Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  One day, when Vivian was absorbed in these pleasing reveries, Russell startled him with this question: “When are you to be married to Lady Sarah Lidhurst?”

  “From you such a question!” said Vivian.

  “Why not from me? It is a question that every body asks of me, because I am your intimate friend; and I should really be obliged to you, if you would furnish me with an answer, that may give me an air of a little more consequence than that which I have at present, being forced to answer, ‘I don’t know.’”

  “You don’t know! but why do not you answer, ‘Never!’ as I do,” said Vivian, “to all the fools who ask me the same question?”

  “Because they say that is your answer, and only a come off.”

  “I can’t help it — Is it my fault if they won’t believe the truth?”

  “Why, people are apt to trust to appearances in these cases; and if appearances are contrary to your assertions, you should not wonder that you are not believed.”

  “Well, time will show them their mistake!” said Vivian.—”But I don’t know what appearances you mean. — What appearances are against me? — I never in my life saw a woman I was less disposed to like — whom it would be more impossible for me to love — than Lady Sarah Lidhurst; and I am sure I never gave her, or any of her family, the least reason to imagine I had a thought of her.”

  “Very likely; yet you are at Lord Glistonbury’s continually, and you attend her ladyship to all public places. Is this the way, do you think, to put a stop to the report that has been raised?”

  “I care not whether it stops or goes on,” said Vivian.—”How! — Don’t I know it is false? — That’s enough for me.”

  “It may embarrass you yet,” said Russell.

  “Good Heavens! — Can you, who know me so well, Russell, fancy me so weak as to be embarrassed by such a report? Look — I would rather put this hand into that fire and let it be burned off, than offer it to Lady Sarah Lidhurst.”

  “Very likely. — I don’t doubt you think so,” said Russell.

  “And I would do so,” said Vivian.

  “Possibly. — Yet you might be embarrassed nevertheless, if you found that you had raised expectations which you could not fulfil; and if you found yourself accused of having jilted this lady, if all her friends were to say you had used her very ill. — I know your nature, Vivian; these things would disquiet you very much: and is it not better to prevent them?”

  “But neither Lady Sarah nor her friends blame me: I see no signs in the family of any of the thoughts or feelings you suppose.”

  “Ladies — especially young and fashionable ladies — do not always show their thoughts or feelings,” said Russell.

  “Lady Sarah Lidhurst has no thoughts or feelings,” said Vivian, “any more than an automaton. I’ll answer for her — I am sure I can do her the justice to proclaim, that she has always, from the first moment I saw her till this instant, conducted herself towards me with the same petrified and petrifying propriety.”

  “I do not know what petrified propriety exactly means,” said Russell: “but let it mean what it may, it is nothing to the present purpose; for the question is not about the propriety of Lady Sarah Lidhurst’s conduct, but of yours. Now, allowing you to call her ladyship a petrifaction, or an automaton, or by whatever other name you please, still, I apprehend, that she is in reality a human creature, and a woman; and I conceive it is the duty of a man of honour or honesty not to deceive her.”

  “I would not deceive her, or any woman living, upon any account,” said Vivian. “But how is it possible I can deceive her, when I tell you I never said a word about love or gallantry, or any thing like it, to her in my life?”

  “But you know language is conventional, especially in gallantry,” said Russell.

  “True; but I’ll swear the language of my looks has been unequivocal, if that is what you mean.”

  “Not exactly: there are certain signs by which the world JUDGES in these cases — if a gentleman is seen often with the same lady in public.”

  “Absurd, troublesome, ridiculous signs, which would put a stop to all society; which would prevent a man from conversing with a woman, either in public or private; and must absolutely preclude one sex from obtaining any real knowledge of the characters and dispositions of the other.”

  “I admit all you say — I feel the truth of it — I wish this were changed in society; it is a great inconvenience, a real evil,” said Russell: “but an individual cannot alter a custom; and, as you have not, by your own account, any particular interest in becoming more intimately acquainted with the character and disposition of Lady Sarah Lidhurst, you will do well not to expose yourself to any inconvenience on her account, by neglecting common received forms and opinions.”

