CHAPTER XXIV. A Little Innocent
Every house has its skeleton in it somewhere, and it may be a comfort tosome unhappy folks to think that the luckier and most wealthy of theirneighbours have their miseries and causes of disquiet. Our littleinnocent Muse of Blanche, who sang so nicely and talked so sweetly, youwould have thought she must have made sunshine where ever she went, wasthe skeleton, or the misery, or the bore, or the Nemesis of ClaveringHouse, and of most of the inhabitants thereof. As one little stone inyour own shoe or your horse's, suffices to put either to torture and tomake your journey miserable, so in life a little obstacle is sufficientto obstruct your entire progress, and subject you to endless annoyanceand disquiet. Who would have guessed that such a smiling little fairy asBlanche Amory could be the cause of discord in any family?
"I say, Strong," one day the Baronet said, as the pair were conversingafter dinner over the billiard-table, and that great unbosomer ofsecrets, a cigar; "I say, Strong, I wish to the doose your wife wasdead."
"So do I. That's a cannon, by Jove. But she won't; she'll live forever--you see if she don't. Why do you wish her off the hooks, Frank, myboy?" asked Captain Strong.
"Because then you might marry Missy. She ain't bad-looking. She'll haveten thousand, and that's a good bit of money for such a poor old devilas you," drawled out the other gentleman.
"And gad, Strong, I hate her worse and worse every day. I can't standher, Strong, by gad, I can't."
"I wouldn't take her at twice the figure," Captain Strong said,laughing. "I never saw such a little devil in my life."
"I should like to poison her," said the sententious Baronet; "by Jove Ishould."
"Why, what has she been at now?" asked his friend.
"Nothing particular," answered Sir Francis; "only her old tricks. Thatgirl has such a knack of making everybody miserable that, hang me, it'squite surprising. Last night she sent the governess crying away fromthe dinner-table. Afterwards, as I was passing Frank's room, I heard thepoor little beggar howling in the dark, and found his sister had beenfrightening his soul out of his body, by telling him stories about theghost that's in the house. At lunch she gave my lady a turn; and thoughmy wife's a fool, she's a good soul--I'm hanged if she ain't."
"What did Missy do to her?" Strong asked.
"Why, hang me, if she didn't begin talking about the late Amory, mypredecessor," the Baronet said, with a grin. "She got some picture outof the Keepsake, and said she was sure it was like her dear father, Shewanted to know where her father's grave was. Hang her father! WheneverMiss Amory talks about him, Lady Clavering always bursts out crying: andthe little devil will talk about him in order to spite her mother.Today when she began, I got in a confounded rage; said I was her father;and--and that sort of thing, and then, sir, she took a shy at me."
"And what did she say about you, Frank?" Mr. Strong, still laughing,inquired of his friend and patron.
"Gad, she said I wasn't her father; that I wasn't fit to comprehend her;that her father must have been a man of genius, and fine feelings, andthat sort of thing: whereas I had married her mother for money."
"Well, didn't you?" asked Strong.
"It don't make it any the pleasanter to hear because it's true, don'tyou know," Sir Francis Clavering answered. "I ain't a literary man andthat; but I ain't such a fool as she makes me out. I don't know how itis, but she always manages to put me in the hole, don't you understand.She turns all the house round her in her quiet way, and with herconfounded sentimental airs. I wish she was dead, Ned."
"It was my wife whom you wanted dead just now," Strong said, always inperfect good-humour; upon which the Baron with his accustomed candour,said, "Well; when people bore my life out, I do wish they were dead, andI wish Missy were down a well, with all my heart."
