Every eye was fixed upon Emma, and every ear was impatient for her answer.
“I should never have imagined,” said she, smiling, “that any person’s practice could be influenced by my theory, especially as I have no theory.”
“No more humility, my dear; if you have no theory, you have an opinion of your own, I hope, and we must have a distinct answer to this simple question: Would you have made the promise that was required from Griselda?”
“No,” answered Emma; “distinctly no; for I could never have loved or esteemed the man who required such a promise.”
Disconcerted by this answer, which was the very reverse of what she expected; amazed at the modest self-possession with which the timid Emma spoke, and vexed by the symptoms of approbation which Emma’s words and voice excited, our heroine called upon her husband, in a more than usually authoritative tone, and bid him — read on.
He obeyed. Emma became again absorbed in the story, and her countenance showed how much she felt all its beauties, and all its pathos. Emma did all she could to repress her feelings; and our heroine all she could to make her and them ridiculous. But in this attempt she was unsuccessful; for many of the spectators, who at her instigation began by watching Emma’s countenance to find subject for ridicule, ended by sympathizing with her unaffected sensibility.
When the tale was ended, the modern Griselda, who was determined to oppose as strongly as possible the charms of spirit to those of sensibility, burst furiously forth into an invective against the meanness of her namesake, and the tyranny of the odious Gualtherus.
“Could you have forgiven him, Mrs. Granby? could you have forgiven the monster?”
“He repented,” said Emma; “and does not a penitent cease to be a monster?”
“Oh, I never, never would have forgiven him, penitent or not penitent;
I would not have forgiven him such sins.”
“I would not have put it into his power to commit them,” said Emma.
“I confess the story never touched me in the least,” cried our heroine.
“Perhaps for the same reason that Petrarch’s friend said that he read it unmoved,” replied Mrs. Granby: “because he could not believe that such a woman as Griselda ever existed.”
“No, no, not for that reason: I believe many such poor, meek, mean-spirited creatures exist.”
Emma was at length wakened to the perception of her friend’s envy and jealousy; but —
“She mild forgave the failing of her sex.”
“I cannot admire the original Griselda, or any of her imitators,” continued our heroine.
“There is no great danger of her finding imitators in these days,” said Mr. Granby. “Had Chaucer lived in our enlightened times, he would doubtless have drawn a very different character.”
The modern Griselda looked “fierce as ten furies.” Emma softened her husband’s observation by adding, “that allowance should certainly be made for poor Chaucer, if we consider the times in which he wrote. The situation and understandings of women have been so much improved since his days. Women were then slaves, now they are free. My dear,” whispered she to her husband, “your mother is not well; shall we go home?”
Emma left the room; and even Mrs. Nettleby, after she was gone, said,
“Really she is not ugly when she blushes.”
“No woman is ugly when she blushes,” replied our heroine; “but, unluckily, a woman cannot always blush.”
Finding that her attempt to make Emma ridiculous had failed, and that it had really placed Mrs. Granby’s understanding, manners, and temper in a most advantageous and amiable light, Griselda was mortified beyond measure. She could scarcely bear to hear Emma’s name mentioned.
CHAPTER V.
”She that can please, is certain to persuade,
To-day is lov’d, to-morrow is obey’d.”
A few days after the reading party, Griselda was invited to spend an evening at Mrs. Granby’s.
“I shall not go,” said she, throwing down the card with an air of disdain.
“I shall go,” said her husband, calmly.
“You will go, my dear!” cried she, amazed. “You will go without me?”
“Not without you, if you will be so kind as to go with me, my love,” said he.
“It is quite out of my power,” said she: “I am engaged to my friend,
Mrs. Nettleby.”
“Very well, my dear,” said he; “do as you please.”
“Certainly I shall. And I am surprised, my dear, that you do not go to see Mr. John Nettleby.”
“I have no desire to see him, my dear. He is, as I have often heard you say, an obstinate fool. He is a man I dislike particularly.”
“Very possibly; but you ought to go to see him notwithstanding.”
“Why so, my dear?”
“Because he is married to a woman I like. If you had any regard for me, your own feelings would have saved you the trouble of asking that question.”
“But, my dear, should not your regard for me also suggest to you the propriety of keeping up an acquaintance with Mrs. Granby, who is married to a man I like, and who is not herself an obstinate fool?”
“I shall not enter into any discussion upon the subject,” replied our heroine; for this was one of the cases where she made it a rule never to reason. “I can only say that I have my own opinion, and that I beg to be excused from keeping up any acquaintance whatever with Mrs. Granby.”
“And I beg to be excused from keeping up any acquaintance whatever with Mr. Nettleby,” replied her husband.
“Good Heavens!” cried she, raising herself upon the sofa, on which she had been reclining, and fixing her eyes upon her husband, with unfeigned astonishment: “I do not know you this morning, my dear.”
“Possibly not, my dear,” replied he; “for hitherto you have seen only your lover; now you see your husband.”
