“My last disappointment has been cruel, in proportion to the fond hopes I had formed. I cannot cure myself of this credulous folly. I did form high expectations of happiness from the society and gratitude of this Mad. and Mlle. de Coulanges; but the mother turns out to be a mere frivolous French comtesse, ignorant, vain, and positive — as all ignorant people are; full of national prejudices, which she supports in the most absurd and petulant manner. Possessed with the insanity, common to all Parisians, of thinking that Paris is the whole world, and that nothing can be good taste, or good sense, or good manners, but what is à-la-mode de Paris; through all her boasted politeness, you see, even by her mode of praising, that she has a most illiberal contempt for all who are not Parisians — she considers the rest of the world as barbarians. I could give you a thousand instances; but her conversation is really so frivolous, that it is not worth reciting. I bore with it day after day for several months with a patience for which, I am sure, you would have given me credit; and I let her go on eternally with absurd observations upon Shakspeare, and extravagant nonsense about Racine. To avoid disputing with her, I gave up every point — I acquiesced in all she said — and only begged to have peace. Still she was not satisfied. You know there are tempers which never can be contented, do what you will to please them. Mad. de Coulanges actually quarrelled with me for begging that we might have peace; and that we might talk upon subjects where we should not be likely to disagree. This will seem to you incredible; but it is the nature of French caprice: and for this I ought to have been prepared. But, indeed, I never could have prepared myself for the strange manner in which this lady thought proper to manifest her anger this day at dinner, before a large company. She spoke absolutely, notwithstanding all her good-breeding, in the most brutally ungrateful manner; and, after all I have done for her, she represented me as being as great a tyrant as Robespierre, and spoke of my house as a more intolerable prison than any in Paris!!! I only state the fact to you, without making any comments — I never yet saw so thoroughly selfish and unfeeling a human being.
“The daughter has as far too much as the mother has too little sensibility. Emilie plagues me to death with her fine feelings and her sentimentality, and all her French parade of affection, and superfluity of endearing expressions, which mean nothing, and disgust English ears. She is always fancying that I am angry or displeased with her or with her mother; and then I am to have tears, and explanations, and apologies: she has not a mind large enough to understand my character: and if I were to explain to eternity, she would be as much in the dark as ever. Yet, after all, there is something so ingenuous and affectionate about this girl that I cannot help loving her, and that is what provokes me; for she does not, and never can, feel for me the affection that I have for her. My little hastiness of temper she has not strength of mind sufficient to bear — I see she is dreadfully afraid of me, and more constrained in my company than in that of any other person. Not a visitor comes, however insignificant, but Mlle. de Coulanges seems more at her ease, and converses more with them than with me — she talks to me only of gratitude, and such stuff. She is one of those feeble persons who, wanting confidence in themselves, are continually afraid that they shall not be grateful enough; and so they reproach and torment themselves, and refine and sentimentalize, till gratitude becomes burdensome (as it always does to weak minds), and the very idea of a benefactor odious. Mlle. de Coulanges was originally unwilling to accept of any obligation from me: she knew her own character better than I did. I do not deny that she has a heart; but she has no soul: I hope you understand and feel the difference. I rejoice, my dear Lady Littleton, that you are coming to town immediately. I am harassed almost to death between want of feeling and fine feeling. I really long to see you and to talk over all these things. Nobody but you, my dear friend, ever understood me. — Farewell!
“Yours affectionately,
“A. SOMERS.”
To this long letter, Lady Littleton replied by the following short note.
“I hope to see you the day after to-morrow, my dear friend; in the mean time, do not decide, irrevocably, that Mlle. de Coulanges has no soul.
“Yours affectionately,
“L. LITTLETON.”
Mrs. Somers was rather disappointed by the calmness of this note; and she was most impatient to see Lady Littleton, that she might work up her mind to the proper pitch of indignation. She stationed a servant at her ladyship’s house to give her notice the moment of her arrival in town. The instant that she was informed of it she ordered her carriage; and the whole of her conversation during this visit was an invective against Emilie and Mad. de Coulanges. The next day, Emilie, who had heard the most enthusiastic eulogiums upon Lady Littleton, expressed much satisfaction on finding that she was come to town; and requested Mrs. Somers’ permission to accompany her on her next visit. The request was rather embarrassing; but Mrs. Somers granted it with a sort of constrained civility. It was fortunate for Emilie that she was so unsuspicious; for her manner was consequently frank, natural, and affectionate; and she appeared to the greatest advantage to Lady Littleton. Mrs. Somers threw herself back in the chair and sat silent, whilst Emilie, in hopes of pleasing her, conversed with the utmost freedom with her friend. The conversation, at last, was interrupted by an exclamation from Mrs. Somers, “Good Heavens! my dear Lady Littleton, how can you endure this smell of paint? It has made my head ache terribly — where does it come from?”
