“Not at all,” said Emilie: “I feel more pleasure than pain at this moment; indeed my ankle does not hurt me now that I am quite still — the pleasant cold of the ether has relieved the pain. How kind you are to me, Lady Littleton, and how much I am obliged to you for judging so favourably of my character!”
“You are not obliged to me, my dear, for I do you only justice.”
“Justice is sometimes felt as the greatest possible obligation, especially by those who have experienced the reverse. — But,” said Emilie, checking herself, “let me not blame Mrs. Somers, or incline you to blame her. I should do very wrong, indeed, if I were, in return for all she has done for us, to cause any jealousies or quarrels between her and her best friend. Oh! that is what I most dread! To prevent it, I would — it is not polite to say so — but I would, my dear Lady Littleton, even withdraw myself from your society. This very day you return to your own house. You were so good as to ask me to go often to see you: forgive me if I do not avail myself of this kind permission. You will know my reasons; and I hope they are such as you will approve of.”
A servant came in, to say that her ladyship’s carriage was at the door.
“One word more before you go, my dear Lady Littleton,” said Emilie, with a supplicating voice and countenance. “Tell me, I beseech you — for you have been her friend from her childhood, and must know better than any one living — tell me how I can please Mrs. Somers. I begin to be afraid that I shall at last be weary of my fruitless efforts, and I dread — above all things I dread — that my affection for her should be worn out. How painful it would be to sustain the continual weight of obligation without being able to feel the pleasure of gratitude!”
Lady Littleton was going to reply, but she was prevented by the sudden entrance of Mrs. Somers with her face of wrath.
“So, Lady Littleton, you are actually going, I find! — And I have not had one moment of your conversation. May I be allowed — if Mlle. de Coulanges has finished her mysteries — to say a few words to you?”
“You will give me leave, I am sure, Emilie,” said Lady Littleton, “to repeat to Mrs. Somers every word that you have said to me?”
“Yes, every word,” said Emilie, blushing, yet speaking with firmness. “I have no mysteries — I do not wish to conceal from Mrs. Somers any thing that I say or think.”
Mrs. Somers seized Lady Littleton’s arm, and left the room; but when she had entire possession of her friend’s ear, she had nothing to say, or nothing that she would say, except half sentences, reproaching her for not staying longer, and insinuating that Emilie would be the cause of their separating for ever.—”Now, as you have her permission, will you favour me with a repetition of her last conversation?”
“Not in your present humour, my dear,” said Lady Littleton: “this is not the happy moment to speak reason to you. Adieu! I give you four-and-twenty hours’ grace before I declare you a bankrupt in temper. You shall hear from me to-morrow; for, on some subjects, I have always found it better to write than to speak to you.”
Mrs. Somers continued during the remainder of the day in a desperate state of ill-humour, which was increased by finding that Mlle. de Coulanges could neither stand nor walk. Mrs. Somers was persuaded that Emilie, if she would have exerted herself, could have done both, but that she preferred exciting the pity of the whole house; and this, all circumstances considered, was a proof of total want of generosity and gratitude. The next morning, however, she was alarmed by hearing from Mrs. Masham, whom she had sent to attend upon Mlle. de Coulanges, that her ankle was violently swelled and inflamed. — Just when the full tide of her affections was beginning to flow in Emilie’s favour, Mrs. Somers received the following letter from Lady Littleton: —
“Enclosed, I have sent you, as well as I can recollect it, every word of the conversation that passed yesterday between Mlle. de Coulanges and me. If I were less anxious for your happiness, and if I had not so high an opinion of the excellence of your disposition, I should wish, my dear friend, to spare both you and myself the pain of speaking and hearing the truth. But I know that I have preserved your affection many years beyond the usual limits of female friendship, by daring to speak to you with perfect sincerity, and by trusting to the justice of your better self. Perhaps you would rather have a compliment to your generosity than to your justice; but in this I shall not indulge you, because I think you already set too high a value upon generosity. It has been the misfortune of your life, my dear friend, to believe that, by making great sacrifices, and conferring great benefits, you could ensure to yourself, in return, affection and gratitude. You mistake both the nature of obligation and the effect which it produces on the human mind. Obligations may command gratitude, but can never ensure love. If the benefit be of a pecuniary nature, it is necessarily attended with a certain sense of humiliation, which destroys the equality of friendship. Of whatever description the favour may be, it becomes burdensome, if gratitude be expected as a tribute, instead of being accepted as the free-will offering of the heart: ‘still paying still to owe’ is irksome, even to those who have nothing Satanic in their natures. A person who has received a favour is in a defenceless state with respect to a benefactor; and the benefactor who makes an improper use of the power which gratitude gives becomes an oppressor. I know your generous spirit, and I am fully sensible that no one has a more just idea than you have of the delicacy that ought to be used towards those whom you have obliged; but you must permit me to observe, that your practice is not always conformable to your theory. Temper is doubly necessary to those who love, as you do, to confer favours: it is the duty of a benefactress to command her feelings, and to refrain absolutely from every species of direct or indirect reproach; else her kindness becomes only a source of misery; and even from the benevolence of her disposition she derives the means of giving pain.
