the novelty lasted, she was, like a child, good-humoured and full of exclamations. The want of some one to listen to these exclamations was an insupportable evil; she complained terribly of her daughter’s silence, whilst she was attending to her different employments. This want of conversation, and of all the luxuries she enjoyed at the house of Mrs. Somers, her anger against that lady, her loss of all hope of hearing from France, and her fear that Emilie would at last absolutely refuse to obey and marry M. de Brisac, all together operated so powerfully upon Mad. de Coulanges, that she really felt sick, and kept her bed. Emilie now confined herself to her mother’s room, and attended her with the most affectionate care, and with a degree of anxiety, which those only can comprehend who have believed themselves to be the cause of the illness of a friend—of a parent. Mad. de Coulanges would sometimes reply, when her daughter asked her if such or such a thing had done her good, “No, my child, nothing will do me good but your obedience, which you refuse me—perhaps on my deathbed.”

Though Emilie did not apprehend that her mother was in any immediate danger, yet these continual fits of low spirits and nervous attacks excited much alarm. Emilie’s reflections on her own helpless situation contributed to magnify her fears: she considered that she was a stranger, a foreigner, without friends, without credit, almost without money, and deprived, by the necessary attendance on her sick mother, of all power to earn any by her own exertions. The bodily fatigue that she endured, even without any mental anxiety, would have been sufficient to wear out the spirits of a more robust person than Emilie. She had no human being to assist her but a young girl, a servant-maid belonging to the house, who, fortunately, was active and good-natured; but her mistress was excessively cross, vulgar, and avaricious; avarice, indeed, often seemed to conquer in her the common feelings of humanity. Once, whilst Mad. de Coulanges was extremely ill, she forced her way into her bedchamber, to insist upon changing the counterpane upon the bed, which she said was too good to be stained with coffee: another day, when she was angry with Mlle. de Coulanges, for having cracked a basin by heating some soup for her mother, she declared, in the least ceremonious terms possible, that she hated to have any of the French refugees and emigrants in the house, for that she was not accustomed to let her lodgings to folk that nobody ever came near to visit, and that lived only upon soups and salads, and such low stuff; “and who, when they were ill, never so much as called in a physician, or even a nurse, but must take up the time of people that were not bound to wait upon them.”

Mlle. de Coulanges bore all this patiently rather than run the hazard of removing to other lodgings whilst her mother was so ill. The countess had a prejudice against English physicians, as she affirmed that it was impossible that they could understand French constitutions, especially hers, which was different from that of any other human being, and which, as she said, only one medical man in France rightly understood. At last, however, she yielded to the persuasions of her daughter, and permitted Emilie to send for a physician. When she inquired what he thought of her mother, he said, that she was in a nervous fever, and that unless her mind was kept free from anxiety he could not answer for her recovery. Mad. de Coulanges looked full at her daughter, who was standing at the foot of her bed; a mist came before Emilie’s eyes, a cold dew covered her forehead, and she was forced to hold by the bed-post to support herself.

At this instant the door opened, and Lady Littleton appeared. Emilie sprang forward, and threw herself into her arms—Mad. de Coulanges started up in her bed, exclaiming “Ah Ciel!” and then all were silent—except the mistress of the house, who went on making apologies about the dirt of her stairs, and its being Friday night. But as she at length perceived that not a soul in the room knew a word she was saying, she retreated. The physician took leave—and, when they were thus left at liberty, Lady Littleton seated herself in the broken arm-chair beside the bed, and told Mad. de Coulanges that Mrs. Somers had been very unhappy, in consequence of their quarrel; and that she had been indefatigable in her inquiries and endeavours to find out the place of their retreat; that she had at last given up the search in despair. “But,” continued Lady Littleton, “it has been my good fortune to discover you by means of this flower of Emilie’s painting”—(she produced a little hand-screen, which Emilie had lately made, and which she had sent to be disposed of at the Repository for Ingenious Works). “I knew it to be yours, my dear, because it is an exact resemblance of one upon your watch of Flora, which was drawn from the flower I brought you from Kew Gardens. Now you must not be angry with me for finding you out, nor for begging of you to be reconciled to poor Mrs. Somers, who has suffered much in your absence—much from the idea of what you would endure—and more from her self-reproaches. She has, indeed, an unfortunate susceptibility of temper, which makes her sometimes forget both politeness and justice: but, as you well know, her heart is excellent. Come, you must promise me to meet her at my house, as soon as you are able to go out, my dear Mad. de Coulanges.”