Thus it will be seen from the above report of this candid conversationthat our accomplished little friend had some peculiarities or defects ofcharacter which rendered her not very popular. She was a young lady ofsome genius, exquisite sympathies and considerable literary attainments,living, like many another genius, with relatives who could notcomprehend her. Neither her mother nor her stepfather were persons ofa literary turn. Bell's Life and the Racing Calendar were the extent ofthe Baronet's reading, and Lady Clavering still wrote like a schoolgirlof thirteen, and with an extraordinary disregard to grammar andspelling. And as Miss Amory felt very keenly that she was notappreciated, and that she lived with persons who were not her equals inintellect or conversational power, she lost no opportunity to acquainther family circle with their inferiority to herself, and not only wasa martyr, but took care to let everybody know that she was so. If shesuffered, as she said and thought she did, severely, are we to wonderthat a young creature of such delicate sensibilities should shriek andcry out a good deal? Without sympathy life is nothing; and would it nothave been a want of candour on her part to affect a cheerfulness whichshe did not feel, or pretend a respect for those towards whom it wasquite impossible she should entertain any reverence? If a poetess maynot bemoan her lot, of what earthly use is her lyre? Blanche struckhers only to the saddest of tunes; and sang elegies over her dead hopes,dirges over her early frost-nipt buds of affection, as became such amelancholy fate and Muse.
Her actual distresses, as we have said, had not been up to the presenttime very considerable: but her griefs lay; like those of most of us,in her own soul--that being sad and habitually dissatisfied, what wonderthat she should weep? So Mes Larmes dribbled out of her eyes any day atcommand: she could furnish an unlimited supply of tears, and her facultyof shedding them increased by practice. For sentiment is like anothercomplaint mentioned by Horace, as increasing by self-indulgence (Iam sorry to say, ladies, that the complaint in question is called thedropsy), and the more you cry, the more you will be able and desirous todo so.
Missy had begun to gush at a very early age. Lamartine was her favouritebard from the period when she first could feel: and she had subsequentlyimproved her mind by a sedulous study of novels of the great modernauthors of the French language. There was not a romance of Balzac andGeorge Sand which the indefatigable little creature had not devoured--bythe time she was sixteen: and, however little she sympathised with herrelatives at home, she had friends, as she said, in the spirit-world,meaning the tender Indiana, the passionate and poetic Lelia, the amiableTrenmor, that high-souled convict, that angel of the galleys,--the fieryStenio,--and the other numberless heroes of the French romances. She hadbeen in love with Prince Rodolph and Prince Djalma while she was yet atschool, and had settled the divorce question, and the rights of woman,with Indiana, before she had left off pinafores. The impetuous littlelady played at love with these imaginary worthies as a little whilebefore she had played at maternity with her doll. Pretty little poeticalspirits! It is curious to watch them with those playthings. To-day theblue-eyed one is the favourite, and the black-eyed one is pushed behindthe drawers. To-morrow blue-eyes may take its turn of neglect and it maybe an odious little wretch with a burnt nose, or torn bead of hair, andno eyes at all, that takes the first place in Miss's affection, and isdandled and caressed in her arms.
As novelists are supposed to know everything, even the secrets of femalehearts, which the owners themselves do not perhaps know, we may statethat at eleven years of age Mademoiselle Betsi, as Miss Amory was thencalled, had felt tender emotions towards a young Savoyard organ-grinderat Paris, whom she persisted in believing to be a prince carried offfrom his parents; that at twelve an old and hideous drawing-master (but,ah, what age or personal defects are proof against woman's love?) hadagitated her young heart; and that, at thirteen, being at Madame deCaramel's boarding-school, in the Champs Elysees, which, as everybodyknows, is next door to Monsieur Rogron's (Chevalier of the Legion ofHonour) pension for young gentlemen, a correspondence by letter tookplace between the seduisante Miss Betsi and two young gentlemen of theCollege of Charlemagne, who were pensioners of the Chevalier Rogron.
In the above paragraph our young friend has been called by a
Christianname different to that under which we were lately presented to her. Thefact is, that Miss Amory, called Missy at home, had really at the firstbeen christened Betsy--but assumed the name of Blanche of her own willand fantasy, and crowned herself with it; and the weapon which theBaronet, her stepfather, held in terror over her, was the threat to callher publicly by her name of Betsy, by which menace he sometimes managedto keep the young rebel in order.
We have spoken just now of children's dolls, and of the manner in whichthose little people take up and neglect their darling toys, and verylikely this history will show that Miss Blanche assumed and put awayher live dolls with a similar girlish inconstancy. She had had hosts ofdear, dear, darling, friends ere now, and had quite a little museumof locks of hair in her treasure-chest, which she had gathered in thecourse of her sentimental progress. Some dear friends had married: somehad gone to other schools: one beloved sister she had lost from thepension, and found again, O, horror! her darling, her Leocadie keepingthe books in her father's shop, a grocer in the Rue du Bac: in fact,she had met with a number of disappointments, estrangements,disillusionments, as she called them in her pretty French jargon, andhad seen and suffered a great deal for so young a woman. But it isthe lot of sensibility to suffer, and of confiding tenderness to bedeceived, and she felt that she was only undergoing the penalties ofgenius in these pangs and disappointments of her young career.
