Emilie clasped her hands, and looked up to heaven with the unaffected expression of filial piety in her countenance. Every body was silent. Mrs. Somers was struck with regret—with remorse—for the taunting manner in which she had spoken.
“My dearest Emilie, forgive me!” cried she; “I am shocked at what I said.”
Emilie took Mrs. Somers’ hand between hers, and endeavoured to smile. Mrs. Somers resolved that she would keep, henceforward, the strictest guard upon her own temper; and that she would never more be so ungenerous, so barbarous, as to insult one who was so gentle, so grateful, so much in her power, and so deserving of her affection. These good resolutions, formed in the moment of contrition, were, however, soon forgotten: strong emotions of the heart are transient in their power; habits of the temper permanent in their influence.—Like a child who promises to be always good, and forgets its promise in an hour, Mrs. Somers soon grew tired of keeping her temper in subjection. It did not, indeed, break out immediately towards Emilie; but, in her conversations with Mad. de Coulanges, the same feelings of irritation and contempt recurred; and Emilie, who was a clear-sighted bystander, suffered continual uneasiness upon these occasions—uneasiness, which appeared to Mad. de Coulanges perfectly causeless, and at which she frequently expressed her astonishment. Emilie’s prescient kindness often, indeed, “felt the coming storm;” while her mother’s careless eye saw not, even when the dark cloud was just ready to burst over her head. With all the innocent address of which she was mistress, Emilie tried to turn the course of the conversation whenever it tended towards dangerous subjects of discussion; but her mother, far from shunning, would often dare and provoke the war; and she would combat long after both parties were in the dark, even till her adversary quitted the field of battle, exclaiming, “Let us have peace on any terms, my dear countess!—I give up the point to you, Mad. de Coulanges.”
This last phrase Emilie particularly dreaded, as the precursor of ill-humour for some succeeding hours. Mrs. Somers at length became so conscious of her own inability to conceal her contempt or to command her temper, that she was almost as desirous as Emilie could be to avoid these arguments; and, the moment the countess prepared for the attack, she would recede, with, “Excuse me, Mad. de Coulanges: we had better not talk upon these subjects—it is of no use—really of no manner of use: let us converse upon other topics—there are subjects enough, I hope, upon which we shall always agree.”
Emilie was at first rejoiced at this arrangement, but the constraint was insupportable to her mother: indeed, the circle of proper subjects for conversation contracted daily; for not only the declared offensive topics were to be avoided, but innumerable others, bordering on or allied to them, were to be shunned with equal care—a degree of caution of which the volatile countess was utterly incapable. One day, at dinner, she asked the gentleman opposite to her, “How long this intolerable rule—of talking only upon subjects where people are of the same opinion—had been the fashion, and what time it would probably last in England?—If it continue much longer, I must fly the country,” said she. “I would almost as soon, at this rate, be a prisoner in Paris, as in your land of freedom. You value, above all things, your liberty of the press—now, to me, liberty of the tongue, which is evidently a part, if not the best part, of personal liberty, is infinitely more dear. Bon Dieu!—even in l’Abbaye one might talk of Racine!”
Mad. de Coulanges spoke this half in jest, half in earnest; but Mrs. Somers took it wholly in earnest, and was most seriously offended. Her feelings upon the occasion were strongly expressed in a letter to a friend, to whom she had, from her infancy, been in the habit of confiding all her joys and sorrows—all the histories of her loves and hates—of her quarrels and reconciliations. This friend was an elderly lady, who, besides possessing superior mental endowments which inspired admiration, and a character which commanded high respect, was blessed with an uncommonly placid, benevolent temper. This enabled her to do what no other human being had ever accomplished—to continue in peace and amity, for upwards of thirty years, with Mrs. Somers. The following is one of many hundreds of epistolary complaints or invectives, which, during the course of that time, this “much enduring lady” was doomed to read and answer.
“TO LADY LITTLETON.
