Love & Friendship

by Whit Stillman

  Rather than sympathy for her brother, or pleasure at her own apparent “victory,” Catherine chose instead to pursue her strange vendetta.**

  “That woman’s a fiend!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Lady Susan. She has an uncanny understanding of men’s natures. By forcing the rupture herself she has engaged Reginald’s pride.”

  A look of confusion crossed Lady DeCourcy’s face.

  “Uncanny? I don’t understand…”

  “Reginald will start to doubt everything he has heard to her detriment; a guilty regret will overwhelm him. Slowly, surely, he will convince himself he has wronged her.”

  “You frighten me!”

  “You are right to be frightened: If Frederic Vernon, renowned for good sense, let Lady Susan ruin him—what chance has Reginald?”

  “You speak as if your brother were not wise; I am sure he is. Everyone comments on his lively intelligence.”

  “You are the best of mothers, but Reginald has just the sort of sincere nature most vulnerable to a woman of her genius—”

  “You think she’s a genius?”

  “Diabolically so, like the serpent* in Eden’s Garden.”

  “Does this woman always get her way?”

  “From what I understand only clever tradesmen are astute enough to see through her stratagems; several banded together to send their agents to intercept her on Seymour Street, obliging her to pawn the last of her jewels.”

  Shortly Reginald and his father joined them, Reginald most cast down while the old man’s spirits were correspondingly high.

  “Slay the fatted calf, my dear—the prodigal’s returned!” He looked to Reginald. “What’s wrong, my boy? The joy of seeing your aged parents eludes you?”

  Perhaps made uncomfortable by the menace of confrontation, the threat of sharp words between father and son, Lady DeCourcy had left the room—though, as it turned out, that was not the circumstance.

  “Don’t tease him, Father,” Catherine said.

  “Teasing our children is a father’s right!”

  “But you will have him fleeing back to London.”

  “No risk of that, I assure you,” Reginald said, finally breaking his silence. “London holds no charm for me.”

  “Oh, you’ve realized that,” his father said. “Good. Never appealed to me at all. Dirty, noisy—noxious gases, soot… I don’t see the point of towns. Far better to live on one’s own land. Everyone should.”

  “I’m afraid this relates to my sister-in-law,” Catherine said.

  “Yes, sister—congratulations on your entire vindication.”*

  “On the contrary, I don’t see you out of danger at all.”

  “‘Danger’? I assuredly am.”

  “What’s all this about?” Sir Reginald asked. “What’s happened? I don’t understand.”

  At this moment Lady DeCourcy re-entered with a sheaf of music and a blushing Frederica.

  “Reginald dear,” his mother said. “Frederica’s prepared a charming piece—help me persuade her to sing it for us.”

  “Oh, no!” Frederica said. “You’re too kind, Lady DeCourcy. I’m not ready—”

  “Excuse me, Miss Vernon, Mother,” Reginald said. “As much as I’d like to hear it, I am afraid I am too tired to be a suitable audience. So, if you’ll excuse me—”

  “No, you must stay!” Sir Reginald exclaimed. “Frederica’s a songbird—never heard anything like it… Don’t deny us this pleasure, my dear. Reginald, we need you to insist.”

  “Well, as I said, I—”

  “No, I’m sorry,” Frederica said, embarrassed. “Excuse me.”

  “You must let us hear you, my dear,” Lady DeCourcy insisted. “Please—”

  “The ‘Kentish Nightingale,’ I call her,” Sir Reginald added. “Voice’s remarkable, even to my hearing.”

  “She must have that from her mother’s side,” Reginald reflected with a slight, lovelorn tremolo. “Lady Susan’s voice is a clear, natural soprano. Lovely, beautiful…”

  “Oh, it is, is it?” his father responded.

  Hearing voices from the front of the house, Catherine asked, “Did you expect visitors, Mother?”

  “No… Who would visit us?”

  Footsteps could now be heard in the hall, followed by Charles Vernon’s arrival, a cordial smile on his cheerful face.

  “Look who’s come from London,” he said, extending his arm in a welcoming gesture. “What an agreeable surprise!”

