Love & Friendship

by Whit Stillman

  “Solomon?”

  “The wise king from the Bible; I know he’s not that. But any man, navigating the cascades of romantic courtship, and occasionally falling into those foaming waters, is not apt to appear at his best.”

  “What?”

  “A simple word, Reginald: ‘Comprehension.’ I admire your cast of mind, but you might not be entirely sensible of the degree to which you intimidate others—particularly a young man over whom you have every advantage of position, looks, and character.”

  I had assumed this also; it is very easy for one to get into a situation in which one is seen in an unfavourable light. My former wife considered me boring while I thought her unkind. The question I would ask is whether her ill-opinion of me preceded or followed her conduct—was it provoking or justifying? Those who fall from virtue first cause injury, then cast blame.

  To Lady Susan’s explanation Reginald responded:

  “Sir James Martin is a fool because of me?”

  “Yes. Around you he seems very silly.”

  “He isn’t silly around everyone?”

  “No,” she said.

  “I believe he’s given everyone the same impression.”

  “They have only seen him around you.”

  “But you deny Sir James’ intentions towards you?”

  “Towards me?”

  “He’s clearly besotted with you.”

  Susan laughed as if surprised and flattered:

  “No, it’s with Frederica he’s smitten.”

  “That’s not possible.”

  “Well, he has proposed to her.”

  “How could such a blockhead even be allowed to court your daughter? It’s incomprehensible.”

  “This is the ‘incomprehension’ of the rich and easeful! You can afford to take the high ground and add another layer to your pride. If you realized the full extent of ridiculous manhood a young girl without fortune must humour you would be more generous to Sir James.”

  Happy news came for Lady Susan later that week: Mrs. Alicia Johnson, her American friend, sent word that her coach would be stopping at Hurst & Wilford to change horses, allowing time for a brief visit and exchange of confidences. Lady Susan found her friend in distress.

  “Mr. Johnson is relentless,” Alicia said. “I will not be sent back to Connecticut!”

  “I don’t see why he believes that association with me would lower your reputation. But, a question: When you saw Sir James did he mention any plans to come to Churchill?”

  “Heavens no! What folly! How did Mr. DeCourcy react?”

  “I must say, I had some gratification there. At first Reginald observed Sir James with an attention not untinged with jealousy. But it was impossible to really torture him—for I had to finally reveal that his object was Frederica. Then he was all astonishment! Left to ourselves I had no great difficulty in convincing him I was justified—I don’t remember the exact reasoning but it was all comfortably arranged.” I will shortly comment on this account of their conversation, which I consider essentially false.

  “Young DeCourcy is not stupid—and has a great deal to say,” Lady Susan is represented as having said. “But I can’t help but look with a certain contempt on the fancies of the heart so doubting the reasonableness of its emotions. I vastly prefer the generous spirit of a Manwaring, who, deeply convinced of one’s merit, is satisfied that whatever one does is right.”

  “I know that no one really deserves you, my dear, but young DeCourcy might be worth having.”

  This account I am certain neither presents the friends’ conversation accurately, nor reflects Lady Susan’s true perspective. The principal source was the spinster authoress’ account, which she has, as usual, bent in their disfavour. “Dreadful nonsense!” Mrs. Johnson pronounced when I asked about it in later years. The portrayal of my aunt and her friend as cynical, self-interested women, grasping after fortunes, is a cruel travesty; it can quite easily be exposed as false, which I will shortly do.

  The same afternoon that Lady Susan met Mrs. Johnson an interesting discussion took place at Churchill which malicious parties would later distort to viciously despisefy my uncle.

  Frederica, Reginald, and Charles Vernon were reading in the Gold Room, each in a comfortable chair, when Matthew, the footman, brought in the recently arrived number of The Gentleman’s Magazine. Sir James, entering shortly after, saw the magazine and picked it up.

  “You enjoy The Gentleman’s Magazine, Sir James?” Charles inquired affably.