  “Well! well! — say no more about it,” said Vivian, impatiently; “spare me all farther logic and morality upon this subject, and I’ll do what you please — only tell me what you would have me do.”

  “Gradually withdraw yourself for some time from this house, and the report will die away of itself.”

  “Withdraw myself! — that would be very hard upon me!” cried Vivian; “for this house is the most agreeable house in town to me; — because you live in it, in the first place; and then, though the women are as stiff as pokers, one is always sure of meeting all the pleasant and clever men at Glistonbury’s good dinner. Let me tell you, good dinners, and good company, and good conversation, and good music, make altogether a very pleasant house, which I should be confoundedly sorry to be forced to give up.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” said Russell; “but we must often give up more even than this for the sake of acting with consistency and honour; we must sacrifice the less to the greater good; and it is on these occasions that people show strength or weakness of mind.”

  Vivian felt the justice of his friend’s observations — resolved to follow his advice — and to withdraw himself gradually from the Glistonbury circle. He had not, however, steadiness enough to persist in this resolution; one engagement linked on another; and he would soon, probably, have relapsed into his habit of being continually of their parties, if accident had not for a time suspended this intimacy, by leading him into another, which seemed to him still more attractive.

  Among the men of talents and political consequence whom he met at Lord Glistonbury’s was Mr. Wharton, whose conversation particularly pleased Vivian, and who now courted his acquaintance with an eagerness which was peculiarly flattering. Vivian knew him only as a man of great abilities; with his real character he was not acquainted. Wharton had prepossessing manners, and wit sufficient whenever he pleased to make the worse appear the better reason. In private or in public debate he had at his command, and could condescend to employ, all sorts of arms, and every possible mode of annoyance, from the most powerful artillery of logic to the lowest squib of humour. He was as little nice in the company he kept as in the style of his conversation. Frequently associating with fools, and willing even to be thought one, he made alternately his sport and advantage of the weakness and follies of mankind. Wharton was philosophically, politically, and fashionably profligate. After having ruined his private fortune by unbounded extravagance, he lived on — nobody knew how — in careless profusion. In public life he made a distinguished figure; and seemed, therefore, to think himself raised above the necessity of practising any of the minor virtues of economy, prudence, or justice, which common people find essential to their well-being in society. Far from attempting to conceal, he gloried in his faults; for he knew full well, that as long as he had the voice of numbers with him, he could bully, or laugh, or shame plain reason and rigid principle out of countenance. It was his grand art to represent good sense as stupidity, and virtue as hypocrisy. Hypocrisy was, in his opinion, the only vice which merited the brand of infamy; and from this he took sufficient care to prove, or at least to proclaim, himself free. Even whilst he offended against the decencies of life, there seemed to be something frank and gracefu
l in his manner of throwing aside all disguise. There appeared an air of superior liberality in his avowing himself to be governed by that absolute selfishness, which other men strive to conceal even from their own hearts. He dexterously led his acquaintance to infer that he would prove as much better than his professions, as other people are often found to be worse than theirs. Where he wished to please, it was scarcely possible to escape the fascination of his manner; nor did he neglect any mode of courting popularity. He knew that a good table is necessary to attract even men of wit; and he made it a point to have the very best cook, and the very best wines. He paid his cook, and his cook was the only person he did pay, in ready money. His wine-merchant he paid in words — an art in which he was a professed and yet a successful adept, as hundreds of living witnesses were ready to attest. But though Wharton could cajole, he could not attach his fellow-creatures — he had a party, but no friend. With this distribution of things he was perfectly satisfied; for he considered men only as beings who were to be worked to his purposes; and he declared that, provided he had power over their interests and their humours, he cared not what became of their hearts. It was his policy to enlist young men of talents or fortune under his banners; and consequently Vivian was an object worthy of his attention. Such was the disorder of Wharton’s affairs, that either ready money or political power was necessary to his existence. Our hero could, at the same time, supply his extravagance and increase his consequence. Wharton thought that he could borrow money from Vivian, and that he might command his vote in parliament; but, to the accomplishment of these schemes, there were two obstacles — Vivian was attached to an amiable woman, and was possessed of an estimable friend. Wharton had become acquainted with Russell at Lord Glistonbury’s; and, in many arguments which they had held on public affairs, had discovered that Russell was not a man who ever preferred the expedient to the right, nor one who could be bullied or laughed out of his principles. He saw also that Russell’s influence over Vivian was so great, that it supplied him with that strength of mind in which Vivian was naturally deficient; and, if our hero should marry such a woman as Miss Sidney, Wharton foresaw that he should have no chance of succeeding in his designs; therefore his first objects were, to detach Vivian from his friend Russell and from Selina. One morning he called upon Vivian with a party of his friends, and found him writing.