“For once, my dear friend, I am secure of your sympathizing in my
indignation—my long suppressed, just, virtuous indignation—yes,
virtuous; for I do hold indignation to be a part of virtue: it
is the natural, proper expression of a warm heart and a strong
character against the cold-blooded vices of meanness and
ingratitude. Would that those to whom I allude could feel it
as a punishment!—but no, this is not the sort of punishment
they are formed to feel. Nothing but what comes home to their
interests—their paltry interests!—their pleasures—their
selfish pleasures!—their amusements—their frivolous amusements!
can touch souls of such a sort. To this half-formed race of
worldlings, who are scarce endued with a moral sense, the
generous expression of indignation always appears something
incomprehensible—ridiculous; or, in their language, outré!
inouï! With such beings, therefore, I always am—as much as my
nature will allow me to be—upon my guard; I keep within what
they call the bounds of politeness—their dear politeness! What a
system of simagrée it is, after all! and how can honest human
nature bear to be penned up all its days by the Chinese paling of
ceremony, or that French filigree work, politesse? English human
nature cannot endure this, as yet; and I am glad of it—heartily
glad of it—Now to the point.
“You guess that I am going to speak of the Coulanges. Yes, my
dear friend, you were quite right in advising me, when I first
became acquainted with them, not to give way blindly to my
enthusiasm—not to be too generous, or to expect too much
gratitude. Gratitude! why should I ever expect to meet with
any?—Where I have most deserved, most hoped for it, I have
been always most disappointed. My life has been a life of
sacrifices!—thankless and fruitless sacrifices! There is not any
possible species of sacrifice of interest, pleasure, happiness,
which I have not been willing to make—which I have not made—for
my friends—for my enemies. Early in life, I gave up a lover I
adored to a friend, who afterwards deserted me. I married a man I
detested to oblige a mother, who at last refused to see me on her
death-bed. What exertions I made for years to win the affection of
the husband to whom I was only bound in duty! My generosity was
thrown away upon him—he died—I became ambitious—I had means
of gratifying my ambition—a splendid alliance was in my power.
Ambition is a strong passion as well as love—but I sacrificed
it without hesitation to my children—I devoted myself to the
education of my two sons, one of whom has never, in any instance,
since he became his own master, shown his mother tenderness or
affection; and who, on some occasions, has scarcely behaved
towards her with the common forms of respect and duty. Despairing,
utterly despairing of gratitude from my own family and natural
friends, I looked abroad, and endeavoured to form friendships with
strangers, in hopes of finding more congenial tempers. I spared
nothing to earn attachment—my time, my health, my money. I
lavished money so, as even, notwithstanding my large income, to
reduce myself frequently to the most straitened and embarrassing
circumstances. And by all I have done, by all I have suffered,
what have I gained?—not a single friend—except yourself. You, on
whom I have never conferred the slightest favour, you are at this
instant the only friend upon earth by whom I am really beloved. To
you, who know my whole history, I may speak of myself as I have
done, Heaven knows! not with vanity, but with deep humiliation and
bitterness of heart. The experience of my whole life leaves me
only the deplorable conviction that it is impossible to do good,
that it is vain to hope even for friendship from those whom we
oblige.
“My last disappointment has been cruel, in proportion to the fond
hopes I had formed. I cannot cure myself of this credulous folly.
I did form high expectations of happiness from the society and
gratitude of this Mad. and Mlle. de Coulanges; but the mother
turns out to be a mere frivolous French comtesse, ignorant,
vain, and positive—as all ignorant people are; full of national
prejudices, which she supports in the most absurd and petulant
manner. Possessed with the insanity, common to all Parisians, of
thinking that Paris is the whole world, and that nothing can be
good taste, or good sense, or good manners, but what is à-la-mode
de Paris; through all her boasted politeness, you see, even by
her mode of praising, that she has a most illiberal contempt for
all who are not Parisians—she considers the rest of the world
as barbarians. I could give you a thousand instances; but her
conversation is really so frivolous, that it is not worth
reciting. I bore with it day after day for several months with a
patience for which, I am sure, you would have given me credit;
and I let her go on eternally with absurd observations upon
Shakspeare, and extravagant nonsense about Racine. To avoid
disputing with her, I gave up every point—I acquiesced in all she
said—and only begged to have peace. Still she was not satisfied.