  A beautiful woman in traveling clothes appeared and stood still for a moment at the edge of the grand room; the DeCourcys, who had all turned towards her, stood as if frozen in place.

  “What a delightful family pose!” Lady Susan happily exclaimed.

  “Yes, it is the season for families to unite, so it is especially welcome to have you here.”

  “Thank you, Charles!” Susan said, and then turning to Sir Reginald and Lady DeCourcy continued: “I do hope that, recognizing a mother’s anxiety to see her child, you might excuse the abruptness of my arrival.”

  “Nothing to excuse,” Charles insisted. “Sir Reginald, Lady DeCourcy—might I introduce my sister-in-law, Lady Susan Vernon…”

  “Enchantée,” Lady Susan said. “Please forgive this intrusion, but now that I am fixed in town I cannot rest with Frederica away.”

  “Isn’t such anxiety new?” Catherine asked.

  Susan, ever cheerful, replied: “Yes, it is—I entirely agree, dear sister. But now I am in London where the instruction Frederica needs can so readily be found. Her voice has some promise—”

  “Some?” Sir Reginald said. “She is a veritable songbird. The ‘Kentish Nightingale,’ I call her.”

  “Do you? Is this really Kent?” Susan glanced quickly towards the window. “Delightful,” she pronounced. Then, speaking slowly and raising her voice to accommodate the old man’s hearing, she continued: “You are right, Sir—Frederica has the native talent a bird might… But those few notes can get repetitive.”

  “But, Mother,” Frederica asked, “couldn’t I stay?”

  Lady Susan smiled. “‘But, Mother, couldn’t I stay?’ Charming.” Then, turning to Catherine, she added: “I thank you, dear sister, for making Frederica feel so at home and welcome…”—with a nod to the DeCourcys—“… wherever she goes.”

  To Frederica she added: “I’ve secured you a lesson with Signore Veltroni. Where the ‘Grand Affair of Education’ is concerned, there’s no excuse for half-measures!”

  Speaking loudly again to Sir Reginald, she asked: “Isn’t it key, Sir, to cultivate her voice? A ‘nightingale,’ didn’t you say?”

  Sir Reginald, a little befuddled and intimidated by this apparition, conceded: “Yes, that’s right. The ‘Kentish Nightingale,’ I call her.”

  “A delightful appellation, Sir,” Susan agreed. “And perhaps, with a teacher such as Signore Veltroni, it could even become true… Frederica, have you your things?”

  “Leave for London now?” Lady DeCourcy protested. “We had so looked forward to having Frederica with us.”

  “How remarkable,” Lady Susan observed. “Only a few weeks ago it was hard to find anywhere for Frederica, and now the World fights for her company! Astonishing.”

  “Astonishing that she was neglected then, or is fought over now?” Catherine asked.

  “An excellent observation, dear sister—but I will stop now, because I know my daughter hates to be praised.” She then politely greeted Reginald: “How are you, Sir? I hope well.” Then, turning to Frederica, added: “We should go, my dear.”

  “Excuse me, Mother, I must collect my things.”

  “Yes, you must! We can’t buy a new wardrobe for each displacement…” Susan left with Frederica to help pack her things. The others, stunned, watched them go.

  “The poor girl,” Lady DeCourcy said. “Did you see her face?”

  Catherine said: “I must talk to her and remind her that she will always have a home with us.”
r />   “Or with us,” her mother said, looking to Sir Reginald.

  “If you are referring to the past,” Charles said, “I doubt her mother will again risk misinterpretation. Henceforth we can rest assured that Lady Susan will make clear to Frederica the consideration and affection which guide her actions.”

  Returned to London, Lady Susan immediately visited Alicia. The friends’ only concession to Mr. Johnson’s prohibition was to avoid the house itself and instead stroll the sculpted paths of the Johnsons’ garden where their conversation might also be far from servant ears.

  “Miss Maria Manwaring is just come to town to be with her aunt, armed with a new wardrobe,” Alicia warned, “vowing she will have Sir James before she leaves London again.”