“I have said enough; and I know that you will not be offended. The moment your understanding is convinced and your heart touched, all paltry jealousies and petty irritations subside, and you are always capable of acting in a manner worthy of yourself. Adieu! — May you, my dear friend, preserve the affections of one who feels for you, I am convinced, the most sincere gratitude! You will reap a rich harvest, if you do not, with childish impatience, disturb the seeds that you have sown, to examine whether they are growing.
“Your faithful friend,
“L. LITTLETON.”
This letter had an immediate and strong effect upon the mind of Mrs. Somers: she went directly with it open in her hand to Emilie. “Here,” said she, “is the letter of a noble-minded woman, who dares to speak truth, painful truth, to her best friend. She does me justice in being convinced that I shall not be offended; she does me justice in believing that an appeal to my candour and generosity cannot be in vain, especially when it is made by her voice. Emilie, you shall see that I am worthy to have a sincere friend; you shall see that I can even command my temper, when I have what, to my own feelings and understanding, appears adequate motive. But, my dear, you are in pain — let me look at this ankle — I am absolutely afraid to see it! — Good Heavens! how it is swelled! — And I fancied, all yesterday, that you could have walked upon it! — And I thought you wanted only to excite pity! — My poor child! — I have used you barbarously — most barbarously!” cried Mrs. Somers, kneeling down beside the sofa. “And can you ever forgive me? — Yes! that sweet smile tells me that you can.”
“All I ask of you,” said Emilie, embracing Mrs. Somers, “is to believe that I am grateful, and to continue to make me love you as long as I live. This must depend upon you more than upon myself.”
“I know it, my dear,” said Mrs. Somers. “Be satisfied — I will not wear out your affections. You have dealt fairly with me. I love you for having the courage to speak as you think. — But now that it is all over, I must tell you what it was that displeased me — for I hate half reconciliations: I will tell you all that passed in my mind.”
“Pray do,” said Emilie; “for then I
shall know how to avoid displeasing you another time.”
“No danger of that, my dear. You will never make me angry again; for I am sure you will now be as frank towards me as I am towards you. It was not your adapting that little poem to a French rather than to an English air that displeased me — I am not quite so childish as to be offended by such a trifle; but I own I did not like your saying that you chose it merely to comply with your mother’s taste. — And you will acknowledge, Emilie, there was a want of sincerity, a want of candour, in your affected look of astonishment, when I mentioned M. de Brisac. I do not claim your confidence as a right — God forbid! — But if the warmest desire for your happiness, the most affectionate sympathy, can merit confidence — But I will not say a word that can imply reproach. On the contrary, I will only assure you, that I have penetration sufficient always to know your wishes, and activity enough to serve you effectually, even without being your confidante. I shall this night see a friend who is in power — I will speak to him about M. de Brisac: I have hopes that his pension from our government may be doubled.”
“I wish it may, for his sake,” said Emilie; “but certainly not for my own.”
“Oh! Mlle. de Coulanges! — But I have no right to extort confidence. I will not, as I said before, utter a syllable that can imply reproach. Let me go on with what I was telling you of my intentions. As soon as the pension is doubled, I will speak to Mad. de Coulanges about M. de Brisac.”
“For Heaven’s sake, do not!” interrupted Emilie; “for you would do me the greatest possible injury. Mamma would then think it a suitable match, and she would wish me to marry him; and nothing could make me move unhappy than to be under the necessity of acting contrary to my duty — of disobeying and displeasing her for ever — or else of uniting myself to M. de Brisac, whom I can neither love nor esteem.”
“Is it possible,” exclaimed Mrs. Somers, with joyful astonishment, “is it possible that I have been under a mistake all this time? My dearest Emilie! now you are every thing I first thought you! Indeed, I could not think with patience of your making such a match; for M. de Brisac is a mere nothing — worse than a mere nothing; a coxcomb, and a peevish coxcomb.”
“And how could you suspect me of loving such a man?” said Emilie.
“I never thought you loved him, but I thought you would marry him. French marriages, you know, according to l’ancien régime, in which you were brought up, were never supposed to be affairs of the heart, but mere alliances of interest, pride, or convenience.”
“Yes — des mariages de convenance,” said Emilie. “We have suffered terribly by the revolution; but I owe to it one blessing, which, putting what mamma has felt out of the question, I should say has overbalanced all our losses: I have escaped — what must have been my fate in the ancient order of things — un mariage de convenance. I must tell you how I escaped by a happy misfortune,” continued Emilie, suddenly recovering her vivacity of manner. “The family of M. de Brisac had settled, with mine, that I was to be la Comtesse de Brisac — But we lost our property, and M. le comte his memory. Mamma was provoked and indignant — I rejoiced. When I saw how shabbily he behaved, could I do otherwise than rejoice at having escaped being his wife? M. le Comte de Brisac soon lost his hereditary honours and possessions — Heaven forgive me for not pitying him! I was only glad mamma now agreed with me that we had nothing to regret. I had hoped that we should never have heard more of him: but, lo! here he is again in my way with a commission in your English army and a pension from your generous king, which make him, amongst poor emigrants, a man of consequence. And he has taken it into his head to sigh for me, because I laugh at him; and he talks of his sentiments! — sentiments! — he who has no principles!—”
“My noble-minded Emilie!” cried Mrs. Somers; “I cannot express to you the delight I feel at this explanation. How could I be such an idiot as not sooner to see the truth! But I was misled by the solicitude that Mad. de Coulanges showed about this M. de Brisac; and I foolishly concluded that you and your mother were one. On the contrary, no two people can be more different, thank Heaven! — I beg your pardon for that thanksgiving — I see it distresses you, my dear Emilie — and believe me, I never was less disposed to give you pain — I have made you suffer too much already, both in mind and body. This terrible ankle—”
“It does not give me any pain,” said Emilie, “except when I attempt to walk; and it is no great misfortune to be obliged to be quiet for a few days.”
