“GRISELDA BOLINGBROKE.”
Mrs. Bolingbroke summoned her maid. “Deliver this note,” said she, “with your own hand; do not send Le Grand with it to his master.”
Griselda waited impatiently for her maid’s return.
“No answer, madam.”
“No answer! are you certain?”
“Certain, ma’am: my master only said, ‘Very well.’”
“And why did not you ask him if there was any answer?”
“I did, ma’am. I said, ‘Is there no answer for my lady?’ ‘No answer,’ said he.”
“Was he up?”
“No, ma’am: he was in bed.”
“Was he asleep when you went in?”
“I cannot say positively, ma’am: he undrew the curtain as I went in, and asked, ‘Who’s there?’”
“Did you go in on tiptoe?”
“I forget, really, ma’am.”
“You forget really! Idiot!”
“But, ma’am, I recollect he turned his head to go to sleep as I closed the curtain.”
“You need not wait,” said Mrs. Bolingbroke.
Provoked beyond the power of sleep, Mrs. Bolingbroke gave free expression to her feelings, in an eloquent letter to Mrs. Nettleby; but even after this relief, Griselda could not rest; so much was she disturbed by the repose that her husband enjoyed, or was reputed to enjoy. In the morning she placed her letter in full view upon the mantel-piece in the drawing-room, in hopes that it would strike terror into the heart of her husband. To her great mortification, she saw Mr. Bolingbroke, with an unchanged countenance, give it to the servant, who came to ask for “letters for the post.” She had now three days of grace, before Mrs. Nettleby’s answer could arrive; but of these she disdained to take advantage: she never mentioned what had passed to Mrs. Granby, but persisted in the same haughty conduct towards her husband, persuaded that she should conquer at last.
The third day came, and brought an answer from Mrs. Nettleby. After a prodigious parade of professions, a decent display of astonishment at Mr. Bolingbroke’s strange conduct, and pity for her dear Griselda, Mrs. Nettleby came to the point, and was sorry to say, that Mr. Nettleby was in one of his obstinate fits, and could not be brought to listen to the scheme so near her heart: “He would have nothing to do, he said, with settling the terms of Mr. and Mrs. Bolingbroke’s separation, not he! — He absolutely refuses to meddle between man and wife; and calls it meddling,” continued Mrs. Nettleby, “to receive you as an inmate, after you have parted from your husband. Mr. Bolingbroke, he says, has always been very civil to him, and came to see him in town; therefore he will not encourage Mrs. Bolingbroke in her tantarums. I represented to him, that Mr. B. desires the thing, and leaves the choice of a residence to yourself: but Mr. Nettleby replied, in his brutal way, that you might choose a residence where you would, except in his house; that his house was his castle, and should never be turned into an asylum for runagate wives; that he would not set such an example to his own wife, &c. But,” continued Mrs. Nettleby, “you can imagine all the foolish things he said, and I need not repeat them, to vex you and myself. I know that he refuses to receive you, my dear Mrs. Bolingbroke, on purpose to provoke me. But what can one do or say to such a man? — Adieu, my dear. Pray write when you are at leisure, and tell me how things are settled, or rather what is settled upon you; which, to be sure, is now the only thing that you have to consider.
“Ever yours, affectionately,
“R. H. NETTLEBY.
“P.S. Before you leave Devonshire, do, my dear, get me some of the fine Devonshire lace; three or four dozen yards will do. I trust implicitly to your taste. You know I do not mind the price; only let it be broad, for narrow lace is my aversion.”
CHAPTER XVIII.
“Lost is the dear delight of giving pain!”
Mortified by her dear friend’s affectionate letter and postscript, Griselda was the more determined to persist in her resolution to defy her husband to the utmost. The catastrophe, she thought, would always be in her own power; she recollected various separation scenes in novels and plays where the lady, after having tormented her husband or lover by every species of ill conduct, reforms in an instant, and a reconciliation is effected by some miraculous means. Our heroine had seen Lady Townley admirably well acted, and doubted not that she could now perform her part victoriously. With this hope, or rather in this confidence, she went in search of Mr. Bolingbroke. He was not in the house; he had gone out to take a solitary walk. Griselda hoped that she was the object of his reflections, during his lonely ramble.