Meanwhile, she managed to make the honest lady, her mother, asuncomfortable as circumstances would permit; and caused her worthystepfather to wish she was dead. With the exception of Captain Strong,whose invincible good-humour was proof against her sarcasms, the littlelady ruled the whole house with he tongue. If Lady Clavering talkedabout Sparrowgrass instead of Asparagus, or called an object a hobject,as this unfortunate lady would sometimes do, Missy calmly correctedher, and frightened the good soul, her mother, into errors only the morefrequent as she grew more nervous under her daughter's eye.
It is not to be supposed, considering the vast interest which thearrival of the family at Clavering Park inspired in the inhabitantsof the little town, that Madame Fribsby alone, of all the folks inClavering, should have remained unmoved and incurious. At the firstappearance of the Park family in church, Madame noted every article oftoilette which the ladies wore, from their bonnets to their brodequins,and took a survey of the attire of the ladies' maids in the pew allottedto them. We fear that Doctor Portman's sermon, though it was one ofhis oldest and most valued compositions, had little effect upon MadameFribsby on that day.
In a very few days afterwards, she had managed for herself an interviewwith Lady Clavering's confidential attendant in the housekeeper's roomat the Park; and her cards in French and English, stating that shereceived the newest fashions from Paris from her correspondent MadameVictorine, and that she was in the custom of making court and balldresses for the nobility and gentry of the shire, were in the possessionof Lady Clavering and Miss Amory, and favourably received, as she washappy to hear, by those ladies.
Mrs. Bonner, Lady Clavering's lady, became soon a great frequenter ofMadame Fribsby's drawing-room, and partook of many entertainments at themilliner's expense. A meal of green tea, scandal, hot Sally-Lunn cakes,and a little novel reading, were always at the service of Mrs. Bonner,whenever she was free to pass an evening in the town. And she foundmuch more time for these pleasures than her junior officer, Miss Amory'smaid, who seldom could be spared for a holiday, and was worked as hardas any factory-girl by that inexorable little Muse, her mistress.
The Muse loved to be dressed becomingly, and, having a lively fancy anda poetic desire for change, was for altering her attire every day.Her maid having a taste in dressmaking--to which art she had been anapprentice at Paris, before she entered into Miss Blanche's servicethere--was kept from morning till night altering and remodelling MissAmory's habiliments; and rose very early and went to bed very late, inobedience to the untiring caprices of her little taskmistress. Thegirl was of respectable English parents. There are many of our people,colonists of Paris, who have seen better days, who are not quite ruined,who do not quite live upon charity, and yet cannot get on without it;and as her father was a cripple incapable of work, and her return homewould only increase the burthen and add to the misery of the family,poor Pincott was fain to stay where she could maintain herself, andspare a little relief to her parents.
Our Muse, with the candour which distinguished her, never failed toremind her attendant of the real state of matters. "I should send youaway, Pincott, for you are a great deal too weak, and your eyes arefailing you, and you are always crying and snivelling and wanting thedoctor; but I wish that your parents at home should be supported, and Igo on enduring you for their sake, mind," the dear Blanche would say toher timid little attendant. Or, "Pincott, your wretched appearance andslavish manner, and red eyes, positively give me the migraine; andI think I shall make you wear rouge, so that you may look a littlecheerful;" or, "Pincott, I can't bear, even for the sake of yourstarving parents, that you should tear my hair out of my head in thatmanner; and I will thank you to write to them and say that I dispensewith your services." After which sort of speeches, and after keeping herfor an hour trembling over her hair, which the young lady loved to havecombed, as she perused one of her favourite French novels, she would goto bed at one o'clock, and say, "Pincott, you may kiss me. Good night.I should like you to have the pink dress ready for the morning." And sowith blessing upon her attendant, she would turn round and go to sleep.