“I do not know when that will be,” replied Mad. de Coulanges, in a sick voice: “I was never so ill in my life—and so the physician says. But I am revived by seeing Lady Littleton—she is, and ever has been, all goodness and politeness to us. I am ashamed that she should see us in such a miserable place. Emilie, give me my other night-riband, and the wretched little looking-glass.”

Mad. de Coulanges sat up and arranged her head-dress. At this moment, Lady Littleton took Emilie aside, and put into her hand a letter from France!—“I would not speak of it suddenly to your mother, my dear,” said she; “but you will find the proper time. I hope it contains good news—at present I will have patience. You shall see me again soon; and you must, at all events, let me take you from this miserable place. Mrs. Somers has been punished enough.—Adieu!—I long to know the news from France.”

The news from France was such as made the looking-glass drop from the hand of Mad. de Coulanges. It was a letter from the son of her old steward, to tell her that his father was dead—that he was now in possession of all the family fortune, which he was impatient to restore to the wife and daughter of his former master and friend.

“Heaven be praised!” exclaimed Mad. de Coulanges, in an ecstasy of joy—“Heaven be praised! we shall once more see dear Paris, and the Hotel de Coulanges!”

“Heaven be praised!” cried Emilie, “I shall never more see M. de Brisac. My mother, I am sure, will no longer wish me to marry him.”

“No, in truth,” said the countess, “it would now be a most unequal match, and one to which he is by no means entitled. How fortunate it is that I had not given him my promise!—After all, your aversion to him, child, was quite providential. Now you may form the most splendid alliance that your heart can desire.”

“My heart,” said Emilie, sighing, “desires no splendid alliance. But had you not better lie down, dear mamma?—You will certainly catch cold—and remember, your mind must be kept quiet.”

It was impossible to keep her mind quiet; she ran on from one subject to another with extravagant volubility; and Emilie was afraid that she would, the next day, be quite exhausted; but, on the contrary, after talking above half the night, she fell into a sound sleep; and when she wakened, after having slept fourteen hours, she declared that she would no longer be kept a prisoner in bed. The renovating effects of joy and the influence of the imagination were never more strongly displayed. “Le malheur passé n’est bon qu’à être oublié,” was la comtesse’s favourite maxim—and to do her justice, she was as ready to forget past quarrels as past misfortunes. She readily complied with Emilie’s request that she would, as soon as she was able to go out, accompany her to Lady Littleton’s, that they might meet and be reconciled to Mrs. Somers.

“She has the most tormenting temper imaginable,” said the countess; “and I would not live with her for the universe—Mais d’ailleurs c’est la meilleure femme du monde.”

If, instead of being the best woman in the world, Mrs. Somers had been the worst, and if, instead of being a benefactress, she had been an enemy, it would have been all the same thing to the countess; for, in this moment, she was, as usual, like a child, a friend to every creature of every kind.

Her volubility was interrupted by the arrival of Lady Littleton, who came to carry Mad. de Coulanges and Emilie to her house, where, as her ladyship said, Mrs. Somers was impatiently waiting for them. Lady Littleton had prevented her from coming to this poor lodging-house, because she knew that the being seen there would mortify the pride of some of the house of Coulanges.

Mrs. Somers was indeed waiting for them with inexpressible impatience. The moment she heard their voices in the hall at Lady Littleton’s, she ran down stairs to meet them; and as she embraced Emilie she could not refrain from bursting into tears.

“Tears of joy, these must be,” cried Mad. de Coulanges: “we are all happy now—perfectly happy—Are not we?—Embrace me, Mrs. Somers—Emilie shall not have all your heart—I have some gratitude as well as my daughter; and I should have none if I did not love you—especially at this moment.”

Mad. de Coulanges was, by this time, at the head of the stairs; a servant opened the drawing-room door; but something was amiss with the strings of her sandals—she would stay to adjust them—and said to Emilie, “Allez, allez—entrez.”

Emilie obeyed. An instant afterwards Mad. de Coulanges thought she heard a sudden cry, either of joy or grief, from Emilie—she hurried into the drawing-room.

“Bon Dieu! c’est notre homme de l’Abbaye!” cried she, starting back at the sight of a gentleman who had been kneeling at Emilie’s feet, and who arose as she entered.

“My son!” said Mrs. Somers, eagerly presenting him to Mad. de Coulanges—“my son! whom it is in your power to make the happiest or the most miserable of men!”

“In my power!—in Emilie’s, you mean, I suppose,” said the countess, smiling. “She is so good a girl that I cannot make her miserable; and as for you, Mrs. Somers, the honour of your alliance—and our obligations—But then I shall be miserable myself if she does not go back with me to the Hotel de Coulanges—Ah! Ciel!—And then poor M. de Brisac, he will be miserable, unless, to comfort him, I marry him myself.”—Half laughing, half crying, Mad. de Coulanges scarcely knew what she said or did.

