Chapter XVI (2)

Almost every day she felt the apprehension or the certainty of having offended her benefactress: and the causes by which she gave offence were sometimes so trifling as to elude her notice; so mysterious, that they could not be discovered; or so various and anomalous, that, even when she was told in what manner she had displeased, she could not form any rule, or draw any inference, for her future conduct. Sometimes she offended by differing, sometimes by agreeing, in taste or opinion with Mrs. Somers. Sometimes she perceived that she was thought positive; at other times, too complying. A word, a look, or even silence--passive silence--was sufficient to affront this susceptible lady. Then she would go on with a string of deductions, or rather of imaginations, to prove that there must be something wrong in Emilie's disposition; and she would insist upon it, that she knew better what was passing, or what would pass, in her mind, than Emilie could know herself. Nothing provoked Mrs. Somers more than the want of success in any of her active attempts to make others happy. She was continually angry with Emilie for not being sufficiently pleased or grateful for things which she had not the vanity to suspect were intended for her gratification, or which were not calculated to contribute to her amusement: this humility, or this difference of taste, was always considered as affectation or perversity. One day, Mrs. Somers was angry with Emilie because she did not thank her for inviting a celebrated singer to her concert; but Emilie had no idea that the singer was invited on her account: of this nothing could convince Mrs. Somers. Another day, she was excessively displeased because Emilie was not so much entertained as she had expected her to be at the installation of a knight of the garter.

"Mad. de Coulanges expressed a wish to see the ceremony of the installation; and, though I hate such things myself, I took prodigious pains to procure tickets, and to have you well placed--"

"Indeed, I was very sensible of it, dear madam."

"May be so, my dear; but you did not look as if you were: you seemed tired to death, and said you were sleepy; and ten times repeated, 'Ah! qu'il fait chaud!' But this is what I am used to--what I have experienced all my life. The more pains a person takes to please and oblige, the less they can succeed, and the less gratitude they are to expect."

Emilie reproached herself, and resolved that, upon the next similar trial, she would not complain of being sleepy or tired; and that she would take particular care not to say--"Ah! qu'il fait chaud!" A short time afterwards she was in a crowded assembly, at the house of a friend of Mrs. Somers, a _rout_--a species of entertainment of which she had not seen examples in her own country (it appeared to her rather a barbarous mode of amusement, to meet in vast crowds, to squeeze or to be squeezed, without a possibility of enjoying any rational conversation). Emilie was fatigued, and almost fainting, from the heat, but she bore it all with a smiling countenance, and heroic gaiety; for this night she was determined not to displease Mrs. Somers. On their return home, she was rather surprised and disappointed to find this lady in a fit of extreme ill-humour.

"I wanted to get away two hours ago," cried she; "but you would not understand any of my hints, Mlle. de Coulanges; and when I asked you whether you did not find it very hot, you persisted in saying, 'Not in the least--not in the least.'"

Mrs. Somers was the more angry upon this occasion, because she recollected having formerly reproached Emilie, at the installation, for complaining of the heat; and she persuaded herself, that this was an instance of perversity in Emilie's temper, and a sly method of revenging herself for the past. Nothing could be more improbable, from a girl of such a frank, forgiving, sweet disposition; and no one would have been so ready to say so as Mrs. Somers in another mood; but the moment that she was irritated, she judged without common sense--never from general observations, but always from particular instances. It was in vain that Emilie disclaimed the motives attributed to her: she was obliged to wait the return of her friend's reason, and in the mean time to bear her reproaches--she did with infinite patience. Unfortunately this patience soon became the source of fresh evils. Because Emilie was so gentle, and so ready to acknowledge and to believe herself to be in the wrong, Mrs. Somers became convinced that she herself was in the right in all her complaints; and she fancied that she had great merit in passing over so many defects in one whom she had so much obliged, and who professed so much gratitude. Between the fits of her ill-humour, she would, however, waken to the full sense of Emilie's goodness, and would treat her with particular kindness, as if to make amends for the past. Then, if Emilie could not immediately resume that easy, gay familiarity of manner, which she used to have before experience had taught her the fear of offending, Mrs. Somers grew angry again and decided that Emilie had not sufficient elevation of soul to understand her character, or to forgive the _little infirmities_ of the best of friends. When she was under the influence of this suspicion, every thing that Emilie said or looked was confirmation strong. Mrs. Somers was apt in conversation to throw out general reflections that were meant to apply to particular persons; or to speak with one meaning obvious to all the company, and another to be understood only by some individual whom she wished to reproach. This art, which she had often successfully practised upon Emilie, she, for that reason, suspected that Emilie tried upon her. And then the utmost ingenuity was employed to torture words into strange meanings: she would misinterpret the plainest expressions, or attribute to them some double, mysterious signification.