Never did metamorphosis excite more astonishment. The lady was utterly unconscious that she had had any part in producing it — that she had herself dissolved the spell. She raged, she raved, she reasoned, in vain. Her point she could not compass. Her cruel husband persisted in his determination not to go to see Mr. John Nettleby. Absolutely astounded, she was silent. There was a truce for some hours. She renewed the attack in the evening, and ceased not hostilities for three succeeding days and nights, in reasonable hopes of wearying the enemy, still without success.
The morning rose, the great, the important day, which was to decide the fate of the visit. The contending parties met as usual at breakfast; they seemed mutually afraid of each other, and stood at bay. There was a forced calm in the gentleman’s demeanour — treacherous smiles played upon the lady’s countenance. He seemed cautious to prolong the suspension of hostilities — she fond to anticipate the victory. The name of Mrs. Granby, or of Mr. John Nettleby, was not uttered by either party, nor did either inquire where the other was to spend the evening. At dinner they met again, and preserved on this delicate subject a truly diplomatic silence; whilst on the topics foreign to their thoughts, they talked with admirable fluency: actuated by as sincere desire as ever was felt by negotiating politicians to establish peace on the broadest basis, they were, with the most perfect consideration, each other’s devoted, and most obedient humble servants. Candour, however, obliges us to confess, that though the deference on the part of the gentleman was the most unqualified and praiseworthy, the lady was superior in her inimitable air of frank cordiality. The volto sciolto was in her favour, the pensieri stretti in his. Any one but an ambassador would have been deceived by the husband; any one but a woman would have been duped by the wife.
So stood affairs when, after dinner, the high and mighty powers separated. The lady retired to her toilette. The gentleman remained with his bottle. He drank a glass of wine extraordinary. She stayed half an hour more than usual at her mirror. Arrayed for battle, our heroine repaired to the drawing-room, which she expected to find unoccupied; — the enemy had taken the
field.
“Dressed, my dear?” said he.
“Ready, my love!” said she.
“Shall I ring the bell for your carriage, my dear?” said the husband.
“If you please. You go with me, my dear?” said the wife.
“I do not know where you are going, my love.”
“To Mrs. Nettleby’s of course, — and you?”
“To Mrs. Granby’s.”
The lightning flashed from Griselda’s eyes, ere he had half pronounced the words. The lightning flashed without effect.
“To Mrs. Granby’s!” cried she, in a thundering tone. “To Mrs. Granby’s!” echoed he. She fell back on the sofa, and a shower of tears ensued. Her husband walked up and down the room, rang again for the carriage, ordered it in the tone of a master. Then hummed a tune. The fair one sobbed: he continued to sing, but was out in the time. The lady’s sobs grew alarming, and threatened hysterics. He threw open the window, and approached the sofa on which she lay. She, half recovering, unclasped one bracelet; in haste to get the other off, he broke it. The footman came in to announce that the carriage was at the door. She relapsed, and seemed in danger of suffocation from her pearl necklace, which she made a faint effort to loosen from her neck.
“Send your lady’s woman instantly,” cried Griselda’s husband to the footman.
Our heroine made another attempt to untie her necklace, and looked up towards her husband with supplicating eyes. His hands trembled; he entangled the strings. It would have been all over with him if the maid had not at this instant come to his assistance. To her he resigned his perilous post; retreated precipitately; and before the enemy’s forces could rally, gained his carriage, and carried his point.
“To Mr. Granby’s!” cried he, triumphantly. Arrived there, he hurried to Mr. Granby’s room.
“Another such victory,” cried he, throwing himself into an arm-chair, “another such victory, and I am undone.”
He related all that had just passed between him and his wife.
“Another such combat,” said his friend, “and you are at peace for life.”
We hope that our readers will not, from this speech, be induced to consider Mr. Granby as an instigator of quarrels between man and wife; or, according to the plebeian but expressive apophthegm, one who would come between the bark and the tree. On the contrary, he was most desirous to secure his friend’s domestic happiness; and, if possible, to prevent the bad effects which were likely to ensue from excessive indulgence, and inordinate love of dominion. He had a high respect for our heroine’s powers, and thought that they wanted only to be well managed. The same force which, ill-directed, bursts the engine, and scatters destruction, obedient to the master-hand, answers a thousand useful purposes, and works with easy, smooth, and graceful regularity. Griselda’s husband, or, as he now deserves to have his name mentioned, Mr. Bolingbroke, roused by his friend’s representations, and perhaps by a sense of approaching danger, resolved to assume the guidance of his wife, or at least — of himself. In opposition to his sovereign lady’s will, he actually spent this evening as he pleased.
CHAPTER VI.
”E sol quei giorni io mi vidi contenta,
Ch’averla compiaciuto mi trovai.”
“You are a great deal more courageous than I am, my dear,” said Emma to her husband, after Mr. Bolingbroke had left them. “I should be very much afraid of interfering between your friend and his wife.”
“What is friendship,” said Mr. Granby, “if it will run no risks? I must run the hazard of being called a mischief-maker.”
“That is not the danger of which I was thinking,” said Emma; “though I confess that I should be weak enough to fear that a little: but what I meant to express was an apprehension of our doing harm where we most wish to do good.”
“Do you, my dear Emma, think Griselda incorrigible?”