“Yes,” said she to herself, “my power is not exhausted: I shall make his heart ache yet; and when he yields, how I will revenge myself!”
She rang for her woman, and gave orders to have every thing immediately prepared for her departure. “As soon as the trunks are packed, let them be corded, and placed in the great hall,” said she.
Our heroine, who had a happy memory, full well recollected the effect which the sight of the corded trunks produced in the “Simple Story,” and she thought the stroke so good that it would bear repetition. With malice prepense, she therefore prepared the blow, which she flattered herself could not fail to astound her victim. Her pride still revolted from the idea of consulting Mrs. Granby; but some apology was requisite for thus abruptly quitting her house. Mrs. Bolingbroke began in a tone that seemed intended to preclude all discussion.
“Mrs. Granby, do you know that Mr. Bolingbroke and I have come to a resolution to be happy the rest of our lives; and, for this purpose, we find it expedient to separate. Do not start or look so shocked, my dear. This word separation may sound terrible to some people, but I have, thank Heaven! sufficient strength of mind to hear it with perfect composure. When a couple who are chained together pull different ways, the sooner they break their chain the better. I shall set out immediately for Weymouth. You will excuse me, my dear Mrs. Granby; you see the necessity of the case.”
Mrs. Granby, with the most delicate kindness, began to expostulate; but Griselda declared that she was incapable of using a friend so ill as to pretend to listen to advice, when her mind was determined irrevocably. Emma had no intention, she said, of obtruding her advice, but she wished that Mrs. Bolingbroke would give her own excellent understanding time to act, and that she would not throw away the happiness of her life in a fit of passion. Mrs. Bolingbroke protested that she never was freer from passion of every sort than she was at this moment. With an unusually placid countenance, she turned from Mrs. Granby and sat down to the piano-forte. “We shall not agree if I talk any more upon this subject,” continued she, “therefore I had better sing. I believe my music is better than my logic: at all events I prefer music.”
In a fine bravura style Griselda then began to sing —
”What have I to do with thee,
Dull, unjoyous constancy?” &c.
And afterwards she played all her gayest airs to convince Mrs. Granby that her heart was quite at ease. She continued playing for an unconscionable time, with the most provoking perseverance.
Emma stood at the window, watching for Mr. Bolingbroke’s return. “Here comes Mr. Bolingbroke! — How melancholy he looks! — Oh, my dear Griselda,” cried she, stopping Mrs. Bolingbroke’s hand as it ran gaily over the keys, “this is no time for mirth or bravado: let me conjure you—”
“I hate to be conjured,” interrupted Griselda, breaking from her; “I am not a child, to be coaxed and kissed and sugar-plummed into being good, and behaving prettily. Do me the favour to let Mr. Bolingbroke know that I am in the study, and desire to speak to him for one minute.”
No power could detain the peremptory lady: she took her way to the study, and rejoiced as she crossed the hall, to see the trunks placed as she had ordered. It was impossible that her husband could avoid seeing them the moment he should enter the house. — What a satisfaction! — Griselda seated herself at ease in an arm-chair in the study, and took up a book which lay open on the table. Mr. Bolingbroke�
�s pencil-case was in it, and the following passage was marked:
“Il y a un lieu sur la terre où les joies pures sont inconnues; d’où la politesse est exilée et fait place à l’ègoîsme, à la contradiction, aux injures à demivoilées; le remords et l’inquiétude, furies infatigables, y tourmentent les habitans. Ce lieu est la maison de deux époux qui ne peuvent ni s’estimer, ni s’aimer.
“Il y a un lieu sur la terre où le vice ne s’introduit pas, où les passions tristes n’ont jamais d’empire, où le plaisir et l’innocence habitent toujours ensemble, où les soins sont chers, où les travaux sont doux, où les peines s’oublient dans les entretiens, où l’on jouit du passé, du présent, de l’avenir; et c’est la maison de deux époux qui s’aiment.”
