Love & Friendship

by Whit Stillman

  Frederica sat up on her bed. “But, Mama—”

  “‘But, Mama’? I will not always be here for you to contradict me. If the life of comfort such as Sir James offers you is not to your taste, what will you do? How will you live?”

  “I could… teach.”

  “Teach! Had you been more in school you would not consider such a thing!”

  It is true that in the last century the teaching vocation was of little esteem and less profit, a state of affairs which Frederica, rarely in school, might not have known; fortunately in our own day these deficiencies have been corrected.

  “Answer this,” Lady Susan finally asked. “When our Lord wrote His Commandments, which one did He consider so important He put it in the fourth position?”

  “The fourth position?”

  “Yes, the Fourth Commandment.”

  “I know the Commandments—but not their order.”

  “See: This is what comes of an irregular education! The Fourth Commandment…”

  Frederica began hesitantly: “‘Thou shalt not…’?”

  “It’s not a ‘Shalt not.’ It’s a ‘Shalt.’”

  “‘Thou shalt’?”

  “Had I not myself been present I would wonder if I were even your mother!”

  Susan gave her daughter a compassionate look despite her surly behaviour; on the subject of religion Frederica’s education had been as defective as in every other respect. Lady Susan realized she would have to supply the information which her daughter’s education had neglected. She cited the commandment which had eluded Frederica: “Honour—Thy—Father—And—Mother.”

  “I’m sorry, have I done anything that has dishonoured you or Father?”

  “To ‘honour’ means, among other things, to listen with respect to a parent’s sincere counsel.”

  “I do listen with respect, Mother. It’s just that—”

  “If you will not pay attention to me, then perhaps you will to a larger imperative: the Law of the Universe. An offer as splendid as Sir James’ is not likely to come again. He has offered you the one thing of value he has to give—his income. I fear, and reproach myself, for having shielded you for far too long: Had I let you starve a little bit more, you would resist much less.”

  “But Mama, I was often hungry at school—”

  “Evidently not hungry enough! In any case the starvation of the schoolhouse is nothing like that of the destitute. Is that what you want?”

  “No… I can see that Sir James is a kind man and if it were not a matter of marriage I could like him. But marriage is for one’s whole life—”

  “Not in my experience. Meanwhile I must ask you not to speak to your aunt or uncle about this matter—or seek their interference in any way. I insist—promise… Remember the commandment.”

  “Yes, Mother.”

  The next day, walking with Catherine Vernon, Lady Susan sought to air her concerns about Sir James’ reception at Churchill, not yet realizing to what degree her sister-in-law’s ill-will made her impervious to the conciliating effect of such confidences.

  “Sir James’ arrival, and its suddenness, requires some explanation,” Lady Susan began. “You were not too surprised, I hope?”

  “It was unexpected—”

  “Yes; certainly. To me, as much as anyone. I’m afraid Sir James’ best qualities are not immediately apparent… Certainly, he’s no Solomon*—”

  “Solomon?”

  “The wise king in the Bible… the one who had the idea of dividing the infant disputed by two mothers in half, or in two—I can’t recall the exact wording.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.”

  “So, Sir James is no Solomon—but how many suitors of great wisdom is a young woman likely to find today?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “None! And I must confess that at times I wonder if such a quality is even desirable in a husband…”

  Catherine Vernon might have felt the jab of this remark: Although I grew to respect Charles Vernon’s understanding as well as discernment, Catherine must have known that many in her circle questioned both. Among the habitually malicious, kindness and gentility are often mistaken for simple-mindedness.

  “When you have the happiness of bestowing your sweet Emily on a man who’s alike unexceptionable in his connections and character you may know how I feel. Though Emily will not, thank Heaven, depend upon a fortunate establishment for her survival!”

  They walked in silence for a few paces before Catherine spoke.

  “But… Sir James, isn’t he…?”

  “I know… He seems timid, and therefore awkward, occasionally saying things better left unsaid—in fact, a bit of a ‘Rattle.’”

  “Yes.”

  “Yet I think you’ll find that his good qualities—and advantageous circumstances—outweigh whatever deficiencies an ungenerous or rancourous person might accentuate…”

  Susan then asked—in the direct, candid manner that so disconcerted the retrogent*—if she might count on her and Mr. Vernon’s blessing.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Might I count on your and Mr. Vernon’s blessing for this connection, so important for Frederica’s future happiness?”

  “Well—I…” Catherine equivocated. “I think Charles should know him first.”

  The Very Unfair “Green Peas” Affair

  The next incident of my uncle’s stay at Churchill I must recount with a certain caution as it has been so unfairly used to despisefy him. A full explanation of the circumstances should, however, stand him acquitted of the reprehensible slanders to which he has been subject.

  That green peas have not always been part of our English diet is not universally known. The green pea was introduced to the French court from Italy in the latter half of the Sixteenth Century. Its first appearance was met with some amazement, as well it might have been; the green pea is a peculiar legume, nearly perfectly round, something which occurs rarely in nature.* After the green peas’ royal introduction it still took decades for peas-consumption to become habitual in even the highest French circles: At the century’s end both Françoise d’Aubigné, the Marquise de Maintenon, second wife of King Louis XIV (“le Grand,” or “the Great”), and Marie de Rabutin-Chantal, marquise de Sévigné, could still describe green peas as “a fashion, a fury.”