The Muse might lie in bed as long as she chose of a morning, and availedherself of that privilege; but Pincott had to rise very early indeed toget her mistress's task done; and had to appear next day with the samered eyes and the same wan face, which displeased Miss Amory by theirwant of gaiety, and caused the mistress to be so angry, because theservant persisted in being and looking unwell and unhappy. Not thatBlanche ever thought she was a hard mistress. Indeed, she made quite afriend of Pincott, at times, and wrote some very pretty verses about thelonely little tiring-maid, whose heart was far away. Our beloved Blanchewas a superior being, and expected to be waited upon as such. And Ido not know whether there are any other ladies in this world who treattheir servants or dependants so, but it may be that there are such, andthat the tyranny which they exercise over their subordinates, andthe pangs which they can manage to inflict with a soft voice, and awell-bred simper, are as cruel as those which a slave-driver administerswith an oath and a whip.
But Blanche was a Muse--a delicate little creature, quite tremulous withexcitability, whose eyes filled with tears at the smallest emotion;and who knows, but that it was the very fineness of her feelings whichcaused them to be froissed so easily? You crush a butterfly by merelytouching it. Vulgar people have no idea of the sensibility of a Muse.
So little Pincott being occupied all day and night in stitching,hemming, ripping, combing, ironing, crimping, for her mistress; readingto her when in bed,--for the girl was mistress of the two languages, andhad a sweet voice and manner--could take no share in Madame Fribsby'ssoirees, nor indeed was she much missed, or considered of sufficientconsequence to appear at their entertainments.
But there was another person connected with the Clavering establishment,who became a constant guest of our friend, the milliner. This was thechief of the kitchen, Monsieur Mirobolant, with whom Madame Fribsby soonformed an intimacy.
Not having been accustomed to the appearance or society of personsof the French nation, the rustic inhabitants of Clavering were not sofavourably impressed by Monsieur Alcide's manners and appearance, asthat gentleman might have desired that they should be. He walked amongthem quite unsuspiciously upon the afternoon of a summer day, when hisservices were not required at the House, in his usual favourite costume,namely, his light green frock or paletot, his crimson velvet waistcoat,with blue glass buttons, his pantalon Ecossais, of a very large anddecided check pattern, his orange satin neckcloth, and his jean-boots,with tips of shiny leather,--these, with a gold-embroidered cap, and aric
hly gilt cane, or other varieties of ornament of a similar tendency,formed his usual holiday costume, in which he flattered himself therewas nothing remarkable (unless, indeed, the beauty of his person shouldattract observation), and in which he considered that he exhibited theappearance of a gentleman of good Parisian ton.
He walked then down the street, grinning and ogling every woman he metwith glances, which he meant should kill them outright, and peered overthe railings, and in at the windows, where females were, in the tranquilsummer evening. But Betsy, Mrs. Pybus's maid, shrank back with a Lorbless us, as Alcide ogled her over the laurel-bush; the Miss Bakers, andtheir mamma, stared with wonder; and presently a crowd began to followthe interesting foreigner, of ragged urchins and children, who lefttheir dirt-pies in the street to pursue him.
For some time he thought that admiration was the cause which led thesepersons in his wake, and walked on, pleased himself that he couldso easily confer on others so much harmless pleasure. But the littlechildren and dirt-pie manufacturers were presently succeeded byfollowers of a larger growth, and a number of lads and girls fromthe factory being let loose at this hour, joined the mob, and beganlaughing, jeering, hooting, and calling opprobrious names at theFrenchman. Some cried out "Frenchy! Frenchy!" some exclaimed "Frogs!"one asked for a lock of his hair, which was long and in richly-flowingringlets; and at length the poor artist began to perceive that he was anobject of derision rather than of respect to the rude grinning mob.
It was at this juncture that Madame Fribsby spied the unlucky gentlemanwith the train at his heels, and heard the scornful shouts with whichthey assailed him. She ran out of her room, and across the street to thepersecuted foreigner; she held out her hand, and, addressing him in hisown language, invited him into her abode; and when she had housed himfairly within her door, she stood bravely at the threshold before thegibing factory girls and boys, and said they were a pack of cowards toinsult a poor man who could not speak their language, and was aloneand without protection. The little crowd, with some ironical cheersand hootings, nevertheless felt the force of Madame Fribsby's vigorousallocution, and retreated before her; for the old lady was ratherrespected in the place, and her oddity and her kindness had made hermany friends there.