“From my bedchamber,” said Lady Littleton. “They have, unluckily, misunderstood my orders; and they have freshly painted every one in my house.”
“Then it is impossible that you should sleep here — I will not allow you — it will poison you — it will give you the palsy immediately — it is destruction — it is death. You must come home with me directly — I insist upon it — But, no,” said she, checking herself, with a look of sudden disappointment, “no, my dearest friend! I cannot invite you; for I have not a bed to offer you.”
“Yes, mine — you forget mine — dear Mrs. Somers,” cried Emilie; “you know I can sleep with mamma.”
“By no means, Mlle. de Coulanges; you cannot possibly imagine—”
“I only imagine the truth,” said Emilie, “that this arrangement would be infinitely more convenient to mamma; I know she likes to have me in the room with her. Pray, dear Mrs. Somers, let it be so.”
Mrs. Somers made many ceremonious speeches: but Lady Littleton seemed so well inclined to accept Emilie’s offered room, that she was obliged to yield. She was vexed to perceive that Emilie’s manners pleased Lady Littleton; and, after they returned home, the activity with which Emilie moved her books, her drawing-box, work, &c., furnished Mrs. Somers with fresh matter for displeasure. At night, when Lady Littleton went to take possession of her apartment, and when she observed how active and obliging Mlle. de Coulanges had been, Mrs. Somers shook her head, and replied, “All this is just a proof to me of what I asserted, Lady Littleton — and what I must irrevocably assert — that Mlle. de Coulanges has no soul. You are a new acquaintance, and I am an old friend. She exerts herself to please you; she does not care what I think or what I feel about the matter. Now this is just what I call having no soul.”
“My dear Mrs. Somers,” said Lady Littleton, “be reasonable; and you must perceive that Emilie’s eagerness to please me arises from her regard and gratitude to you: she has, I make no doubt, heard that I am your intimate friend, and your praises have disposed her to like me. — Is this a proof that she has no soul?”
“My dear Lady Littleton, we will not dispute about it — I see you are fascinated, as I was at first. Manner is a prodigious advantage — but I own I prefer solid English sincerity. Stay a little: as soon as Mlle. de Coulanges thinks herself secure of you, she will completely abandon me. I make no doubt that she will complain to you of my bad temper and ill usage; and I dare say that she will succeed in prejudicing you against me.”
“She will succeed only in prejudicing me against herself, if she att
empt to injure you,” said Lady Littleton; “but, till I have some plain proof of it, I cannot believe that any person has such a base and ungrateful disposition.”
Mrs. Somers spent an hour and a quarter in explaining her causes of complaint against both mother and daughter; and she at last retired much dissatisfied, because her friend was not as angry as she was, but persisted in the resolution to see more before she decided. After passing a few days in the house with Mlle. de Coulanges, Lady Littleton frankly declared to Mrs. Somers that she thought her complaints of Emilie’s temper quite unreasonable, and that she was a most amiable and affectionate girl. Respect for Lady Littleton restrained Mrs. Somers from showing the full extent of her vexation; she contented herself with repeating, “Mlle. de Coulanges is certainly a very amiable young woman — I would by no means prejudice you against her — but when you know her as well as I do, you will find that she has no soul.”
Mrs. Somers, in the course of four-and-twenty hours, found a multitude of proofs in support of her opinion; but they were none of them absolutely satisfactory to Lady Littleton’s judgment. Whilst they were debating about her character, Emilie came into the room to show Mrs. Somers a French translation, which she had been making, of a pretty little English poem, called “The Emigrant’s Grave.” It was impossible to be displeased with the translation, or with the motive from which it was attempted; for it was done at the particular request of Mrs. Somers. This lady’s ingenuity, however, did not fail to discover some cause for dissatisfaction. Mlle. de Coulanges had adapted the words to a French, and not to an English air.