  “No, not really,” Sir James replied, “but until they come out with The Baronet’s Quarterly it will have to do.”

  Charles appreciated his jest. There was, of course, no Baronet’s Quarterly; it was just an excellent joke on my uncle’s part—his being a “baronet,” not merely a “gentleman” such as Mr. Vernon, but there was no element of social presumption or snobbery in his remark, that being entirely foreign to his nature.

  Sir James smiled and strolled in a casual manner towards the part of the room where Frederica sat reading. He swivelled towards her, then addressed her with his usual precise courtesy:

  “Excuse me, Frederica,” he said. “When I came down this morning I couldn’t help but notice that you were reading a ‘book.’ Which ‘book’ was that?”

  Frederica showed the book which she had been reading.

  “This volume of Cowper’s* verse.”

  “Cowper, the poet? He also writes verse? Most impressive.”

  “Yes,” Reginald interjected, “he’s versatile that way.” (Verse-versatile was Reginald’s version of a pun; the DeCourcys had little facility for wordplay.)

  Sir James took a seat near Frederica.

  “So, Frederica, you read both poetry and verse? In this I believe you take after your mother, who knows a great many things. Just yesterday she cited to me a story from the Bible about a very wise king. This reminded me of many such accounts one learns in childhood. Perhaps most significant in forming one’s principles is that of the old prophet* who came down from the mount with tablets bearing the Twelve Commandments—which our Lord has taught us to obey without fail.”

  “The Twelve Commandments?” Reginald asked.

  Sir James nodded affably in the affirmative.

  “Excuse me,” Charles interrupted in an apologetic tone, “I believe there were only Ten.”

  “Oh, really?” Sir James said. “Only Ten must be obeyed? Well, then… Which two to take off? Perhaps the one about the Sabbath,” he said with a smile. “I prefer to hunt.”

  “Well…” Charles demurred.

  “After that,” Sir James continued, “it gets hard. Many of the ‘Shalt nots’—don’t murder, don’t covet thy neighbour’s house, or wife, one wouldn’t do anyway, because They Are Wrong, whether the Lord allows us to take them off or not.”

  Sir James looked to Frederica to gauge her support; to see how favourably his observations had struck her. Her true sentiments, however, were difficult to detect.

  Sir James’ “Twelve Commandments” discourse was obviously prank, quite good of its kind—but the humourless DeCourcys refused to let it be treated as such. Here they saw another opportunity to ridicule and injure my uncle and, through him, Lady Susan. Charles Vernon, however, was happy to admit that he found Sir James’ talk amusing (the term used was “droll,” derived from the French). He was chuckling when he remarked to Catherine, “I have to say, I enjoy Sir James’ humour. Quite ingenious.”

  In any case the researches of Biblical scholars have since suggested that “twelve” could be closer to the mark when enumerating the commandments. Some have in fact identified fifteen commandments in the relevant text (Exodus 20:1–17), which would place Sir James’ version closer to the correct one. This often happens: The individual who identifies a truth earlier than others is then bitterly mocked by those attached to erroneous convention.

  To well understand my uncle a recourse to the wisdom of past eras is helpful. Physicians of earlier times saw man’s nature in
terms of the four “humours.” While the “humours” are no longer part of medical orthodoxy, they still usefully describe behaviours and perspectives. The humours associated with “black bile” and “yellow bile”*—in the former case representing low or depressed spirits (melancholia), in the latter, an angry (choleric) disposition—would well characterise the DeCourcys and their spinster amanuensis. Angry individuals of a dark disposition find a peculiar soulagement* in attacking, deprecating, and ridiculing others, especially those of sanguine disposition such as my uncle. His happy disposition seemed to enrage them particularly.

  A shameful prejudice against those with cheerful or generous sentiments has long marked our society—an assumption that those of a sunny outlook lack the understanding, intelligence, and gravity of those spilling bile. What a false and corrosive belief! In a similar way these yellow and black bile-fulls exaggerate into unpardonable “outrages” the small errors and missteps into which those of us engaged in the business of the world are occasionally led, despite our best efforts and entire goodwill. The unfairness and hypocrisy of this can make one extremely angry.