[Footnote 1: M. de Saint Lambert, Oeuvres Philosophiques, tome ii.]
A pang of remorse seized Griselda, as she read these words; they seemed to have been written on purpose for her. Struck with the sense of her own folly, she paused — she doubted; — but then she thought that she had gone too far to recede. Her pride could not bear the idea of acknowledging that she had been wrong, or of seeking reconcilement.
“I could live very happily with this man; but then to yield the victory to him! — and to reform! — No, no — all reformed heroines are stupid and odious.”
CHAPTER XIX.
“And, vanquish’d, quit victoriously the field.”
Griselda flung the book from her as her husband entered the room.
“You have had an answer, madam, from your friend, Mrs. Nettleby, I perceive,” said he, calmly.
“I have, sir. Family reasons prevent her from receiving me at present; therefore I have determined upon going to Weymouth; where, indeed, I always wished to spend this summer.”
Mr. Bolingbroke evinced no surprise, and made not the slightest opposition. Mrs. Bolingbroke was so much vexed, that she could scarcely command her countenance: she bit her lip violently.
“With respect to any arrangements that are to be made, I am to understand that you wish me to address myself to Mr. J. Nettleby,” said her husband.
“No, to myself, if you please; I am prepared to listen, sir, to whatever you may have to propose.”
“These things are always settled best in writing,” replied Mr. Bolingbroke. “Be so obliging as to leave me your direction, and you shall hear from me, or from Mrs. Granby, in a few days.”
Mrs. Bolingbroke hastily wrote a direction upon a card, and put it into her husband’s hand, with as much unconcern as she could maintain. Mr. Bolingbroke continued, precisely in the same tone: “If you have any thing to suggest, that may contribute to your future convenience, madam, you will be so good as to leave a memorandum with me, to which I shall attend.”
He placed a sheet of paper before Mrs. Bolingbroke, and put a pen into her hand. She made an effort to write, but her hand trembled so that she could not form a letter. Her husband took up Saint Lambert, and read, or seemed to read.—”Open the window, Mr. Bolingbroke,” said she. He obeyed, but did not, as formerly, “hang over her enamoured.” He had been so often duped by her fainting-fits and hysterics, that now, when she suffered in earnest, he suspected her of artifice. He took up his book again, and marked a page with his pencil. She wrote a line with a hurried hand, then starting up, flung her pen from her, and exclaimed—”I need not, will not write; I have no request to make to you, Mr. Bolingbroke; do what you will; I have no wishes, no wish upon earth — but to leave you.”
“That wish will be soon accomplished, madam,” replied he, unmoved.
She pulled the bell till it broke. — A servant appeared.
“My carriage to the door directly, if you please, sir,” cried she.
A pause ensued. Griselda sat swelling with unutterable rage.—”Heavens! have you no feeling left?” exclaimed she, snatching the book from his hand; “have you no feeling left, Mr. Bolingbroke, for any thing?”
“You have left me none for some things, Mrs. Bolingbroke, and I thank you. All this would have broken my heart six months ago.”
“You have no heart to break,” cried she. — The carriage drove to the door.
“One word more, before I leave you for ever, Mr. Bolingbroke,” continued she.—”Blame yourself, not me, for all this. — When we were first married, you humoured, you spoiled me; no temper could bear it. — Take the consequences of your own weak indulgence. — Farewell.”
He made no effort to retain her, and she left the room.
— —”Thus it shall befall
Him who to worth in woman overtrusting
Lets tier will rule: restraint she will not brook;
And left to herself, if evil thence ensue,
She first his weak indulgence will accuse.”
A confused recollection of this warning of Adam’s was in Mr.
Bolingbroke’s head at this moment.
Mrs. Bolingbroke’s carriage drove by the window, and she kissed her hand to him as she passed. He had not sufficient presence of mind to return the compliment. Our heroine enjoyed this last triumph of superior temper.
Whether the victory was worth the winning, whether the modern Griselda persisted in her spirited sacrifice of happiness, whether she was ever reconciled to her husband, or whether the fear of “reforming and growing stupid” prevailed, are questions which we leave to the sagacity or the curiosity of her fair contemporaries.