  “Poetry!” cried Wharton, carelessly looking at what he had, been writing, “poetry, I protest! — Ay, I know this poor fellow’s in love; and every man who is in love is a poet, ‘with a woeful ditty to his mistress’s eyebrow.’ Pray what colour may Miss Sidney’s eyebrows be? — she is really a pretty girl — I think I remember seeing her at some races. — Why does she never come to town? — But of course she is not to blame for that, but her fortune I suppose. — Marrying a girl without a fortune is a serious thing in these expensive days; but you have fortune enough for both yourself and your wife, so you may do as you please. Well, I thank God, I have no fortune! If I had been a young man of fortune I should have been the most unhappy rascal upon earth, for I should have always suspected that every woman liked me for my wealth — I should have had no pleasure in the smiles of an angel — angels, or their mothers, are so venal now-a-days, and so fond of the pomps and vanities of this wicked world!”

  “I hope,” said Vivian, laughing, “you don’t include the whole sex in your satire.”

  “No — there are exceptions — and every man has his angel of an exception, as every woman has her star: — it is well for weak women when these stars of theirs don’t lead them astray; and well for weak men when these angel exceptions before marriage don’t turn out very women or devils afterwards. But why do I say all this? because I am a suspicious scoundrel — I know and can’t help it. If other fellows of my standing in this wicked world would but speak the truth, however, they would show as much suspicion and more than I do. Bad as I am, and such as I am, you see, and have the whole of me — nobody can say Wharton’s a hypocrite; that’s some comfort. But, seriously, Vivian, I don’t mean to laugh at love and angels — I can just remember the time when I felt all your sort of romance — but that is in the preterpluperfect tense with me — completely past — ambition is no bad cure for love. My head is, at this present moment, so full of this new bill that we are bringing into parliament, that Cupid might empty his quiver upon me in vain. — Look! here is an impenetrable shield!” added he, wrapping round him a thick printed copy of an act of parliament. “Come, Vivian, you must come along with us to the house,

  ‘And, mix’d with men, a man you must appear.’”

  Vivian felt much ashamed of having been detected in writing a sonnet, especially as it afforded Wharton such a fine subject for raillery. He accompanied the party to the House of Commons, where Wharton made a brilliant speech. It gained universal applause. Vivian sympathized in the general enthusiasm of admiration for Wharton’s talents, accepted an invitation to sup with him, and was charmed by his convivial powers. From this day, he grew every hour more intimate with Wharton.

  “I can enjoy,” thought Vivian, “the pleasure of his society without being influenced by his libertine example.”

  Lady Mary Vivian saw the rise and progress of this intimacy, and was not insensible to its danger; yet she was gratified by seeing her son distinguished by a man of Wharton’s political consequence; and she satisfied her conscience by saying, “He will bring my son forward in public life; and, as to the rest, Charles has too good principles ever to follow his example in private life.”

  Wharton had too much address to alarm Vivian’s moral prejudices on a first acquaintance. He contented himself with ridiculing only the exaggeration of any of the virtues, still affecting to believe in virtue, and to love it, wherever it could be found genuine. By the success of his first petty attacks, he learned the power that ridicule had over our hero’s mind; and he did not fail to make use of it continually. After having, as he perceived, succeeded in making Vivian ashamed of his sonnet to Selina, and of appearing as a romantic lover, he doubted not but in time he should make true love itself ridiculous; and Wharton thought it was now the moment to hazard another stroke, and to commence his attack against friendship.