It was some time before she was sufficiently composed to understand clearly what was said to her by any person in the room, though she asked, half a dozen times, at least, from every one present, an explanation of all that had happened.

Lady Littleton was the only person who could give an explanation. She had contrived this meeting, and even Mrs. Somers had not foreseen the event—she never suspected that her own son was the very person to whom Emilie was attached, and that it was for Emilie’s sake her son had hitherto refused to comply with her earnest desire that he should marry and settle in the world. He had no hopes that she would consent to his marrying a French girl without fortune, because she formerly quarrelled with him for refusing to marry a rich lady of quality, who happened to be, at that time, high in her favour. Upon the summons home that he received from her, he was alarmed by the apprehension that she had some new alliance in view for him, and he resolved, before he saw his mother, to trust his secret to Lady Littleton, who had always been a mediatrix and peace-maker. He declined telling the name of the object of his affections; but, from his description, and from many concomitant dates and circumstances, Lady Littleton was led to suspect that it might be Emilie de Coulanges. She consequently contrived an interview, which she knew must be decisive.

Mad. de Coulanges, whose imagination was now at Paris, felt rather disappointed at the idea of her daughter’s marrying an Englishman, who was neither a count, a marquis, nor even a baron; but Lady Littleton at length obtained that consent which she knew would be necessary to render Emilie happy, even in following the dictates of her heart, or her reason.

Some conversation passed between Lady Littleton and Mrs. Somers about a dormant title in the Somers’ family, which might be revived. This made a wonderful impression on the countess. She yielded, as she did every thing else, with a good grace.

History does not say, whether she did or did not console M. de Brisac: we are only informed that, immediately after her daughter’s marriage, she returned to Paris, and gave a splendid ball at her Hotel de Coulanges. We are further assured that Mrs. Somers never quarrelled with Emilie from the day of her marriage till the day of her death—but that is incredible.

1803.

THE MODERN GRISELDA.

A TALE.

POPE.

CHAPTER I.

“Is not this ode set to music, my dear Griselda?” said the happy bridegroom to his bride.

“Yes, surely, my dear: did you never hear it?”

“Never; and I am glad of it, for I shall have the pleasure of hearing it for the first time from you, my love: will you be so kind as to play it for me?”

“Most willingly,” said Griselda, with an enchanting smile; “but I am afraid that I shall not be able to do it justice,” added she, as she sat down to her harp, and threw her white arm across the chords.

“Charming! Thank you, my love,” said the bridegroom, who had listened with enthusiastic devotion.—“Will you let me hear it once more?”

The complaisant bride repeated the strain.

“Thank you, my dear love,” repeated her husband. This time he omitted the word “charming”—she missed it, and, pouting prettily, said,

“I never can play any thing so well the second time as the first.”—She paused: but as no compliment ensued, she continued, in a more pettish tone, “And for that reason, I do hate to be made to play any thing twice over.”

“I did not know that, my dearest love, or I would not have asked you to do it; but I am the more obliged to you for your ready compliance.”

“Obliged!—Oh, my dear, I am sure you could not be the least obliged to me, for I know I played it horridly: I hate flattery.”

“I am convinced of that, my dear, and therefore I never flatter: you know I did not say that you played as well the last time as the first, did I?”

“No, I did not say you did,” cried Griselda, and her colour rose as she spoke: she tuned her harp with some precipitation—“This harp is terribly out of tune.”

“Is it? I did not perceive it.”

“Did not you, indeed? I am sorry for that.”

“Why so, my dear?”

“Because, my dear, I own that I would rather have had the blame thrown on my harp than upon myself.”

“Blame? my love!—But I threw no blame either on you or your harp. I cannot recollect saying even a syllable that implied blame.”

“No, my dear, you did not say a syllable; but in some cases the silence of those we love is the worst, the most mortifying species of blame.”

The tears came into Griselda’s beautiful eyes.

“My sweet love,” said he, “how can you let such a trifle affect you so much?”

“Nothing is a trifle to me which concerns those I love,” said Griselda.—Her husband kissed away the pearly drops which rolled over her vermeil-tinctured cheeks. “My love,” said he, “this is having too much sensibility.”

“Yes, I own I have too much sensibility,” said she, “too much—a great deal too much, for my own happiness.—Nothing ever can be a trifle to me which marks the decline of the affection of those who are most dear to me.”