You know there are tempers which never can be contented, do what
you will to please them. Mad. de Coulanges actually quarrelled
with me for begging that we might have peace; and that we might
talk upon subjects where we should not be likely to disagree.
This will seem to you incredible; but it is the nature of French
caprice: and for this I ought to have been prepared. But, indeed,
I never could have prepared myself for the strange manner in which
this lady thought proper to manifest her anger this day at dinner,
before a large company. She spoke absolutely, notwithstanding all
her good-breeding, in the most brutally ungrateful manner; and,
after all I have done for her, she represented me as being as
great a tyrant as Robespierre, and spoke of my house as a more
intolerable prison than any in Paris!!! I only state the fact to
you, without making any comments—I never yet saw so thoroughly
selfish and unfeeling a human being.
“The daughter has as far too much as the mother has too little
sensibility. Emilie plagues me to death with her fine feelings
and her sentimentality, and all her French parade of affection,
and superfluity of endearing expressions, which mean nothing,
and disgust English ears. She is always fancying that I am angry
or displeased with her or with her mother; and then I am to have
tears, and explanations, and apologies: she has not a mind large
enough to understand my character: and if I were to explain to
eternity, she would be as much in the dark as ever. Yet, after
all, there is something so ingenuous and affectionate about this
girl that I cannot help loving her, and that is what provokes me;
for she does not, and never can, feel for me the affection that I
have for her. My little hastiness of temper she has not strength
of mind sufficient to bear—I see she is dreadfully afraid of
me, and more constrained in my company than in that of any other
person. Not a visitor comes, however insignificant, but Mlle. de
Coulanges seems more at her ease, and converses more with them
than with me—she talks to me only of gratitude, and such stuff.
She is one of those feeble persons who, wanting confidence in
themselves, are continually afraid that they shall not be grateful
enough; and so they reproach and torment themselves, and refine
and sentimentalize, till gratitude becomes burdensome (as it
always does to weak minds), and the very idea of a benefactor
odious. Mlle. de Coulanges was originally unwilling to accept of
any obligation from me: she knew her own character better than I
did. I do not deny that she has a heart; but she has no soul: I
hope you understand and feel the difference. I rejoice, my dear
Lady Littleton, that you are coming to town immediately. I am
harassed almost to death between want of feeling and fine feeling.
I really long to see you and to talk over all these things. Nobody
but you, my dear friend, ever understood me.—Farewell!
“Yours affectionately,
“A. SOMERS.”
To this long letter, Lady Littleton replied by the following short note.
“I hope to see you the day after to-morrow, my dear friend; in the
mean time, do not decide, irrevocably, that Mlle. de Coulanges has
no soul.
“Yours affectionately,
“L. LITTLETON.”
Mrs. Somers was rather disappointed by the calmness of this note; and she was most impatient to see Lady Littleton, that she might work up her mind to the proper pitch of indignation. She stationed a servant at her ladyship’s house to give her notice the moment of her arrival in town. The instant that she was informed of it she ordered her carriage; and the whole of her conversation during this visit was an invective against Emilie and Mad. de Coulanges. The next day, Emilie, who had heard the most enthusiastic eulogiums upon Lady Littleton, expressed much satisfaction on finding that she was come to town; and requested Mrs. Somers’ permission to accompany her on her next visit. The request was rather embarrassing; but Mrs. Somers granted it with a sort of constrained civility. It was fortunate for Emilie that she was so unsuspicious; for her manner was consequently frank, natural, and affectionate; and she appeared to the greatest advantage to Lady Littleton. Mrs. Somers threw herself back in the chair and sat silent, whilst Emilie, in hopes of pleasing her, conversed with the utmost freedom with her friend. The conversation, at last, was interrupted by an exclamation from Mrs. Somers, “Good Heavens! my dear Lady Littleton, how can you endure this smell of paint? It has made my head ache terribly—where does it come from?”