“No, indeed,” cried Emma, with anxious emphasis; “far from it. But without thinking a person incorrigible, may we not dislike the idea of inflicting correction? I should be very sorry to be the means of giving Griselda any pain; she was my friend when we were children; I have a real regard for her, and if she does not now seem disposed to love me, that must be my fault, not hers: or if it is not my fault, call it my misfortune. At all events, I have no right to force myself upon her acquaintance. She prefers Mrs. Nettleby; I have not the false humility to say, that I think Mrs. Nettleby will prove as safe or as good a friend as I hope I should he. But of this Mrs. Bolingbroke has a right to judge. And I am sure, far from resenting her resolution to avoid my acquaintance, my only feeling about it, at this instant, is the dread that it should continue to be a matter of dispute between her and her husband.”
“If Mr. Bolingbroke insisted, or if I advised him to insist upon his wife’s coming here, when she does not like it,” said Mr. Granby, “I should act absurdly, and he would act unjustly; but all that he requires is equality of rights, and the liberty of going where he pleases. She refuses to come to see you: he refuses to go to see Mr. John Nettleby. Which has the best of the battle?”
Emma thought it would be best if there were no battle; and observed, that refusals and reprisals would only irritate the parties, whose interest and happiness it was to be pacified and to agree. She said, that if Mr. Bolingbroke, instead of opposing his will to that of his wife, which, in fact, was only conquering force by force, would speak reasonably to her, probably she might be induced to yield, or to command her temper. Mrs. Granby suggested, that a compromise, founded on an offer of mutual sacrifice and mutual compliance, might be obtained. That Mr. Bolingbroke might promise to give up some of his time to the man he disliked, upon condition that Griselda should submit to the society of a woman to whom she had an aversion.
“If she consented to this,” said Emma, “I would do my best to make her like me; or at least to make her time pass agreeably at our house: her liking me is a matter of no manner of consequence.”
Emma was capable of putting herself entirely out of the question, when the interest of others was at stake; her whole desire was to conciliate, and all her thoughts were intent upon making her friends happy. She seemed to live in them more than in herself, and from sympathy arose the greatest pleasure and pain of her existence. Her sympathy was not of that useless kind which is called forth only by the elegant fictitious sorrows of a heroine of romance; hers was ready for all the occasions of real life; nor was it to be easily checked by the imperfections of those to whom she could be of service. At this moment, when she perceived that her husband was disgusted by Griselda’s caprice, she said all she could think of in her favour: she recollected every anecdote of Griselda’s childhood, which showed an amiable disposition; and argued, that it was not probable her temper should have entirely changed in a few years. Emma’s quick-sighted good-nature could discern the least portion of merit, where others could find only faults; as certain experienced eyes can discover grains of gold in the sands, which the ignorant have searched, and abandoned as useless. In consequence of Emma’s advice — for who would reject good advice, offered with so much gentleness? — Mr. Granby wrote a note to Mr. Bolingbroke, to recommend the compromise which she had suggested. Upon his return home, Mr. Bolingbroke was informed that his lady had gone to bed much indisposed; he spent a restless night, notwithstanding all his newly-acquired magnanimity. He was much relieved in the morning by his friend’s note, and blessed Emma for proposing the compromise.
CHAPTER VII.
”Each widow to her secret friend alone
Whisper’d; — thus treated, he had had his own.”
Mr. Bolingbroke waited with impatience for Griselda’s appearance the next morning; but he waited in vain: the lady breakfasted in her own apartment, and for two hours afterwards remained in close consultation with Mrs. Nettleby, whom she had summoned the preceding night by the following note:
“I have been prevented from spending this evening with you, my dearest Mrs. Nettleby, by the strangest conduct imaginable: am sure you w
ill not believe it when I tell it to you. Come to me, I conjure you, as early to-morrow as you possibly can, that I may explain to you all that has passed, and consult as to the future. My dearest friend, I never was so much in want of an adviser. Ever yours,
“GRISELDA.”
At this consultation, Mrs. Nettleby expressed the utmost astonishment at Mr. Bolingbroke’s strange conduct, and assured Griselda, that if she did not exert herself, all was lost, and she must give up the hope of ever having her own way again as long as she lived.
“My dear,” said she, “I have had some experience in these things; a wife must be either a tyrant or a slave: make your choice; now is your time.”
“But I never knew him say or do any thing unkind before,” said
Griselda.
“Then the first offence should be properly resented. If he finds you forgiving, he will become encroaching; ’tis the nature of man, depend upon it.”
“He always yielded to me till now,” said Griselda; “but even when I was ready to go into fits, he left me, and what could I do then?”
“You astonish me beyond expression! you who have every advantage — youth, wit, accomplishments, beauty! My dear, if you cannot keep a husband’s heart, who can ever hope to succeed?”
“Oh! as to his heart, I have no doubts of his heart, to do him justice,” said Griselda; “I know he loves me — passionately loves me.”
“And yet you cannot manage him! And you expect me to pity you? Bless me, if I had half your advantages, what I would make of them! But if you like to be a tame wife, my dear — if you are resolved upon it, tell me so at once, and I will hold my tongue.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 70