The tenderest protestations of undiminished and unalterable affection could not for some time reassure this timid sensibility: but at length the lady suffered herself to be comforted, and with a languid smile said, that she hoped she was mistaken—that her fears were perhaps unreasonable—that she prayed to Heaven they might in future prove groundless.

A few weeks afterwards her husband unexpectedly met with Mr. Granby, a friend, of whose company he was particularly fond: he invited him home to dinner, and was talking over past times in all the gaiety and innocence of his heart, when suddenly his wife rose and left the room.—As her absence appeared to him long, and as he had begged his friend to postpone an excellent story till her return, he went to her apartment and called “Griselda!—Griselda, my love!”—No Griselda answered.—He searched for her in vain in every room in the house: at last, in an alcove in the garden, he found the fair dissolved in tears.

“Good Heavens! my dear Griselda, what can be the matter?”

A melancholy, not to say sullen, silence was maintained by his dear Griselda, till this question had been reiterated in all the possible tones of fond solicitude and alarm: at last, in broken sentences, she replied that she saw he did not love her—never had loved her; that she had now but too much reason to be convinced that all her fears were real, not imaginary; that her presentiments, alas! never deceived her; that she was the most miserable woman on earth.

Her husband’s unfeigned astonishment she seemed to consider as an aggravation of her woes, and it was an additional insult to plead ignorance of his offence.

If he did not understand her feelings, it was impossible, it was needless, to explain them. He must have lost all sympathy with her, all tenderness for her, if he did not know what had passed in her mind.

The man stood in stupid innocence. Provoked to speak more plainly, the lady exclaimed, “Unfeeling, cruel, barbarous man!—Have not you this whole day been trying your utmost skill to torment me to death? and, proud of your success, now you come to enjoy your triumph.”

“Success!—triumph!”

“Yes, triumph!—I see it in your eyes—it is in vain to deny it. All this I owe to your friend Mr. Granby. Why he should be my enemy!—I who never injured him, or any body living, in thought, word, or deed—why he should be my enemy!”—

“Enemy!—My love, this is the strangest fancy! Why should you imagine that he is your enemy?”

“He is my enemy—nobody shall ever convince me of the contrary; he has wounded me in the tenderest point, and in the basest manner: has not he done his utmost, in the most artful, insidious way,—even before my face,—to persuade you that you were a thousand times happier when you were a bachelor than you are now—than you ever have been since you married me?”

“Oh, my dear Griselda, you totally misunderstand him: such a thought never entered his mind.”

“Pardon me, I know him better than you do.”

“But I have known him ever since I was a child.”

“That is the very reason you cannot judge of him as well as I can: how could you judge of character when you were a child?”

“But now that I am a man—”

“Now that you are a man you are prejudiced in his favour by all the associations of your childhood—all those associations,” continued the fair one, renewing her tears, “all those early associations, which are stronger than every other species of affection—all those associations which I never can have in your mind, which ever must act against me, and which no merit—if I had any merit—no tenderness, no fidelity, no fondness of mine, can ever hope to balance in the heart of the man I love.”

“My dearest Griselda! be reasonable, and do not torment yourself and me for no earthly purpose about these associations: really it is ridiculous. Come, dry these useless tears, let me beseech you, my love. You do not know how much pain they give me, unreasonable as they are.”

At these words they flowed more bitterly.

“Nay, my love, I conjure you to compose yourself, and return to the company: you do not know how long you have been away, and I too. We shall be missed; we shall make ourselves ridiculous.”

“If it be ridiculous to love, I shall be ridiculous all my life. I am sorry you think me so; I knew it would come to this; I must bear it if I can,” said Griselda; “only be so kind to excuse me from returning to the company to-night—indeed I am not fit, I am not able: say that I am not well; indeed, my love, you may say so with truth.—Tell your friend that I have a terrible head-ache, and that I am gone to bed—but not to rest,” added she, in a lower and more plaintive tone, as she drew her hand from her husband’s, and in spite of all his entreaties retired to her room with an air of heart-broken resignation.

Whoever has had the felicity to be beloved by such a wife as our Griselda, must have felt how much the charms of beauty are heightened by the anguish of sensibility. Even in the moment when a husband is most tormented by her caprices, he feels that there is something so amiable, so flattering to his vanity in their source, that he cannot complain of the killing pleasure. On the contrary, he grows fonder of his dear tormentor; he folds closer to him this pleasing bosom ill.

