COLONEL MANNERS MYSTIFIES MRS. SCHWELLENBERG.
Queen’s Lodge, Windsor, April.-Mrs. Schwellenberg is softened into nothing but civility and courtesy to me. To what the change is owing I cannot conjecture; but I do all that in me lies to support it, preferring the entire sacrifice of every moment, from our dinner to twelve at night, to her harshness and horrors. Nevertheless, a lassitude of existence creeps sensibly upon me.
Colonel Manners, however, for the short half-hour of tea-time, is irresistibly diverting. He continues my constant friend and neighbour, and, while he affects to play off the coadjutrix to advantage, he nods at me, to draw forth my laughter or approbation, with the most alarming undisguise. I often fear her being affronted; but naturally she admires him very much for his uncommon share of beauty, and makes much allowance for his levity. However, the never-quite-comprehended affair of the leather bed-cover,[306] has in some degree intimidated her ever since, as she constantly apprehends that, if he were provoked, he would play her some trick.
He had been at White’s ball, given in town upon his majesty’s recovery. We begged some account of it: he ranted away with great fluency, uttering little queer sarcasms at Mrs. Schwellenberg by every opportunity, and colouring when he had done, with private fear of enraging her. This, however, she suspected not, or all his aim had been lost; for to alarm her is his delight.
“I liked it all,” he said, in summing up his relation, “very well, except the music, and I like any caw-caw-caw, better than that sort of noise,—only you must not tell the king I say that, ma’am, because the king likes it.”
She objected to the words “must not,” and protested she would not be directed by no one, and would tell it, if she pleased.
Upon this, he began a most boisterous threatening of the evil consequences which would accrue to herself, though in so ludicrous a manner, that how she could suppose him serious was my wonder. “Take care of yourself, ma’am,” he cried, holding up his finger as if menacing a child; “take care of yourself! I am not to be provoked twice!”
This, after a proud resistance, conquered her and, really frightened at she knew not what, she fretfully exclaimed, “Ver well, sir!—I wish I had not come down! I won’t no more! you might have your tea when you can get It.”
Returning to his account, he owned he had been rather a little musical himself for once, which was when they all sang “God save the king,” after the supper; for then he joined in the chorus, as well and as loud as any of them, “though some of the company,” he added, “took the liberty to ask me not to be so loud, because they pretended I was out of tune; but it was in such a good cause that I did not mind that.”
She was no sooner recovered than the attack became personal again; and so it has continued ever since: he seems bent upon “playing her off” in all manners; he braves her, then compliments her, assents to her opinion, and the next moment contradicts her; pretends uncommon friendship for her, and then laughs in her face. But his worst manoeuvre is a perpetual application to me, by looks and sly glances, which fill me with terror of passing for an accomplice; and the more, as I find it utterly impossible to keep grave during these absurdities. And yet, the most extraordinary part of the story is that she really likes him! though at times she is so angry, she makes vows to keep to her own room.
Mr. George Villiers, with far deeper aim, sneers out his own more artful satire, but is never understood; while Colonel Manners domineers with so high a hand, he carries all before him; and whenever Mrs. Schwellenberg, to lessen her mortification, draws me into the question, he instantly turns off whatever she begins into some high-flown compliment, so worded also as to convey some comparative reproach. This offends more than all.
When she complains to me of him, in his absence, I answer he is a mere schoolboy, for mischief, without serious design of displeasing: but she tells me she sees he means to do her some harm, and she will let the king know, if he goes on at that rate, for she does not choose such sort of familiarness.
Once she apologised suddenly for her English, and Colonel Manners said, “O, don’t mind that, ma’am, for I take no particular notice as to your language.”
“But,” says she, “Miss Berner might tell me, when I speak it sometimes not quite right, what you call.”
“O dear no, ma’am!” exclaimed he; “Miss Burney is of too mild a disposition for that: she could not correct you strong enough to do you good.”
“Oh!-ver well, sir!” she cried, confounded by his effrontery.
One day she lamented she had been absent when there was so much agreeable company in the house; “And now,” she added, “now that I am come back, here is nobody.—not one!—no society!”
He protested this was not to be endured, and told her that to reckon all us nobody was so bad, he should resent it.
“What will you do, my good colonel?” she cried.
“O ma’am, do?—I will tell Dr. Davis.”
“And who bin he?”
“Why, he’s the master of Eton school, ma’am,” with a thundering bawl in her ears, that made her stop them.
“No, sir!” she cried, indignantly, “I thank you for that, I won’t have no Dr. schoolmaster, what you call! I bin too old for that.”
“But, ma’am, he shall bring you a Latin oration upon this subject, and you must hear it!”
“O, ’tis all the same! I shan’t not understand it, so I won’t not hear it.”
“But you must, ma’am. If I write it, I shan’t let you off so:—you must hear it!”
“No, I won’t!—Miss Berner might,—give it her.”
“Does Miss Burney know Latin?” cried Mr. G. Villiers.
“Not one word,” quoth I.
“I believe that,” cried she “but she might hear it the same!”