  Most relevant is the conundrum posed by the ancients—I believe it was Demosthenes—who spoke of the “goblet” filled with liquid up to its midpoint: Is such a goblet “half full” or “half empty”? In answering this, those of a DeCourcy disposition would see emptiness and complain, “Why is this goblet not full?” Or even, “We have been cheated! The goblet is empty. Who has taken the rest?” I can almost hear their voices. They would see only the deficiency and protest it, bitterly and arrogantly.

  My uncle’s perspective was entirely otherwise. He would appreciate the smaller portion as appropriate, practical, even elegant. A goblet filled to its edge might well spill, causing harm, staining clothing or furnishings, as well as waste; at the minimum it would require careful sipping and could not be easily handed to a friend for sharing. A so-called “half-filled” goblet can, on the other hand, be moved about freely without spilling; it can be taken on a walk or journey. In fact, even the half that is seen as “empty” is not truly so; it is filled to the brim with healthful, life-giving “air.” If one were trapped in an airless vault the “empty” half of the goblet could prove the difference between life and death. So, the goblet which others (the DeCourcys) would despisefy for its vacuity, Sir James would see and appreciate for its many, more significant advantages. His idealism was so pure, so elevated, as to be entirely beyond the comprehension of low and choleric souls such as the DeCourcys and their cynical scribe. In fact it eluded nearly everyone.

  Sir James Martin Aids a Widow

  Sir James’ great hope was that Frederica would shortly become his bride, in which case Lady Susan would gain a new role—that of mother-in-law. (The recollection that at Langford it was the mother with whom he was first smitten seemed to have been put aside. Or had it?)

  Sir James tried to think of the confidential steps that might be taken to relieve the narrowness of the admirable lady’s finances. He decided to do so in the form of a loan for which repayment would not be needed or expected and, as it turned out, this was precisely the sort of financial arrangement Susan favoured also. Sir James, not wanting to intrude on her privacy, politely stood outside the partly open door to her rooms when discussing the loan’s final details.

  “It’s so kind of you,” Lady Susan said. (I can imagine her lovely voice—its sweet, rich tone—having become well acquainted with it in my childhood.*)

  “No, delighted… Honoured. My pleasure.”

  “Would you like me to sign a note?”

  “No, no documents. No ‘note’ necessary. All in the family… or hoping to be soon.”

  “And the carriage?”

  “Oh, yes, the carriage. Definitely. Certainly. My pleasure. Honoured.”

  That evening the Vernons held a dance in Churchill’s great hall, with a band of five musicians brought in for the evening. The young curate from the Churchill parish and various neighbours attended, forming a not large but animated and congenial group. The high point, everyone thought, was the small orchestra’s rousing rendition of the “Sir Roger de Coverly.” Reginald was initially paired with Lady Susan and Frederica with Sir James. My uncle was in particularly high spirits that evening, greatly enjoying himself. Unfortunately, one person’s high spirits can depress another’s low spirits still further; that is what seems to have happened to Frederica. Even if one were to contend, as I would, that her aversion to Sir James’ courtship was ill-founded and quite unfair, it was nevertheless passionately felt. After the dance Frederica was in even greater despair. That night she hardly slept.

  The next day began a series of events and encounters which transformed the relations of all involved. Reginald DeCourcy, returning from his morning ride with Charles Vernon, was surprised to find Frederica already up, sitting by the fire in the great hall with her head buried in a volume (though, in fact, she was entirely aware of Reginald’s arrival and had been lying in wait* for him).

  “Oh, hullo. Good day,” Reginald said, more affably than usual; pity for Frederica had come to outweigh the contempt.

  “Would you know where I might find your mother?”

  “I believe she’s gone out.”

  “Gone out?”