One evening Emilie had been reading a new novel, the merits of which were eagerly discussed by the company. Some said that the heroine was a fool: others, that she was a mad woman; some, that she was not either, but that she acted as if she were both; another party asserted that she was every thing that was great and good, and that it was impossible to paint in truer colours the passion of love. Mrs. Somers declared herself of this opinion; but Emilie, who happened not to be present when this declaration was made, on coming into the room and joining in the conversation, gave a diametrically opposite judgment: she said, that the author had painted the enthusiasm with which the heroine yielded to her passion, instead of the violence of the passion to which she yielded. The French abbé, to whom Emilie made this observation, repeated it triumphantly to Mrs. Somers, who immediately changed colour, and replied in a constrained voice, "Certainly that is a very apposite remark, and vastly well expressed; and I give Mlle. de Coulanges infinite credit for it."

Emilie, who knew every inflection of Mrs. Somers' voice, and every turn of her countenance, perceived that these words of praise were accompanied with strong feelings of displeasure. She was much embarrassed, especially as her friend fixed her eyes upon her whilst she blushed; and this made her blush ten times more: she was afraid that the company, who were silent, should take notice of her distress; and therefore she went on talking very fast about the novel, though scarcely knowing what she said. She made sundry blunders in names and characters, which were eagerly corrected by the astonished Mad. de Coulanges, who could not conceive how any body could forget the dramatis personæ of the novel of the day. Mrs. Somers, all the time, preserved silence, as if she dared not trust herself to speak; but her compressed lips showed sufficiently the constraint under which she laboured. Whilst every body else went on talking, and helping themselves to refreshments which the servants were handing about, Mrs. Somers continued leaning on the mantel-piece in a deep reverie, pulling her bracelet round and round upon her wrist, till she was roused by Mad. de Coulanges, who appealed for judgment upon her new method of preparing an orange.

"C'est à la corbeille--Tenez!" cried she, holding it by a slender handle of orange-peel; "Tenez! c'est à la corbeille!"

Mrs. Somers, with a forced smile admired the orange-basket; but said, that, for her part, her hands were not sufficiently dexterous to imitate this fashion: "I," said she, "can only do like the king of Prussia and _other people_--squeeze the orange, and throw the peel away. By-the-bye, how absurd it was of Voltaire to be angry with the king of Prussia for that witty and just apologue!"

"_Just!_" repeated Emilie.

"Just!" reiterated Mrs. Somers, in a harsh voice: "surely you think it so. For my part, I like the king the better for avowing his principles--all the world act as he did, though few avow it."

"What!" said Emilie, in a low voice, "do not you believe in the reality of gratitude?"

"Apparently," cried Mad. de Coulanges, who was still busy with her orange, "apparently, madame is a disciple of our Rochefoucault, and allows of no principle but self-love. In that case, I shall have as bitter quarrels with her as I have with you, mon cher abbé;--for Rochefoucault is a man I detest, or rather, I detest his maxims--the duke himself, they say, was the most amiable man of his day. Only conceive, that such a man should ascribe all our virtues to self-love and vanity!"

"And, perhaps," said the abbé, "it was merely vanity that made him say so--he wished to write a witty satirical book; but I will lay a wager he did not think as ill of human nature as he speaks of it."

"He could hardly speak or think too ill of it," said Mrs. Somers, "if he judged of human nature by such speeches as that of the king of Prussia about his friend and the orange."

"But," said Emilie, in a timid voice, "would it not be doing poor human nature injustice to judge of it by such words as those? I am convinced, with M. l'abbé, that some men, for the sake of appearing witty, speak more malevolently than they feel; and, perhaps, this was the case with the king of Prussia."

"And Mlle. de Coulanges thinks, then," said Mrs. Somers, "that it is quite allowable, for the sake of appearing witty, to speak malevolently?"

"Dear madam! dear Mrs. Somers!--no!" cried Emilie; "you quite misunderstood me."

"Pardon me, I thought you were justifying the king of Prussia," continued Mrs. Somers; "and I do not well see how that can be done without allowing--what many people do in practice, though not in theory--that it is right, and becoming, and prudent, to sacrifice a friend for a bon-mot."

The angry emphasis, and pointed manner, in which Mrs. Somers spoke these words, terrified and completely abashed Emilie, who saw that something more was meant than met the ear. In her confusion she ran over a variety of thoughts; but she could not recollect any thing that she had ever said, which merited the name of a bon-mot--and a malevolent bon-mot! "Surely what I said about that foolish novel cannot have offended Mrs. Somers?--How is it possible!--She cannot be so childish as to be angry with me merely for differing with her in opinion. What I said might be bad criticism, but it could not be malevolent; it referred only to the heroine of a novel. Perhaps the author may be a friend of hers, or some person who is in distress, and whom she has generously taken under her protection. Why did not I think of this before?--I was wrong to give my opinion so decidedly: but then my opinion is of so little consequence; assuredly it can neither do good nor harm to any author. When Mrs. Somers considers this, she will be pacified; and when she is once cool again, she will feel that I could not mean to say any thing ill-natured."