Griselda perceived the effects, and felt the whole extent of the power of sensibility; she had too much prudence, however, at once to wear out the excitability of a husband’s heart; she knew that the influence of tears, potent as it is, might in time cease to be irresistible, unless aided by the magic of smiles; she knew the power of contrast even in charms; she believed the poets, who certainly understand these things, and who assure us that the very existence of love depends on this blest vicissitude. Convinced, or seemingly convinced, of the folly of that fond melancholy in which she persisted for a week, she next appeared all radiant with joy; and she had reason to be delighted by the effect which this produced. Her husband, who had not yet been long enough her husband to cease to be her lover, had suffered much from the obstinacy of her sorrow; his spirits had sunk, he had become silent, he had been even seen to stand motionless with his arms folded; he was in this attitude when she approached and smiled upon him in all her glory. He breathed, he lived, he moved, he spoke.—Not the influence of the sun on the statue of Memnon was ever more exhilarating.

Let any candid female say, or, if she will not say, imagine, what she should have felt at that moment in Griselda’s place.—How intoxicating to human vanity, to be possessed of such powers of enchantment!—How difficult to refrain from their exercise!—How impossible to believe in their finite duration!

CHAPTER II.

When Griselda thought that her husband had long enough enjoyed his new existence, and that there was danger of his forgetting the taste of sorrow, she changed her tone.—One day, when he had not returned home exactly at the appointed minute, she received him with a frown,—such as would have made even Mars himself recoil, if Mars could have beheld such a frown upon the brow of his Venus.

“Dinner has been kept waiting for you this hour, my dear.”

“I am very sorry for it; but why did you wait, my dear? I am really very sorry I am so late, but (looking at his watch) it is only half past six by me.”

“It is seven by me.”

They presented their watches to each other; he, in an apologetical, she, in a reproachful attitude.

“I rather think you are too fast, my dear,” said the gentleman.

“I am very sure you are too slow, my dear,” said the lady.

“My watch never loses a minute in the four-and-twenty hours,” said he.

“Nor mine a second,” said she.

“I have reason to believe I am right, my love,” said the husband, mildly.

“Reason!” exclaimed the wife, astonished; “what reason can you possibly have to believe you are right, when I tell you I am morally certain you are wrong, my love?”

“My only reason is, that I set my watch by the sun to-day.”

“The sun must be wrong, then,” cried the lady, hastily.—“You need not laugh; for I know what I am saying—the variation, the declination, must be allowed for in computing it with the clock. Now you know perfectly well what I mean, though you will not explain it for me, because you are conscious I am in the right.”

“Well, my dear, if you are conscious of it, that is sufficient. We will not dispute any more about such a trifle.—Are they bringing up dinner?”

“If they know that you are come in; but I am sure I cannot tell whether they do or not.—Pray, my dear Mrs. Nettleby,” cried the lady, turning to a female friend, and still holding her watch in her hand, “what o’clock is it by you? There is nobody in the world hates disputing about trifles as much as I do; but I own I do love to convince people that I am in the right.”

Mrs. Nettleby’s watch had stopped. How provoking!—Vexed at having no immediate means of convincing people that she was in the right, our heroine consoled herself by proceeding to criminate her husband, not in this particular instance, where he pleaded guilty, but upon the general charge of being always late for dinner, which he strenuously denied.

There is something in the species of reproach, which advances thus triumphantly from particulars to generals, peculiarly offensive to every reasonable and susceptible mind: and there is something in the general charge of being always late for dinner, which the punctuality of man’s nature cannot easily endure, especially if he be hungry. We should humbly advise our female friends to forbear exposing a husband’s patience to this trial, or at least to temper it with much fondness, else mischief will infallibly ensue. For the first time Griselda saw her husband angry; but she recovered him by saying, in a softened tone, “My love, you must be sensible that I can have but one reason for being so impatient for your return home.—If I liked your company less, I should not complain so much of your want of punctuality.”

Finding that this speech had the desired effect, it was afterwards repeated with variations whenever her husband stayed from home to enjoy any species of amusement, or to gratify any of his friends. When he betrayed symptoms of impatience under this constraint, the expostulations became more urgent, if not more forcible.

“Indeed, my dear, I take it rather unkindly of you that you pay so little attention to my feelings—”

“I see I am of no consequence to you now; I find every body’s society is preferred to mine: it was not always so.—Well! it is what I might have expected—”

“Heigho!—Heigho!—”

Griselda’s sighs were still persuasive, and her husband, notwithstanding that he felt the restraints which daily multiplied upon his time and upon his personal liberty becoming irksome, had not the barbarity to give pain to the woman by whom he was so tenderly beloved. He did not consider that in this case, as well as in many others, apparent mercy is real cruelty. The more this monopolizing humour of his wife’s was indulged, the more insatiable it became. Every person, every thing but herself, was to be excluded from his heart; and when this sole patent for pleasure was granted to her, she became rather careless in its exercise, as those are apt to be who fear no competitors. In proportion as her endeavours to please abated, her expectations of being adored increased: the slightest word of blame, the most remote hint that any thing in her conduct, manners, or even dress, could be altered for the better, was the signal for battle or for tears.