Poor Mirobolant was grateful indeed to hear the language of his countryever so ill spoken. Frenchmen pardon our faults in their languagemuch more readily than we excuse their bad English; and will face ourblunders throughout a long conversation, without the least propensityto grin. The rescued artist vowed that Madame Fribsby was his guardianangel, and that he had not as yet met with such suavity and politenessamong les Anglaises. He was as courteous and complimentary to her asif it was the fairest and noblest of ladies whom he was addressing: forAlcide Mirobolant paid homage after his fashion to all womankind, andnever dreamed of a distinction of ranks in the realms of beauty, as hisphrase was.
A cream, flavoured with pineapple--a mayonnaise of lobster, which heflattered himself was not unworthy of his hand, or of her to whom he hadthe honour to offer it as an homage, and a box of preserved fruits ofProvence, were brought by one of the chef's aides-de-camp, in a basket,the next day to the milliner's, and were accompanied with a gallant noteto the amiable Madame Fribsbi. "Her kindness," Alcide said, "had madea green place in the desert of his existence,--her suavity would evercontrast in memory with the grossierete of the rustic population,who were not worthy to possess such a jewel." An intimacy of the mostconfidential nature thus sprang up between the milliner and the chiefof the kitchen; but I do not know whether it was with pleasure ormortification that Madame received the declarations of friendship whichthe young Alcides proffered to her, for he persisted in calling her "Larespectable Fribsbi," "La vertueuse Fribsbi,"--and in stating that heshould consider her as his mother, while he hoped she would regard himas her son. Ah! it was not very long ago, Fribsby thought, that wordshad been addressed to her in that dear French language, indicating adifferent sort of attachment. And she sighed as she looked up at thepicture of her Carabineer. For it is surprising how young some people'shearts remain when their heads have need of a front or a littlehair-dye,--and, at this moment, Madame Fribsby, as she told youngAlcide, felt as romantic as a girl of eighteen.
When the conversation took this turn--and at their first intimacyMadame Fribsby was rather inclined so to lead it--Alcide always politelydiverged to another subject: it was as his mother that he persistedin considering the good milliner. He would recognise her in no othercapacity, and with that relationship the gentle lady was forced tocontent herself, when she found how deeply the artist's heart wasengaged elsewhere.
He was not long before he described to her the subject and origin of hispassion.
"I declared myself to her," said Alcide, laying his hand on hisheart, "in a manner which was as novel as I am charmed to think it wasagreeable. Where cannot Love penetrate, respectable Madame Fribsbi?Cupid is the father of invention!--I inquired of the domestics what werethe plats of which Mademoiselle partook with most pleasure; and builtup my little battery accordingly. On a day when her parents had gone todine in the world (and I am grieved to say that a grossier dinner at arestaurateur, in the Boulevard, or in the Palais Royal seemed to formthe delights of these unrefined persons), the charming Miss entertainedsome comrades of the pension; and I advised myself to send up a littlerepast suitable to so delicate young palates. Her lovely name isBlanche. The name of the maiden is white; the wreath of roses which shewears is white. I determined that my dinner should be as spotless asthe snow. At her accustomed hour, and instead of the rude gigot a l'eau,which was ordinarily served at her too simple table, I sent her up alittle potage a la Reine--a la Reine Blanche I called it,--as white asher own tint--and confectioned with the most fragrant cream and almonds.I then offered up at her shrine a filet de merlan ? l'Agnes, and adelicate plat which I designated as Eperlan a la Sainte-Therese, andof which my charming Miss partook with pleasure. I followed this by twolittle entrees of sweetbread and chicken; and the only brown thing whichI permitted myself in the entertainment was a little roast of lamb,which I lay in a meadow of spinaches, surrounded with croustillons,representing sheep, and ornamented with daisies and other savageflowers. After this came my second service: a pudding a la ReineElizabeth (who, Madame Fribsbi knows, was a maiden princess); a dishof opal-coloured plover's eggs which I called Nid de tourtereaux a laRoucoule; placing in the midst of them two of those tender volatiles,billing each other, and confectioned with butter; a basket containinglittle gateaux of apricots, which, I know, all young ladies adore; anda jelly of marasquin, bland insinuating, intoxicating as the glance ofbeauty. This I designated Ambroisie de Calypso a la Souveraine demon Coeur. And when the ice was brought in--an ice of plombiere andcherries--how do you think I had shaped them, Madame Fribsbi? In theform of two hearts united with an arrow, on which I had laid, before itentered, a bridal veil in cut-paper, surmounted by a wreath of virginalorange-flowers. I stood at the door to watch the effect of this entry.It was but one cry of admiration. The three young ladies filled theirglasses with the sparkling Ay, and carried me in a toast. I heard it--Iheard Miss speak of me--I heard her say, 'Tell Monsieur Mirobolant thatwe thank him--we admire him--we love him!' My feet almost failed me asshe spoke.