  “We shall see! I have not been idle, my dear—nor gone to the trouble of retrieving Frederica from Parklands to again be thwarted. Let Miss Maria Manwaring tremble for the consequences! She may sob, Frederica whimper, and the Vernons storm—but Sir James will be Frederica’s husband before the winter’s out!”

  “You brilliant creature!”

  “Thank you, my dear. I am done submitting my will to the caprices of others; resigning my own judgement in deference to those to whom I owe no duty and feel little respect. Too easily have I let my resolve weaken: Frederica shall now know the difference!”

  “You’re too indulgent with the girl—why let Frederica have him, when you could grab him yourself?”

  “Sir James?”

  “Yes. I know your unselfish nature—but can you afford to bestow Sir James on Frederica while having no Sir James of your own?”

  An initial look of surprise crossed Lady Susan’s face, then a dark look.

  “Are you insulting me?”

  “Just the opposite, my dear: I don’t doubt your ability to get DeCourcy whenever you want him, but is he really worth having? Isn’t his father just the sort of enraging old buzzard who will live forever? How would you live? On the allowance that Frederica, as ‘Lady Martin,’ might grant you? As a guest at Churchill? I would rather be married to my own husband than dependent on the hospitality of others.”

  For a long spell they walked in silence. Susan once started to speak, then stopped. Alicia looked to her.

  “You make a point,” Susan finally conceded.

  In my view, this entire episode is ludicrously implausible. My aunt, as I knew her, was wholly free of material concerns.

  As the reader has perhaps noticed, great care has been taken with the punctuation used in this account. For me, as regards literature, punctuation is what separates true greatness from the merely good—and certainly from the false. I would commend the reader to glance (no more) at the spinster’s mendacious account included as an appendix to this volume; even a cursory look will show the gross carelessness of her attention to punctuation. Can someone so careless of the rules of punctuation—known to everyone and most apparent in the breach—be counted upon to strictly adhere to truth in the absence of such direct surveillance? I think not.

  Generally speaking, the more punctuation, correctly used, the better and more precisely truthful is the literary production, in my opinion. A sentence without a mark of punctuation every ten to twelve words, or so, even if just a comma, should be considered suspect, or highly dubious; most important, though, is the correct use of the semi-colon.

  When I was at Westminster School, where I had followed in my uncle’s footsteps (though Sir James was rusticated from Westminster in his fifth-form year, the only student to be “sent up” rather than “sent down” from the school, he bore it no grudge, which was characteristic of his sanguine and forgiving temperament), a favourite master, Mr. Grove, liked to say that if we learned to master the semi-colon we could expect to be successful in whatever path we chose in life. One might easily accept this as true as to the Church or the Law, where language and correct punctuation are crucial, but Mr. Grove argued with considerable vehemence that proper use of the semi-colon would lead to great success in any endeavour, including business. We were surprised by his insistence and, when not in his presence, mocked him for it.

  Yet over the intervening years I have learned that what we are taught by our elders, no matter how seemingly improbable or ridiculous, is nearly always true. From the very start of our firm we found that well-punctuated business letters, including semi-colons properly used, inspired confidence in both customers and creditors; it would be hard to imagine the Barings bank confiding us with such large loans had it been otherwise. As Mr. Grove had predicted, success came quickly. Our company, Martin-Colonna & Smith, soon achieved and for a considerable time maintained a leading position in the rare and precious woods trade prior to the sudden and unexpected collapse of the mahogany market, which no one could have foreseen.

  I should also touch on the very interesting (to me at least) subject of articles of speech. As Mrs. Johnson, a sparkling conversationalist despite her American origins, once asked me, “Mr. Martin-Colonna, which article of speech would you say you prefer?” I had no hesitation in answering her: “Without a doubt, the definite one.” I value precision and clarity, in articles of speech as well as in punctuation; the definite article ensures both. With our Empire’s vast expansion across the globe as well as our involvement in world trade, we now must communicate with many peoples less fluent in our language, sometimes not fluent at all. The indefinite article risks misinterpretation. Whether we are trading in Burma, Jamaica, India, Trinidad, or America, the definite article is clearer and apt to be better understood. Relying on indefinite articles when speaking with the natives of foreign and exotic lands can be dangerous, leading to misinterpretations of authority and command. “The” is rarely misunderstood.