One night she wept for an hour, and debated for two, about an alteration in her head-dress, which her husband unluckily happened to say made it more becoming. More becoming! implied that it was before unbecoming. She recollected the time when every thing she wore was becoming in his eyes—but that time, alas! was completely past; and she only wished that she could forget that it had ever been.

“To have been happy is additional misery.”

This misery may appear comic to some people, but it certainly was not so to our heroine’s unfortunate husband. It was in vain that, in mitigation of his offence, he pleaded total want of knowledge in the arcana of the toilette, absolute inferiority of taste, and a willing submission to the decrees of fashion.

This submission was called indifference—this calmness construed into contempt. He stood convicted of having said that the lady’s dress was unbecoming—she was certain that he thought more than he said, and that every thing about her was grown disagreeable to him.

It was in vain he represented that his affection had not been created, and could not be annihilated, by such trifles; that it rested on the solid basis of esteem.

“Esteem!” cried his wife—“that is the unkindest stroke of all! When a man begins to talk of esteem, there is an end of love.”

To illustrate this position, the fair one, as well as the disorder of her mind would permit, entered into a refined disquisition, full of all the metaphysics of gallantry, which proved that love—genuine love—is an æthereal essence, a union of souls, regulated by none of those formal principles, and founded upon none of those vulgar moral qualities on which friendship, and the other connexions of society, depend. Far, far above the jurisdiction of reason, true love creates perfect sympathy in taste, and an absolute identity of opinion upon all subjects, physical, metaphysical, moral, political, and economic. After having thus established her theory, her practice was wonderfully consistent, and she reasonably expected from her husband the most exact conformity to her principles—of course, his five senses and his understanding were to be identified with hers. If he saw, heard, felt, or understood differently from her, he did not, could not, love her. Once she was offended by his liking white better than black; at another time she was angry with him for loving the taste of mushrooms. One winter she quarrelled with him for not admiring the touch of satin, and one summer she was jealous of him for listening to the song of a blackbird. Then because he could not prefer to all other odours the smell of jessamine, she was ready “to die of a rose in aromatic pain.” The domain of taste, in the more enlarged sense of the word, became a glorious field of battle, and afforded subjects of inextinguishable war. Our heroine was accomplished, and knew how to make all her accomplishments and her knowledge of use. As she was mistress not only of the pencil, but of all “the cant of criticism,” had infinite advantages in the wordy war. From the beau ideal to the choice of a snuffer-dish, all came within her province, and was to be submitted, without appeal, to her instinctive sense of moral order.—Happy fruits of knowledge!—Happy those who can thus enlarge their intellectual dominion, and can vary eternally the dear delight of giving pain. The range of opinion was still more ample than the province of taste, affording scope for all the joys of assertion and declamation—for the opposing of learned and unlearned authorities—for the quoting the opinions of friends—counting voices instead of arguments—wondering at the absurdity of those who can be of a different way of thinking—appealing to the judgment of the whole world—or resting perfectly satisfied with her own. Sometimes the most important, sometimes the most trivial, and seemingly uninteresting subjects, gave exercise to Griselda’s powers; and in all cases being entirely of her opinion was the only satisfactory proof of love.

Our heroine knew how, with able generalship, to take advantage of time and situation.—Just before the birth of their child, which, by-the-bye, was born dead, a dispute arose between the husband and wife concerning public and private education, which, from its vehemence, alarmed the gentleman into a perfect conviction that he was in the wrong. Scarcely had Griselda gained this point, when a question arose at the tea-table respecting the Chinese method of making tea. It was doubted by some of the company whether it was made in a tea-pot or a tea-cup. Griselda gave her opinion loudly for the tea-pot—her lord and master inclined to the tea-cup; and as neither of them had been in China, they could debate without fear of coming to a conclusion. The subject seemed at first insignificant; but the lady’s method of managing it supplied all deficiencies, and roused all the passions of human nature on the one side or the other. Victory hung doubtful; but our heroine won the day by taking time into the account.—Her adversary was in a hurry to go to meet some person on business, and quitted the field of battle.

CHAPTER III.

“There are,” says Dr. Johnson, “a thousand familiar disputes which reason can never decide; questions that elude investigation, and make logic ridiculous—cases where something must be done, and where little can be said.—Wretched would be the pair above all names of wretchedness who should be doomed to adjust by reason every morning all the detail of a domestic day.”