  Given these circumstances it should not be considered surprising that some decades later a representative of our ancient landed aristocracy, which had for eight centuries successfully resisted all invasion or infiltration from that direction, might not have been familiar with this French vogue.

  Perhaps most importantly my uncle visited Churchill in an awkward role, that of suitor. He was a young man in love; his fervent, feverish hope to win Frederica Vernon’s hand and affections was not faring well. Maybe it would be too much to say that Sir James was desperate because such theatricality was foreign to his nature. But he must have been disconcerted by his predicament.

  As regards Frederica, Sir James faced not just coldness—as nearly all men courting young women must (usually further inflaming the romantic impulse)—but a sort of terror; and, for a mild man such as my uncle, that was a true barrier. He would have been appalled to think he was causing Frederica distress.

  Jealousy was also a factor. At the fateful dinner Catherine Vernon insidiously arranged the seating so that Frederica was placed next to Reginald DeCourcy, with Sir James at the opposite extremity. Reginald, even Sir James could see, had Frederica’s attentive regard. For a young man in love, this was deeply wounding; doubly so that in comparing himself with Reginald, as rivals in love will do (rivals as perceived by Sir James, not Reginald), he came up short. The younger man—whom he could recognize as having the advantage over him in terms of looks, position, et cetera—intimidated him. Made nervous, Sir James probably acted more “silly” than he might have otherwise. I would argue, quite passionately, that to act “silly” on occasion does not make one a “silly man.”

  A final, crucial
factor might seem anomalous: our national fascination, or perhaps obsession, with balls, even very small ones. Sir James had been mad for them since his time at Westminster. Like many of our greatest leaders, during his school years Sir James was far keener on moving balls on a playing field than studying globes or Greek and Latin conjugations. Each term a number of boys was “sent down” from school for neglecting their studies. Sir James was the first student to be “sent up” from Westminster (though this factum was later disputed, with some claiming that it was so phrased “in joke”; in any case Sir James was rusticated* from school for allowing his spherical preoccupation to take precedent over everything else).

  Service at dinner that evening was strangely disordered. A helping of green peas was deposited on Sir James’ entirely bare plate; the Vernons’ Staffordshire creamware was exceptionally smooth; the peas—very round, very green, and perhaps under-cooked—rolled around gaily.

  “How jolly,” Sir James said, taking his knife and knocking the peas about a bit, laughing as he did so. “Tiny green balls!”

  Sir James’ high spirits, entirely understandable in the circumstances, attracted the notice of the others at table, which included several persons who did not wish him well. (Lady Susan was absent; feeling indisposed she had requested dinner in her room.)

  “Perhaps they are under-cooked,” Catherine said, with a concerned look.

  “Nonsense, they’re perfect,” Charles Vernon replied.

  Sir James savoured a forkful.

  “Mmm, yes, good-tasting—quite sweet… What are they called?”

  For quite a few moments there was no reply until Reginald finally answered, “Peas.”

  “Oh, yes! No, I knew that! Of course, I recall now… I must get Collins to cultivate them at Martindale. Novelty vegetable—could make quite a packet.”

  He took another taste. “Yes, distinctly sweet.”

  I suppose what the DeCourcys found so very mirthful in this episode was the idea that, long after green peas had become a familiar legume in the rarefied circles to which they were accustomed, Sir James did not know what they were, or what they were called. I would submit that the incident showed nothing of the kind. Sir James himself stated, “I knew that—I recall now,” showing that it had just slipped his mind. Finally, one might ask, is this matter of peas really of such astounding importance? The DeCourcys, for their own interested motives, liked to pretend that it was. I would submit that it was not.

  When after dinner the gentlemen joined the ladies in the Gold Room, Charles took Catherine aside: “I am enjoying Sir James’ visit. His conversation is lively, he brings a new angle to things. What would you think if I took him to see the Fredericksville farm? He’s mentioned his interest in the new agricultural methods…”

  “Yes,” Catherine replied with her usual deceptive smile. What was she thinking? One can only be certain: nothing good or kind.

  There was, in fact, nothing ridiculous about Sir James’ comments regarding peas. They had been under-cooked, were very green, and rolled remarkably well on the exceptionally smooth Staffordshire creamware; my uncle just happened to comment candidly upon them. And yet this “incident” has repeatedly been used to defame him.

  But what of Frederica? At this point Frederica’s actions and aspirations do bear close examination. What was her role, how intentional or inadvertent? That evening in the Gold Room after dinner she kept a watchful regard upon both young men: Sir James, who walked along the circumference of the room examining the paintings and mirrors, and Reginald, who was just then putting aside a volume of verse he had been reading. Frederica asked if she might look at it.

  “Oh, yes. Please do.”

  “Just for a moment…” She picked it up to glance at it in a tentative manner.

  “Oh, no, I’m finished—it’s yours to read.”

  “Oh, thank you!”