  Frederica did not reply. (The basis for this account are conversations I had with her many years later; from a personal knowledge of the other principals, as well as of Churchill Castle, I have added additional details of interest to the reader.)

  Reginald, concerned at her apparent distress, came nearer while remaining standing. (Frederica’s recollections could have been softened by being seen through the gauze of a retrospective romantic haze.)

  “Are you all right?”

  Frederica first nodded, then froze as if in fear or suffering from a debilitating stroke,** which would have been highly unusual at such a young age.

  “What is it?”

  Frederica could not reply.

  “Tell me: What’s wrong?”

  Frederica looked too upset to speak, fearing that if she did venture a word she might burst into tears. Instead she said nothing, looking down at an indefinite spot on the floor.

  “Please say,” Reginald persisted.

  “Sir, I… I do not know to whom I can apply.”

  “What is it? Please tell me.”

  “I am sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything! It’s that—that you’re the only one Mother might listen to.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “She pays no one such regard as she does you, except Lord Manwaring.”

  “What do you mean, Manwaring?”

  “No, I’m sorry!” Frederica said, panicking at her slip. “It’s just that, of all people, I thought Mother would listen most to you.”

  “Let me understand this: It is that you find Sir James’ presence and courtship of you unwelcome?” Reginald asked, finally sitting.

  Frederica nodded.

  “If his presence here disturbs you, it is to Charles or my sister to whom you should apply.”

  Frederica did not immediately reply.

  “I—I promised Mother I would not.”

  “I don’t understand. Why would you promise that?”

  Frederica, realizing she had gone too far, became flustered. In a small voice she confessed: “She required it.”

  “What did she require?”

  Frederica seemed again to freeze.

  “What?… These silences are vexing.”

  “Mother forbade it.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I promised not to speak to my aunt and uncle on this subject.”

  “For what possible reason?”

  “It’s wrong of me to speak now. If I were not at my wit’s end I would not have—I can’t marry Sir James!”

  “To what do you object?”

  Frederica was taken aback at the question; Reginald had seemed more critical of Sir James than anyone. I myself never understood Frederica�
��s firm opposition to my uncle’s suit. Perhaps there was an element of vanity: that she had not herself chosen the man being so emphatically proposed. A strong prejudice is so engendered against the suitor, whatever might be said in his favour. Nevertheless it remains painful for me to record how she answered Reginald that morning (which choice of words, I understand, she herself later greatly regretted):

  “You must have noticed—he’s very silly.”

  “But, besides that.”

  “Besides that?”

  “Yes. I confess, the first impression I had of him was also… indifferent. But don’t those knowledgeable of such matters consider Sir James a man of cheerful temperament, happy to devote a large income to a wife’s comfort? And, as such, a good ‘catch,’ or ‘match,’ or whatever it is they say…”

  The insufferable condescension and complacency of the DeCourcys! It rather outrages me. Of course, Reginald, heir to a substantial estate, firmly entailed, could afford to look down on such essential considerations. Not so easy for the rest of the world. Frederica, at least, was less presumptuous.

  “I’d rather work for my bread!”

  “But what could you do?”

  “I could teach. I could—”

  “Teach!” Reginald exclaimed. “You must have been very little in school to think that.” This repeated slighting of the teaching profession, as if its low status, poor pay, and miserable practitioners should make it the sport of the arrogant, though less true in our own day, must, upon further reflection, be conceded to be essentially true.

  “Tell me: How did this happen?” Reginald asked. “Your mother is a woman of excellent understanding, her concern for you great—though wise and clear-eyed. How could she be so mistaken as you suggest, if you truly despise Sir James?”

  “I don’t despise Sir James. I’m sure he is a kind man, and he has charm of a… sort. And certainly, he is likable, and I’m sure I could like him if he were a cousin, or a cousin’s cousin, or a friend, or a friend’s friend, or a connection, or step-something—I just don’t want to marry him.”

  “Come.” Reginald stood. “Tell me the particulars. If they are as you say I can’t for the world imagine that your mother would remain deaf to your wishes.”