“This is not the way in which you used to meet me, after an absence ever so short.” He replied, that he was really very glad to see her, but that she, on the contrary, seemed sorry to see him.
“Because you are quite altered now,” continued she, in a querulous tone. “I always prophesied, that you would cease to love me.”
“Take care, my dear,” said he, smiling; “some prophecies are the cause of their own accomplishment, — the sole cause. Come, my Griselda,” continued he, in a serious tone, “do not let us begin to quarrel the moment we meet.” He offered to embrace her, but she drew back haughtily. “What! do you confess that you no longer love me?” cried she.
“Far from it: but it is in your own power,” said he, hesitating, “to diminish or increase my love.”
“Then it is no love, if it can be either increased or diminished,” cried she; “it is no love worth having. I remember the day when you swore to me, that your affection could not be increased or diminished.”
“I was in love in those days, my dear, and did not know what I swore,” said Mr. Bolingbroke, endeavouring to turn the conversation: “never reproach a man, when he is sober, with what he said when he was drunk.”
“Then you are sober now, are you?” cried she angrily.
“It is to be hoped I am,” said he, laughing.
“Cruel, barbarous man!” cried she.
“For being sober?” said he: “have not you been doing all you could to sober me these eighteen months, my dear? and now do not be angry if you have in some degree succeeded.”
“Succeeded! — Oh, wretched woman! this is thy lot!” exclaimed Griselda, clasping her hands in an agony of passion. “Oh, that my whole unfortunate sex could see me, — could hear you at this instant! Never, never did the love of man endure one twelvemonth after marriage. False, treacherous, callous, perjured tyrant! leave me! leave me!”
He obeyed; she called him back, with a voice half suffocated with rage, but he returned not.
Never was departing love recalled by the voice of reproach. It is not, as the poet fables, at the sight of human ties, that Cupid is frightened, for he is blind; but he has the most delicate ears imaginable: scared at the sound of female objurgation, Love claps his wings and urges his irrevocable flight.
Griselda remained for some time in her apartment to indulge her ill-humour; she had leisure for this indulgence; she was not now, as formerly, disturbed by the fond interruptions of a husband. Longer had her angry fit lasted, but for a circumstance, which may to many of our readers appear unnatural: our heroine became hungry. The passions are more under the control of the hours of meals than any one, who has not observed human life out of novels, can easily believe. Dinner-time came, and Mrs. Bolingbroke appeared at dinner as usual. In the presence of Mr. and Mrs. Granby pride compelled Griselda to command herself, and no one could guess what had passed between her and her husband: but no sooner was she again tête-à-tête with him, than her reproaches recommenced with fresh violence.—”Will you only do me the justice to tell me, Mr. Bolingbroke,” cried she, “what reason you have to love me less?”
[Footnote 1: De Retz’ Memoirs.]
“Reason, my dear,” said he; “you know love is independent of reason, according to your own definition: love is involuntary, you cannot therefore blame me for its caprices.”
“Insulting casuistry!” said she, weeping; “sophistical nonsense! Have you any rational complaint to make against me, Bolingbroke?”
“I make no complaints, rational or irrational, my dear; they are all on your side.”
“And well they may be,” cried Griselda, “when you treat me in such a barbarous manner: but I do not complain; the world shall be my judge; the world will do me justice, if you will not. I appeal to every body who knows me, have I ever given you the slightest cause for ill-usage? Can you accuse me of any extravagance, of any imprudence, sir?”
“I accuse you of neither, Mrs. Bolingbroke.”
“No, because you cannot, sir; my character, my fidelity is unimpeached, unimpeachable: the world will do me justice.”
Griselda contrived to make even her virtues causes of torment. Upon the strength of this unimpeachable fidelity, she thought she might be as ill-humoured as she pleased; she seemed now to think that she had acquired an indefeasible right to reproach her husband, since she had extorted from him the confession that he loved her less, and that he had no crime to lay to her charge. Ten days passed on in this manner; the lady becoming every hour more irritable, the gentleman every hour more indifferent.
To have revived or killed affection secundem artem, the fair practitioner should now have thrown in a little jealousy: but, unluckily, she was so situated that this was impossible. No object any way fit for the purpose was at hand; nothing was to be found within ten miles of her but honest country squires; and,
”With all the powers of nature and of art,
She could not break one stubborn country heart.”
CHAPTER XV.
”To whom the virgin majesty of Eve,
As one who loves and some unkindness meets,
With sweet austere composure thus replies.”