Mrs. Somers’ whole soul was now intent upon the means of making her young friend amends for all she had suffered: this last conversation had raised her to the highest point both of favour and esteem. Mrs. Somers was now revolving in her mind a scheme, which she had formed in the first moments of her partiality for Emilie — a scheme of marrying her to her son. She had often quarrelled with this son; but she persuaded herself that Emilie would make him every thing that was amiable and respectable, and that she would form an indissoluble bond of family union and felicity. “Then,” said she to herself, “Emilie will certainly be established according to her mother’s satisfaction. M. de Brisac cannot possibly stand in the way here; for my son has name and fortune, and every thing that Mad. de Coulanges can desire.”
Mrs. Somers wrote immediately to summon her son home. In the mean time, delighted with this new and grand project, and thinking herself sure of success, she neglected, according to her usual custom, the “little courtesies of life;” and all Lady Littleton’s excellent observations upon the nature of gratitude, and the effect produced on the mind by obligations, were entirely obliterated from her memory.
Emilie’s sprained ankle confined her to the house for some weeks; both Mad. de Coulanges and Mrs. Somers began by offering in the most eager manner, in competition with each other, to stay at home every evening to keep her company; but she found that she could not accept of the offer of one without offending the other; she knew that her mother would have les vapeurs noirs, if she were not in society; and as she had reason to apprehend that Mrs. Somers could not, with the best intentions possible, remain three hours alone, with even a dear friend, without finding or making some subject of quarrel, she wisely declined all these kind offers. In fact, these were trifling sacrifices, which it would not have suited Mrs. Somers’ temper to make: for there was no glory to be gained by them. She regularly came every evening, as soon as she was dressed, to pity Emilie — to repeat her wish that she might be allowed to stay at home — then to step into her carriage, and drive away to spend four hours in company which she professed to hate.
Lady Littleton made no complimentary speeches, but every day she contrived to spend some time with Emilie; and, by a thousand small but kind instances of attention, which asked neither for admiration nor gratitude, she contributed to Emilie’s daily happiness.
This ready sympathy, and this promptitude to oblige in trifles, became extremely agreeable to Mlle. de Coulanges: perhaps from the contrast with Mrs. Somers’ defects, Lady Littleton’s manners pleased her peculiarly. She was under no fear of giving offence, so that she could speak her sentiments or express her feelings without constraint: and, in short, she enjoyed in this lady’s society, a degree of tranquillity of mind and freedom to which she had long been a stranger. Lady Littleton had employed her excellent understanding in studying the minute circumstances which tend to make people, of different characters and tempers, agree and live happily together; and she understood and practised so successfully all the honest arts of pleasing, that she rendered herself the centre of union to a large circle of relations, many of whom she had converted into friends. This she had accomplished without any violent effort, without making any splendid sacrifices, but with that calm, gentle, persevering kindness of temper, which, when united to good sense, forms the real happiness of domestic life, and the true perfection of the female character. Those who have not traced the causes of family quarrels would not readily guess from what slight circumstances they often originate: they arise more frequently from
small defects in temper than from material faults of character. People who would perhaps sacrifice their fortunes or lives for each other cannot, at certain moments, give up their will, or command their humour in the slightest degree.
Whilst Emilie was confined by her sprained ankle, she employed herself in embroidering and painting various trifles, which she intended to offer as souvenirs to her English friends. Amongst these, the prettiest was one which she called the watch of Flora. It was a dial plate for a pendule, on which the hours were marked by flowers — by those flowers which open or close their petals at particular times of the day. “Linnæus has enumerated forty-six flowers which possess this kind of sensibility; and has marked,” as he says, “their respective hours of rising and setting.” From these forty-six Emilie wished to select the most beautiful: she had some difficulty in finding such as would suit her purpose, especially as the observations made in the botanic gardens of Upsal could not exactly agree with our climate. She sometimes applied to Mrs. Somers for assistance; but Mrs. Somers repeatedly forgot to borrow for her the botanical books which she wanted: this was too small a service for her to remember. She was provoked at last by Emilie’s reiterated requests, and vexed by her own forgetfulness; so that Mlle. de Coulanges at last determined not to run the risk of offending, and she reluctantly laid aside her dial-plate.
Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth Page 579