“This is a favourite air of mamma’s,” said Emilie, “and I thought that she would be pleased by my choosing it.”
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Somers, in her constrained voice, “I remember that the Countess de Coulanges and her friend — or your friend — M. de Brisac, were charmed with this air, when you sang it the other night. I found fault with it, I believe — but then you had a majority against me; and with some people that is sufficient. Few ask themselves what constitutes a majority — numbers or sense. Judgments and tastes may differ in value; but one vote is always as good as another, in the opinion of those who are decided merely by numbers.”
“I hope that I shall never be one of those,” said Emilie. “Upon the present occasion I assure you, my dear Mrs. Somers, that I was influenced by—”
“Oh! my dear Mlle. de Coulanges,” interrupted Mrs. Somers, “you need not give yourself the trouble to explain about such a trifle — the thing is perfectly clear. And nothing is more natural than that you should despise the taste of a friend when put in competition with that of a lover.”
“Of a lover!”
“Yes, of a lover. Why should Mlle. de Coulanges think it necessary to look astonished? But young ladies imagine this sort of dissimulation is becoming; and can I hope to meet with an exception, or to find one superior to the finesse of her sex? — I beg your pardon, Mlle. de Coulanges, I really forgot that Lady Littleton was present when this terrible word lover escaped — but I can assure you that frankness is not incompatible with her ideas of delicacy.”
“You are mistaken, dear Mrs. Somers; indeed you are mistaken,” said Emilie; “but you are displeased with me now, and I will take a more favourable moment to set you right. In the mean time, I will go and water the hydrangia, which I forgot, and which I reproached myself for forgetting yesterday.”
Emilie left the room.
“Are you convinced now, my dear Lady Littleton,” cried Mrs. Somers, “that this girl has no soul — and very little heart?”
“I am convinced only that she has an excellent temper,” said Lady Littleton. “I hope you do not think a good temper is incompatible with a heart or a soul.”
“I will tell you what I think, and what I am sure of,” cried Mrs. Somers, raising her voice; “that Mlle. de Coulanges will be a constant cause of dispute and uneasiness between you and me, Lady Littleton — I foresee the end of this. As a return for all I have done for her and her mother, she will rob me of the affections of one whom I love and esteem, respect and admire — as she well knows — above all other human beings. She will rob me of the affections of one who has been my friend, my best, my only constant friend, for twenty years! — Oh! why am I doomed eternally to be the victim of ingratitude?”
In spite of Lady Littleton’s efforts to stop and calm her, Mrs. Somers burst out of the room in an agony of passion. She ran up a back staircase which led to her dressing-room, but suddenly stopped when she came to the landing-place, for she found Emilie watering her plants.
“Look, dear Mrs. Somers, this hydrangia is just going to blow; though I was so careless as to forget to water it yesterday.”
“I beg, Mlle. de Coulanges, that you will not trouble yourself,” said Mrs. Somers, haughtily. “Surely there are servants enough in this house whose business it is to remember these things.”
“Yes,” said Emilie, “it is their business, but it is my pleasure. You must not, indeed you must not, take my watering-pot from me!”
“Pardon me, I must, mademoiselle — you are very condescending and polite, and I am very blunt and rude, or whatever you please to think me. But the fact is, that I am not to be flattered by what the French call des petites attentions: they are suited to little minds, but not to me. You will never know my character, Mlle. de Coulanges — I am not to be pleased by such means.”
“Teach me then better means, my dear friend, and do not bid me despair of ever pleasing you,” said Emilie, throwing her arms round Mrs. Somers to detain her.
“Excuse me — I am an Englishwoman, and do not love embrassades, which mean nothing,” said Mrs. Somers, struggling to disengage herself; and she rushed suddenly forward, without perceiving that Emilie’s foot was entangled in her train. Emilie was thrown from the top of the stairs to the bottom. Mrs. Somers screamed — Lady Littleton came out of her room.
“She is dead! — I have killed her!” — cried Mrs. Somers. Lady Littleton raised Emilie from the ground — she was quite stunned by the violence of the fall.
“Oh! speak to me! dearest Emilie, speak once more!” said Mrs. Somers.