Many privileges are, and ought to be, allowed to the virgin majesty of the sex; and even when the modern fair one does not reply with all the sweet austere composure of Eve, her anger may have charms for a lover. There is a certain susceptibility of temper, that sometimes accompanies the pride of virtue, which indicates a quick sense of shame, and warm feelings of affection; in whatsoever manner this may be shown, it appears amiable and graceful. And if this sensibility degenerate into irritability, a lover pardons it in his mistress; it is her prerogative to be haughty; and if he be dexterous to seize “the moment of returning love,” it is often his interest to promote quarrels, for the sake of the pleasures of reconciliation. The jealous doubts, the alternate hopes and fears, attendant on the passion of love, are dear to the lover whilst his passion lasts; but when that subsides — as subside it must — his taste for altercation ceases. The proverb which favours the quarrels of lovers may prove fatal to the happiness of husbands; and woe be to the wife who puts her faith in it! There are, however, people who would extend that dangerous maxim even to the commerce of friendship; and it must be allowed (for morality, neither in small matters nor great, can gain any thing by suppressing the truth), it must be allowed that in the commencement of an intimacy the quarrels of friends may tend to increase their mutual regard, by affording to one or both of them opportunities of displaying qualities superior even to good humour; such as truth, fidelity, honour, or generosity. But whatever may be the sum total of their merit, when upon long acquaintance it comes to be fully known and justly appreciated, the most splendid virtues or talents can seldom compensate in domestic life for the want of temper. The fallacy of a maxim, like the absurdity of an argument, is sometimes best proved by pushing it as far as it can go, by observing all its consequences. Our heroine, in the present instance, illustrates this truth to admiration: her life and her husband’s had now become a perpetual scene of disputes and reproaches; every day the quarrels grew more bitter, and the reconciliations less sweet.
One morning, Griselda and her husband were present whilst Emma was busy showing some poor children how to plait straw for hats.
“Next summer, my dear, when we are settled at home, I hope you will encourage some manufacture of this kind amongst the children of our tenants,” said Mr. Bolingbroke to his lady.
“I have no genius for teaching manufactures of this sort,” replied
Mrs. Bolingbroke, scornfully.
Her husband urged the matter no farther. A few minutes afterwards, he drew out a straw from a bundle, which one of the children held.
“This is a fine straw!” said he, carelessly.
“Fine straw!” cried Mrs. Bolingbroke: “no — that is very coarse. This,” continued she, pulling one from another bundle; “this is a fine straw, if you please.”
“I think mine is the finest,�
�� said Mr. Bolingbroke.
“Then you must be blind, Mr. Bolingbroke,” cried the lady, eagerly comparing them.
“Well, my dear,” said he, laughing, “we will not dispute about straws.”
“No, indeed,” said she; “but I observe whenever you know you are in the wrong, Mr. Bolingbroke, you say, we will not dispute, my dear: now pray look at these straws, Mrs. Granby, you that have eyes — which is the finest?”
“I will draw lots,” said Emma, taking one playfully from Mrs. Bolingbroke; “for it seems to me, that there is little or no difference between them.”
“No difference? Oh, my dear Emma!” said Mrs. Bolingbroke.
“My dear Griselda,” cried her husband, taking the other straw from her and blowing it away; “indeed it is not worth disputing about: this is too childish.”
“Childish!” repeated she, looking after the straw, as it floated down the wind; “I see nothing childish in being in the right: your raising your voice in that manner never convinces me. Jupiter is always in the wrong, you know, when he has recourse to his thunder.”
“Thunder, my dear Griselda, about a straw! Well, when women are determined to dispute, it is wonderful how ingenious they are in finding subjects. I give you joy, my dear, of having attained the perfection of the art: you can now literally dispute about straws.”
Emma insisted at this instant upon having an opinion about the shape of a hat, which she had just tied under the chin of a rosy little girl of six years old; upon whose smiling countenance she fixed the attention of the angry lady.
All might now have been well; but Griselda had a pernicious habit of recurring to any slight words of blame which had been used by her friends. Her husband had congratulated her upon having attained the perfection of the art of disputing, since she could cavil about straws. This reproach rankled in her mind. There are certain diseased states of the body, in which the slightest wound festers, and becomes incurable. It is the same with the mind; and our heroine’s was in this dangerous predicament.
CHAPTER XVI.
”Que suis je? — qu’ai je fait? Que dois-je faire encore?
Quel transport me saisit? Quel chagrin me dévore?”
Some hours after the quarrel about the straws, when her husband had entirely forgotten it, and was sitting very quietly in his own apartment writing a letter, Griselda entered the room with a countenance prepared for great exploits.
“Mr. Bolingbroke,” she began in an awful tone of voice, “if you are at leisure to attend to me, I wish to speak to you upon a subject of some importance.”
“I am quite at leisure, my dear; pray sit down: what is the matter? you really alarm me!”
“It is not my intention to alarm you, Mr. Bolingbroke,” continued she in a still more solemn tone; “the time is past when what I have to say could have alarmed: I am persuaded that you will now hear it without emotion, or with an emotion of pleasure.”
She paused; he laid down his pen, and looked all expectation.
“I am come to announce to you a fixed, unalterable resolution — To part from you, Mr. Bolingbroke.”
“Are you serious, my dear?”
“Perfectly serious, sir.”
These words did not produce the revolution in her husband’s countenance which Griselda had expected. She trembled with a mixed indescribable emotion of grief and rage when she heard him calmly reply, “Let us part, then, Griselda, if that be your wish; but let me be sure that it is your wish: I must have it repeated from your lips when you are perfectly calm.”
With a voice inarticulate from passion, Griselda began to assure him that she was perfectly calm; but he stopped her, and mildly said, “Take four-and-twenty hours to consider of what you are about, Griselda; I will be here at this time to-morrow to learn your final determination.”