  This concern with precision has often led me to pronounce punctuation in speech to achieve the greatest possible clarity. I strive to mention the form of a pause, or stop, or appositive clause, whichever is desired. Enunciating punctuation involves quite a lot more effort, but whatever helps comprehension will, I believe, ultimately be rewarded. I approve the pains Sir Reginald took in pronouncing the punctuation when he read Catherine’s letter to Lady DeCourcy, though her failure to appreciate it was typical of that family.

  However, I fear this effort to be precise through spoken punctuation greatly hurt my case at the trial. I had thought that achieving full clarity would have been appreciated and valued by the court and judicial authorities. Not at all. I was gravely mistaken.

  “Now, now—that’s enough of that!” Judge Wilkinson exclaimed in the midst of my testimony, cutting me off with shocking rudeness. I found this comment so outlandish, coming from the bewigged, black-robed jurist, I could not at first comprehend his words.

  “Excuse me, your honour, what is ‘enough of’ what?” The testimony was transcribed by a court reporter and I now have it before me: “Now, now—that’s enough of that!” Not an elegant or learned formulation, nor the proper way to address a gentleman in court, as if he were a governess addressing a dim or unruly child.

  I cannot regret my attempt to achieve clarity, even if unorthodox, though I am afraid that my honest attempt to improve court practice was held against me at the time of sentencing, which Mr. Knox, the barrister, considered especially harsh. I asked if he thought my attempt at precision, specifying the punctuation in my testimony, was unwise, but he was reluctant to reply. When I pressed him he finally said, “Perhaps unwise—though admirable, brave, astute—but we seem to have run up against a clear prejudice: that punctuation should be seen but not heard. You are an idealist, Sir!”

  I was gratified that Mr. Knox, for whom I have considerable respect, appreciated my intention even if it did not meet with success and has made my stay in this sinister place longer than it might have been otherwise.

  Parklands to London

  Weeks later, at Parklands, Catherine Vernon put aside a letter she had been studying.

  “I despair at learning anything from these letters,” she told her mother. “They look to have been w
ritten under maternal supervision.”

  “Poor Frederica. Poor, dear Frederica!”

  “We must get her back to Churchill.”

  “Or Parklands—your father adores his ‘Kentish Nightingale.’”

  “To think that, at any moment, she might be brow-beaten into marrying that Martin! We must protect her: not just for her own sake but for her dear, late father’s.”

  “But what can we do?”

  “We must find the argument that will persuade her mother that it is in her own interest, which is of course her only guide. That will mean going to London; fortunately Charles must have some business or other there to justify such a trip.”

  “What a marvellous husband you have, my dear; Charles seems to live to oblige.”

  “It is true, I have been lucky—Charles always seems to have some pretext or other for doing just what’s wanted.”

  Charles Vernon could then be heard approaching from the hallway. Reaching the DeCourcy mother and daughter, he stopped, his smile tinged with a slight look of apprehension.

  “Dearest,” Catherine began, “I believe you have pressing business in London.”

  “Oh, yes,” Charles said with a smile, and it was true that he usually had business there of some kind or other.

  At Upper Seymour Street Lady Susan received the Vernons warmly, herself leading them up the stairs towards the drawing room.

  “You’re so kind to visit!” she said. “Frederica will be delighted. How are the children—especially my dear Frederic?”

  “Very well, thank you,” Catherine said.

  Susan called up the stairs, “Frederica, come see who’s here!” To the Vernons, she continued: “I cannot express my gratitude for the hospitality you’ve extended us.”

  “Not at all,” Charles replied. “Our great pleasure.”

  “Frederica?”

  Frederica appeared at the top of the stairs and slowly descended, seeming to have reverted to her former timid state.

  “Hello, Frederica,” Catherine greeted her with a warm smile.