Our heroine made a double advantage of this passage: for she regularly reasoned where logic was ridiculous, and could not be prevailed upon to listen to reason when it might have been useful.—She substituted her will most frequently for arguments, and often opposed it to her husband’s, in order to give him the merit of sacrificing his wishes. When he wanted to read, she suddenly wished to walk; when he wished to walk, she was immersed in her studies. When he was busy, she was talkative; when he was eager to hear her converse, she was inclined to be silent. The company that he liked, she disliked; the public amusements that she most frequented were those of which he least approved. This species of wilfulness was the strongest proof of her solicitude about his good opinion.—She could not bear, she said, that he should consider her as a child, who was not able to govern herself. She could not believe that a man had confidence in her unless he proved it by leaving her at liberty to decide and act for herself.

Sometimes she receded, sometimes she advanced in her claims; but without marking the daily ebbs and flows of her humour, it is sufficient to observe, that it continually encroached upon her husband’s indulgence. She soon insisted upon being consulted, that is, obeyed, in affairs which did not immediately come under the cognizance of her sex—politics inclusive. This apparently exorbitant love of power was veiled under the most affectionate humility.

“Oh, my love! I know you despise my abilities; you think these things above the comprehension of poor women. I know I am but your plaything after all: you cannot consider me for a moment as your equal or your friend—I see that!—You talk of these things to your friend Mr. Granby—I am not worthy to hear them.—Well, I am sure I have no ambition, except to possess the confidence of the man I love.”

The lady forgot that she had, upon a former occasion, considered a profession of esteem from her husband as an insult, and that, according to her definition of true love, esteem was incompatible with its existence.

Tacitus remarks, that it is common with princes to will contradictories; in this characteristic they have the honour to resemble some of the fair sex, as well as all spoiled children. Having every feasible wish gratified, they are obliged to wish for what is impossible, for want of something to desire or to do: they are compelled to cry for the moon, or for new worlds to conquer.—Our heroine having now attained the summit of human glory and happiness, and feeling almost as much ennui as was expressed by the conqueror of the world, yawned one morning, as she sat tête-à-tête with her husband, and said—

“I wish I knew what was the matter with me this morning.—Why do you keep the newspaper all to yourself, my dear?”

“Here it is for you, my dear: I have finished it.”

“I humbly thank you for giving it to me when you have done with it—I hate stale news.—Is there any thing in the paper? for I cannot be at the trouble of hunting it.”

“Yes, my dear, there are the marriages of two of our friends—”

“Who? Who?”

“Your friend the Widow Nettleby, to her cousin John Nettleby.”

“Mrs. Nettleby! Lord! but why did you tell me?”

“Because you asked me, my dear.”

“Oh! but it is a hundred times pleasanter to read the paragraph one’s self: one loses all the pleasure of the surprise by being told.—Well! whose was the other marriage?”

“Oh! my dear, I will not tell you—I will leave you the pleasure of the surprise.”

“But you see I cannot guess it.—How provoking you are, my dear! Do pray tell it me.”

“Our friend Mr. Granby.”

“Mr. Granby!—Dear! Why did not you make me guess? I should have guessed him directly: but why do you call him our friend? I am sure he is no friend of mine, nor ever was; I took an aversion to him, as you may remember, the very first day I saw him: I am sure he is no friend of mine.”

“I am sorry for it, my dear; but I hope you will go and see Mrs. Granby?”

“Not I, indeed, my dear.—Who was she?”

“Miss Cooke.”

“Cooke!—but there are so many Cookes.—Can’t you distinguish her any way?—Has she no Christian name?”

“Emma, I think—yes, Emma.”

“Emma Cooke!—No; it cannot be my friend Emma Cooke—for I am sure she was cut out for an old maid.”

“This lady seems to me to be cut out for a good wife.”

“May be so—I am sure I’ll never go to see her—Pray, my dear, how came you to see so much of her?”

“I have seen very little of her, my dear: I only saw her two or three times before she was married.”

“Then, my dear, how could you decide that she is cut out for a good wife?—I am sure you could not judge of her by seeing her only two or three times, and before she was married.”

“Indeed, my love, that is a very just observation.”

“I understand that compliment perfectly, and thank you for it, my dear.—I must own I can bear any thing better than irony.”

“Irony! my dear; I was perfectly in earnest.”

“Yes, yes; in earnest—so I perceive—I may naturally be dull of apprehension, but my feelings are quick enough: I comprehend you too well. Yes—it is impossible to judge of a woman before marriage, or to guess what sort of a wife she will make. I presume you speak from experience; you have been disappointed yourself, and repent your choice.”