”He that knows better how to tame a shrew,
Let him now speak, ’tis charity to shew.”
THE END
LEONORA
Leonora was a published in two volumes in 1806 by J. Johnson of London. The novel had been composed some years earlier, but had not been sought for publication until much later. It is written in the popular 18th century epistolary style and focuses on two women: Leonora, who is newly married and Olivia, an Englishwoman who had been exiled to France for many years. The work details and scrutinises the sensibility movement and appears to propagate the notion of French emotional excess which is then contrasted with English reserve and sense. These ideas were intimately linked to philosophies and fears surrounding the French Revolution and the concern by anti-Jacobins that there was a strong relation between excess feeling and the exuberant violence of the 1789 uprising. In Sense and Sensibility Jane Austen famously attempts to highlight the folly of Marianne’s highly emotional disposition, although she renders the teenager far more sympathetically than Edgeworth’s depiction of Olivia in Leonora. Austen’s portrayal of Isabella Thorpe in Northanger Abbey is a far more acerbic attack on the cult of sensibility and this characterisation aligns more with Edgeworth’s apparent vision in her 1806 novel.
Olivia’s excess of emotion and feeling is revealed to be a form of narcissism and an artifice designed to attract male attention. Edgeworth explicitly associates this coquettish behaviour with French manners and contrasts Olivia’s character to Leonora’s self-possessed, calm and considered nature. The idea propounded by some advocates of sensibility that those who possess refined feelings are morally superior is strongly contested by Edgeworth. She attempts to show sensibility as a selfish, self-serving and self-regarding construction that has no positive relationship to any form of virtue. In fact, such is the author’s seeming partiality regarding the characters and the clear lampooning of Olivia that there exist commentators who claim the novel is actually a parody of the way sensibility was often portrayed by its detractors.
The title page of the first edition
CONTENTS
LETTER I.
LETTER II.
LETTER III.
LETTER IV.
LETTER V.
LETTER VI.
LETTER VII.
LETTER VIII.
LETTER IX.
LETTER X.
LETTER XI.
LETTER XII.
LETTER XIII.
LETTER XIV.
LETTER XV.
LETTER XVI.
LETTER XVII.
LETTER XVIII.
; LETTER XIX.
LETTER XX.
LETTER XXI.
LETTER XXII.
LETTER XXIII.
LETTER XXIV.
LETTER XXV.
LETTER XXVI.
LETTER XXVII.
LETTER XXVIII.
LETTER XXIX.
LETTER XXX.
LETTER XXXI.
LETTER XXXII.
LETTER XXXIII.
LETTER XXXIV.
LETTER XXXV.
LETTER XXXVI.
LETTER XXXVII.
LETTER XXXVIII.
LETTER XXXIX.
LETTER XL.
LETTER XLI.
LETTER XLII.
LETTER XLIII.
LETTER XLIV.
LETTER XLV.
LETTER XLVI.
LETTER XLVII.
LETTER XLVIII.
LETTER XLIX.
LETTER L.
LETTER LI.
LETTER LII.
LETTER LIII.
LETTER LIV.
LETTER LV.
LETTER LVI.
LETTER LVII.
LETTER LVIII.
LETTER LIX.
LETTER LX.
LETTER LXI.
LETTER LXII.
LETTER LXIII
LETTER LXIV.
LETTER LXV.
LETTER LXVI.
LETTER LXVII.
LETTER LXVIII.
LETTER LXIX.
LETTER LXX.
LETTER LXXI.
LETTER LXXII.
LETTER LXXIII.
LETTER LXXIV.
LETTER LXXV.
LETTER LXXVI.
LETTER LXXVII.
LETTER LXXVIII.
LETTER LXXIX.
LETTER LXXX.
LETTER LXXXI.
LETTER LXXXII.
LETTER LXXXIII.
LETTER LXXXIV.
LETTER LXXXV.
LETTER LXXXVI.
LETTER LXXXVII.
LETTER LXXXVIII.
LETTER LXXXIX.
LETTER XC.
LETTER XCI.
LETTER XCII.
LETTER XCIII.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 74