  Her disproportionate enthusiasm and gratitude disconcerted and, to a degree, disgusted him; the girl did seem as dull and pathetic as he had been led to believe. He felt obliged to explain: “I don’t want to leave you under a false sense of obligation—I took the book from Mr. Vernon’s library, so it is him you should thank.”

  “Oh, no, no need for that!” Charles said, re-entering the room. “Delighted to have these volumes exercised, taken out for a trot, or canter. That’s what we have books for—to be read. Takes the burden off me for not attending to them as much as I should have. In fact,” he said, addressing Frederica, “I believe that many of these books are from your late father’s library, which I bought at auction to keep them within the fam—” Charles stopped abruptly, fearful that recalling the sad events surrounding her late father’s ruin might wound Frederica. “Oh. Please excuse me—”

  “Not at all, Uncle. I am very glad you should have them as I am sure that my father would have also.”

  “Thank you. Please do read them all—I mean, all those you would like to read…” With a polite nod Charles excused himself.

  Sir James, having finished his examination of the room’s decorations, rejoined the others.

  “I admire the paintings,” he said, “but the mirrors less so. Except, in the corner of that far mirror, I spotted a young woman who was rather pretty.”

  “That must have been Frederica.”

  Sir James thought a moment.

  “I think you are right! Her reflection, no? That must be it. Thank you, Sir.”

  Another of my uncle’s attractive qualities was that, when corrected, he did not argue or explain, he was merely grateful, which human nature normally resists, however illogically. We should always be grateful to learn what we do not know, or have others aid our understanding. We should be grateful, but among those I know only my uncle truly was.

  Finally he turned to Frederica with a broad smile. “I must say, Frederica, I admired your reflection.”

  How did Sir James Martin become my uncle? I believe I have written that my mother, Juliana Martin, was his younger sister. But it was only after she married my father, Giancarlo (later Jean-Charles) Colonna de Cesari-Rocca, a hero of the Corsican fight for independence and a member of General Paoli’s staff who followed him into London exile, that I was born and Sir James became my uncle—a role which was especially important after my father returned to the Mediterranean with General Paoli to resume that struggle.

  My mother, Juliana Martin-Colonna de Cesari-Rocca—merely writing her name I am overcome with emotion, a profound and touching filial love—was Sir James’ younger sister and favourite sibling. They were on the best of terms and strikingly similar in disposition: happy, kind, and entirely sanguine. During my childhood my mother was a great comfort to me, I was enormously relieved that she did not die prematurely as so many mothers did in those days. She had a profound understanding of the ways of boys small and not-so-small. It might surprise the reader but there was a time during my early years when I was the target of the apparent hostility of my form-mates, as well as members of the forms above and below my own. This hostility manifested itself in many ways: I was called ridiculous names, struck with fists, tripped up; my possessions were stolen or soiled; notes with unflattering words were attached to the back of my clothes where I could not see them but everyone else could. Ha, ha, ha. Or perhaps, more precisely: gawf, gawf, gawf.

  The situation, this state of affairs, initially distressed me. I was terrified of going to school and, had I tear ducts, would have cried. Then one afternoon at tea time my mother revealed to me what it was all about: The other boys were intensely jealous of me. Apparently I had remarkable qualities and attributes (I had not known this) which made others envious. Having this information changed my perspective entirely: I had thought I was at the bottom of the heap at school but, as it turned out, I was at the top, which provoked an understandable resentment from my fellows. A jealous emotion seized them and demanded an outlet—which manifested itself as contumely towards me. Henceforth when I was struck or had a sign or object pinned to my clothes I would eve
n smile to myself—for what was this but flattery? There is a trite expression, “Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.” No, not at all; it is not the sincerest. That would be mocking contempt and physical battery—a lesson I learned, rather painfully, over a number of years.

  The next morning at Churchill Frederica could be seen before the fire in the main hall seemingly enthralled by the volume of Cowper’s* poetry that she had borrowed the evening before. But was she really so enthralled by it? Was not Frederica the sort of shy girl who always carried a book so that she might hide in its pages to avoid any social encounter she feared might be awkward, which was almost all of them? (An unsociable tactic her mother found intolerable.)

  That morning as she read, Frederica occasionally looked up and stared into the fire as if she truly comprehended Cowper’s verse and was reflecting upon it—when, in fact, she could have been thinking about anything or nothing at all. As I find both poetry and verse largely incomprehensible—except, of course, for the works of the great Pope**—it is difficult for me to imagine or describe what others see in them. But perhaps Frederica was sincere; she did discuss Cowper’s verse, suggesting it meant something to her—as Reginald did also. This was perhaps a first indication that they might be suited one to another, though Reginald then considered her dull and plain. In any case it is perhaps not in man’s nature to judge women at their true worth.

  Lady Susan arose with her indisposition of the previous evening happily past. At Reginald’s entreaty she joined him to walk in the Churchill gardens.

  “This man, Sir James Martin,” he asked, “do you know him well?”

  “To a certain extent.”

  “Why, might I ask, is he here?”

  “I believe Sir James explained that himself: He knew no one in the vicinity and wanted to avoid staying at the inn, which I can well understand.”

  “He is utterly ridiculous.”

  “Certainly, he’s no Solomon, but—”