“My dear, what did I say that was like this? Upon my word I meant no such thing; I really was not thinking of you in the least.”

“No—you never think of me now: I can easily believe that you were not thinking of me in the least.”

“But I said that only to prove to you that I could not be thinking ill of you, my dear.”

“But I would rather that you thought ill of me than that you did not think of me at all.”

“Well, my dear,” said her husband, laughing, “I will even think ill of you, if that will please you.”

“Do you laugh at me?” cried she, bursting into tears. “When it comes to this, I am wretched indeed! Never man laughed at the woman he loved! As long as you had the slightest remains of love for me, you could not make me an object of derision: ridicule and love are incompatible, absolutely incompatible. Well, I have done my best, my very best, to make you happy, but in vain. I see I am not cut out to be a good wife. Happy, happy Mrs. Granby!”

“Happy I hope sincerely that she will be with my friend; but my happiness must depend on you, my love; so, for my sake, if not for your own, be composed, and do not torment yourself with such fancies.”

“I do wonder,” cried our heroine, starting from her seat, “whether this Mrs. Granby is really that Miss Emma Cooke. I’ll go and see her directly; see her I must.”

“I am heartily glad of it, my dear; for I am sure a visit to his wife will give my friend Granby real pleasure.”

“I promise you, my dear, I do not go to give him pleasure, or you either; but to satisfy my own—curiosity.”

The rudeness of this speech would have been intolerable to her husband if it had not been for a certain hesitation in the emphasis with which she pronounced the word curiosity, which left him in doubt as to her real motive.

Jealousy is sometimes thought to be a proof of love; and, in this point of view, must not all its caprices, absurdities, and extravagances, be graceful, amiable, and gratifying?

A few days after Griselda had satisfied her curiosity, she thus, in the presence of her husband, began to vent her spleen:

“For Heaven’s sake, dear Mrs. Nettleby,” cried she, addressing herself to the new-married widow, who came to return her wedding visit—“for pity’s sake, dear Mrs. Nettleby, can you or any body else tell me what possessed Mr. Granby to marry Emma Cooke?”

“I am sure I cannot tell, for I have not seen her yet.”

“You will be less able to tell after you have seen her, and still less after you have heard her.”

“What, then, she is neither a wit nor a beauty! I’m quite surprised at that; for I thought, to be sure, Mr. Granby, who is such a judge and such a critic, and so nice about female manners, would not have been content without something very extraordinary.”

“Nothing can be more ordinary.”

“Astonishing! but I am quite tired of being astonished at marriages! One sees such strange matches every day, I am resolved never to be surprised at any thing: who can, that lives in the world? But really now I am surprised at Mr. Granby. What! is she nothing?”

“Nothing—absolutely nothing; a cipher; a nonentity.”

“Now really? you do not tell me so,” said Mrs. Nettleby. “Well, I am so disappointed; for I always resolved to take example by Mr. Granby’s wife.”

“I would rather that she should take warning by me,” said Griselda, laughing. “But to be candid, I must tell you that to some people’s taste she is a pattern wife—a perfect Grizzle. She and I should have changed names—or characters. Which, my dear?” cried she, appealing to her husband.

“Not names, my dear,” answered he.

The conversation might here have ended happily, but unluckily our heroine could not be easily satisfied before Mrs. Nettleby, to whom she was proud of showing her conjugal ascendancy.

“My dear,” said she to her husband, “a-propos to pattern wives: you have read Chaucer’s Tales. Do you seriously like or dislike the real, original, old Griselda?”

“It is so long since I have seen her that I cannot tell,” replied he.

“Then, my dear, you must read the story over again, and tell me without evasion.”

“And if he could read it before Mrs. Granby and me, what a compliment that would be to one bride,” added the malicious Mrs. Nettleby, “and what a lesson for another!”

“Oh, it must be so! it must be so!” cried Griselda. “I will ask her here on purpose to a reading party; and you, my dear Mrs. Nettleby, will come for your lesson. You, my love, who read so well—and who, I am sure, will be delighted to pay a compliment to your favourite, Mrs. Granby—you will read, and I will—weep. On what day shall it be? Let me see: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, I’m engaged: but Sunday is only a party at home; I can put that off:—then Sunday let it be.”

“Sunday, I am unluckily engaged, my dear,” said her husband.

“Engaged? Oh, nonsense! You have no engagements of any consequence: and when I put off my party on purpose to have the pleasure of hearing you read, oblige me, my love, for once.”

“My love, to oblige you, I will do any thing.”

Griselda cast a triumphant glance at Mrs. Nettleby, which said as plainly as a look could say, “You see how I rule him!”