"Since that, can I have any reason to doubt that the young artist hasmade some progress in the heart of the English Miss? I am modest, butmy glass informs me that I am not ill-looking. Other victories haveconvinced me of the fact."
"Dangerous man!" cried the milliner.
"The blond misses of Albion see nothing in the dull inhabitants of theirbrumous isle, which can compare with the ardour and vivacity of thechildren of the South. We bring our sunshine with us; we are Frenchmen,and accustomed to conquer. Were it not for this affair of the heart, andmy determination to marry an Anglaise, do you think I would stop in thisisland (which is not altogether ungrateful, since I have found here atender mother in the respectable Madame Fribsbi), in this island,in this family? My genius would use itself in the
company of theserustics--the poesy of my art cannot be understood by these carnivorousinsularies. No--the men are odious, but the women--the women! I own,dear Fribsbi, are seducing! I have vowed to marry one; and as I cannotgo into your markets and purchase, according to the custom of thecountry, I am resolved to adopt another custom, and fly with one toGretna Grin. The blonde Miss will go. She is fascinated. Her eyes havetold me so. The white dove wants but the signal to fly."
"Have you any correspondence with her?" asked Fribsby, in amazement, andnot knowing whether the young lady or the lover might be labouring undera romantic delusion.
"I correspond with her by means of my art. She partakes of dishes whichI make expressly for her. I insinuate to her thus a thousand hintswhich as she is perfectly spiritual, she receives. But I want otherintelligences near her."
"There is Pincott, her maid," said Madame Fribsby, who, by aptitude oreducation, seemed to have some knowledge of affairs of the heart, butthe great artist's brow darkened at this suggestion.
"Madame," he said, "there are points upon which a gallant man ought tosilence himself; though, if he break the secret, he may do so with theleast impropriety to his best friend--his adopted mother. Know then,that there is a cause why Miss Pincott should be hostile to me--a causenot uncommon with your sex--jealousy."
"Perfidious monster!" said the confidante.
"Ah, no," said the artist, with a deep bass voice, and a tragicaccent worthy of the Port St Martin and his favourite melodrames, "notperfidious, but fatal. Yes, I am a fatal man, Madame Fribsbi. To inspirehopeless passion is my destiny. I cannot help it that women love me. Isit my fault that that young woman deperishes and languishes to the viewof the eye, consumed by a flame which I cannot return? Listen! There areothers in this family who are similarly unhappy. The governess of theyoung Milor has encountered me in my walks, and looked at me in a waywhich can bear but one interpretation. And Milady herself, who is ofmature age, but who has oriental blood, has once or twice addressedcompliments to the lonely artist which can admit of no mistake. I avoidthe household, I seek solitude, I undergo my destiny. I can marry butone, and am resolved it shall be to a lady of your nation. And, if herfortune is sufficient I think Miss would be the person who would be mostsuitable. I wish to ascertain what her means are before I lead her toGretna Grin."
Whether Alcides was as irresistible a conqueror as his namesake, orwhether he was simply crazy, is a point which must be left to thereader's judgment. But the latter if he had had the benefit of muchFrench acquaintance, has perhaps met with men amongst them who fanciedthemselves almost as invincible; and who, if you credit them, have madeequal havoc in the hearts of les Anglaises.
The History of Pendennis Page 26