Mr. Bolingbroke left the room.
Mrs. Bolingbroke was incapable of thinking: she could only feel. Conflicting passions assailed her heart. All the woman rushed upon her soul; she loved her husband more at this instant than she had ever loved him before. His firmness excited at once her anger and her admiration. She could not believe that she had heard his words rightly. She sat down to recall minutely every circumstance of what had just passed, every word, every look; she finished by persuading herself, that his calmness was affected, that the best method she could possibly take was by a show of resistance to bully him out of his indifference. She little knew what she hazarded; when the danger of losing her husband’s love was imaginary, and solely of her own creating, it affected her in the most violent manner; but now that the peril was real and imminent, she was insensible to its existence.
A celebrated traveller in the Alps advises people to imagine themselves walking amidst precipices, when they are safe upon smooth ground; and he assures them that by this practice they may inure themselves so to the idea of danger, as to prevent all sense of it in the most perilous situations.
The four-and-twenty hours passed; and at the appointed moment our heroine and her husband met. As she entered the room, she observed that he held a book in his hand, but was not reading: he put it down, rose deliberately, and placed a chair for her, in silence.
“I thank you, I would rather stand,” said she: he put aside the chair, and walked to a door at the other end of the room, to examine whether there was any one in the adjoining apartment.
“It is not necessary that what we have to say should be overheard by servants,” said he.
“I have no objection to being overheard,” said Griselda: “I have nothing to say of which I am ashamed; and all the world must know it soon.”
As Mr. Bolingbroke returned towards her, she examined his countenance with an inquisitive eye. It was expressive of concern; grave, but calm.
Whoever has seen a balloon — the reader, however impatient, must listen to this allusion — whoever has seen a balloon, may have observed that in its flaccid state it can be folded and unfolded with the greatest ease, and it is manageable even by a child; but when once filled, the force of multitudes cannot restrain, nor the art of man direct its course. Such is the human mind — so tractable before, so ungovernable after it fills with passion. By slow degrees, unnoticed by our heroine, the balloon had been filling. It was full; but yet it was held down by strong cords: it remained with her to cut or not to cut them.
“Reflect before you speak, my dear Griselda,” said her husband; “consider that on the words which you are going to pronounce depend your fate and mine.”
“I have reflected sufficiently,” said she, “and decide, Mr.
Bolingbroke — to part.”
“Be it so!” cried he; fire flashed from his eyes; he grew red and pale in an instant. “Be it so,” repeated he, in an irrevocable voice—”We part for ever!”
He vanished before Griselda could speak or think. She was breathless; her limbs trembled; she could not support herself; she sunk she knew not where. She certainly loved her husband better than any thing upon earth, except power. When she came to her senses, and perceived that she was alone, she felt as if she was abandoned by all the world. The dreadful words “for ever,” still sounded in her ears. She was tempted to yield her humour to her affection. It was but a momentary struggle; the love of sway prevailed. When she came more fully to herself, she recurred to the belief that her husband could not be in earnest, or at least that he would never persist, if she had but the courage to dare him to the utmost.
CHAPTER XVII.
”L’ai-je vu se troubler, et me plaindre un moment?
En ai-je pu tirer un seul gémissement?”
Ashamed of her late weakness, our heroine rallied all her spirits, and resolved to meet her husband at supper with an undaunted countenance. Her provoking composure was admirably prepared: but it was thrown away, for Mr. Bolingbroke did not appear at supper. When Griselda retired to rest, she found a note from him on her dressing-table; she tore it open with a triumphant hand, certain that it came to offer terms of reconciliation.
&n
bsp; “You will appoint whatever friend you think proper to settle the terms of our separation. The time I desire to be as soon as possible. I have not mentioned what has passed to Mr. or Mrs. Granby; you will mention it to them or not, as you think fit. On this point, as on all others, you will henceforward follow your own discretion.
“T. BOLINGBROKE.”
“Twelve o’clock;
“Saturday, Aug. 10th.”
Mrs. Bolingbroke read and re-read this note, weighed every word, examined every letter, and at last exclaimed aloud, “He will not, cannot, part from me.”
“He cannot be in earnest,” thought she. “Either he is acting a part or he is in a passion. Perhaps he is instigated by Mr. Granby: no, that cannot be, because he says he has not mentioned it to Mr. or Mrs. Granby, and he always speaks the truth. If Emma had known it, she would have prevented him from writing such a harsh note, for she is such a good creature. I have a great mind to consult her; she is so indulgent, so soothing. But what does Mr. Bolingbroke say about her? He leaves me to my own discretion, to mention what has passed or not. That means, mention it, speak to Mrs. Granby, that she may advise you to submit. I will not say a word to her; I will out-general him yet. He cannot leave me when it comes to the trial.”
She sat down, and wrote instantly this answer to her husband’s note:
“I agree with you entirely, that the sooner we part the better. I shall write to-morrow to my friend Mrs. Nettleby, with whom I choose to reside. Mr. John Nettleby is the person I fix upon to settle the terms of our separation. In three days I shall have Mrs. Nettleby’s answer. This is Saturday: on Tuesday, then, we part — for ever.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 73