As soon as Emilie could speak, she assured Mrs. Somers that she should be quite well in a few minutes. When she attempted, however, to walk, she found she was unable to move, for her ankle was violently sprained: she was carried into Lady Littleton’s room, and placed upon a sofa. She exerted herself to bear the pain she felt, that she might not alarm or seem to reproach Mrs. Somers; and she repeatedly blamed herself for the awkwardness with which she had occasioned her own fall. Mrs. Somers, in the greatest bustle and confusion, called every servant in the house about her, sent them different ways for all the remedies she had ever heard of for a sprain; then was sure Emilie’s skull was fractured — asked fifty times in five minutes whether she did not feel a certain sickness in her stomach, which was the infallible sign of “something wrong” — insisted upon her smelling at salts, vinegar, and various essences; and made her swallow, or at least taste, every variety of drops and cordials. By this time Mad. de Coulanges, who was at her toilet, had heard of the accident, and came running in half dressed; the hurry of Mrs. Somers’ manner, the crowd of assistants, the quantity of remedies, the sight of Emilie stretched upon a sofa, and the sound of the word fracture, which caught her ear, had such an effect upon the countess, that she was instantly seized with one of her nervous attacks; and Mrs. Somers was astonished to see Emilie spring from the sofa to assist her mother. When Mad. de Coulanges recovered, Emilie used all her powers of persuasion to calm her spirits, laughed at the idea of her skull being fractured, and said, that she had only twisted her ankle, which would merely prevent her from dancing for a few days. The countess pitied herself for having such terribly weak nerves — congratulated herself upon her daughter’s safety — declared that it was a miracle how she could have escaped, in falling down such a narrow staircase — observed, that, though the stairs in London were cleaner and better carpeted, the
staircases of Paris were at least four times as broad, and, consequently, a hundred times as safe. She then reminded Emilie of an anecdote mentioned by Mad. de Genlis about a princess of France, who, when she retired to a convent, complained bitterly of the narrowness of the staircase, which, she said, she found a real misfortune to be obliged to descend. “Tell me, Emilie, what was the name of the princess?”
“The Princess Louisa of France, I believe, mamma,” replied Emilie.
Mad. de Coulanges repeated, “Ay, the Princess Louisa of France;” and then, well satisfied, returned to finish her toilette.
“You have an excellent memory, Mlle. de Coulanges,” said Mrs. Somers, looking with an air of pique at Emilie. “I really am rejoiced to see you so much yourself again — I thought you were seriously hurt.”
“I told you that I was not,” said Emilie, forcing a smile.
“Yes, but I was such a fool as to be terrified out of my senses by seeing you lie down on the sofa. I might have saved myself and you a great deal of trouble. I must have appeared ridiculously officious. I saw indeed that I was troublesome; and I seem to be too much for you now. I will leave you with Lady Littleton, to explain to her how the accident happened. Pray tell the thing just as it was — do not spare me, I beg. I do not desire that Lady Littleton, or any friend I have upon earth, should think better of me than I deserve. Remember, you have my free leave, Mlle. de Coulanges, to speak of me as you think — so don’t spare me!” cried Mrs. Somers, shutting the door with violence as she left the room.
“Lean upon me, my dear,” said Lady Littleton, who saw that Emilie turned exceedingly pale, and looked towards a chair, as if she wished to reach it, but could not.
“I thought,” said she, in a faint voice, “that this pain would go off, but it is grown more violent.” Emilie could say no more; she had borne intense pain as long as she was able: and now, quite overcome, she leaned back, and fainted. Lady Littleton threw open the window, sprinkled water upon Emilie’s face, and gave her assistance in the kindest manner, without calling any of the servants; she knew that the return of Mrs. Somers would do more harm than good. Emilie soon recovered her recollection; and, whilst Lady Littleton was rubbing the sprained ankle with ether, in hopes of lessening the pain, she asked how the accident had happened. — Emilie replied simply, that she had entangled her foot in Mrs. Somers’ gown. “I understand, from what Mrs. Somers hinted when she left the room,” said Lady Littleton, “that she was somehow in fault in this affair, and that you could blame her if you would; but I see that you will not; and I love you the better for justifying the good opinion that I had formed of you, Emilie. — But I will not talk sentiment to you now — you are in too much pain to relish it.”
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 578