The moment Mrs. Somers saw that Emilie was sensible of her displeasure, she exerted herself to assume, during the remainder of the evening, an extraordinary appearance of gaiety and good-humour. Every body shared her smiles and kindness, except the unfortunate object of her indignation: she behaved towards Mlle. de Coulanges with the most punctilious politeness; but "all the cruel language of the eye" was sufficiently expressive of her real feelings. Emilie bore with this infirmity of temper with resolute patience: she expected that the fit would last only till she could ask for an explanation; and she followed Mrs. Somers, as was her usual custom upon such occasions, to her room at night, in order to assert her innocence. Mrs. Somers walked into her room in a reverie, without perceiving that she was followed by Emilie--threw herself into a chair--and gave a deep sigh.

"What is the matter, my dear friend?" Emilie began; but, on hearing the sound of her voice, Mrs. Somers started up with sudden anger; then, constraining herself, she said, "Pardon me, Mlle. de Coulanges, if I tell you that I really am tired to-night--body and mind--I wish to have rest for both if possible--would you be so very obliging as to pull that bell for Masham?--I wish you a very good night.--I hope Mad. de Coulanges will have her ass's milk at the proper hour to-morrow--I have given particular orders for that purpose."

"Your kindness to mamma, dear Mrs. Somers," said Emilie, "has been invariable, and--"

"Spare me, I beseech you, Mlle. de Coulanges, all these _grateful speeches_--I really am not prepared to hear them with temper to-night. Were you so good as to ring that bell--or will you give me leave to ring it myself?"

"If you insist upon it," said Emilie, gently withholding the tassel of the bell; "but if you would grant me five minutes--one minute--you might perhaps save yourself and me a sleepless night."

Mrs. Somers, incapable of longer commanding her passion, made no reply, but snatched the bell-rope, and rang violently--Emilie let go the tassel and withdrew. She heard Mrs. Somers say to herself, as she left the room--"This is too much--too much--really too much!--hypocrisy I cannot endure.--Any thing but hypocrisy!"

These words hurt Emilie more than any thing Mrs. Somers had ever said: her own indignation was roused, and she was upon the point of returning to vindicate herself; but gratitude, if not prudence, conquered her resentment: she recollected her promise to bear with the temper of her benefactress; she recollected all Mrs. Somers' kindness to her mother; and quietly retired to her room, determining to wait till morning for a more favourable opportunity to speak.--After passing a restless night, and dreaming the common dream of falling down precipices, and the uncommon circumstance of dragging Mrs. Somers after her by a bell-rope, she wakened to the confused, painful remembrance of all that had passed the preceding evening. She was anxious to obtain admittance to Mrs. Somers as soon as she was dressed; but Masham informed her that her lady had given particular orders that she should "_not be disturbed_." When Mrs. Somers made her appearance late at breakfast, there was the same forced good-humour in her countenance towards the company in general, and the same punctilious politeness towards Emilie, which had before appeared. She studiously avoided all opportunity of explaining herself; and every attempt of Emilie's towards a reconciliation, either by submissive gentleness or friendly familiarity, was disregarded, or noticed with cold disdain. Yet all this was visible only to her; for every body else observed that Mrs. Somers was in remarkably good spirits, and in the most actively obliging humour imaginable. After breakfast she proposed and arranged various parties of pleasure: she went with Mad. de Coulanges to pay several visits; a large company dined with her; and at night she went to a concert. In the midst of these apparent amusements, Emilie was made as unhappy as the marked, yet mysterious, displeasure of a benefactress could render a person of real sensibility. As she did not wish to expose herself to a second repulse, she forbore to follow Mrs. Somers to her room at night; but she sent her this note by Mrs. Masham.

"I have done or said something to offend you, dear Mrs. Somers.
If you knew how much pain I have felt from your displeasure, I am
sure you would explain to me what it can be. Is it possible that
my differing in opinion from you about the heroine of the novel
can have offended you?--Perhaps the author of the book is a friend
of yours, or under your protection. Be assured, that if this be
the case, I did not in the least suspect it at the time I made the
criticism. Perhaps it was this to which you alluded when you said
that the King of Prussia was not the only person who would not
hesitate to sacrifice a friend for a bon-mot. What injustice you
do me by such an idea! I will not here say one word about my
gratitude or my affection, lest you should again reproach me with
hypocrisy--any thing else I am able to bear. Pray write, if you
will not speak to me.

"EMILIE."

When Emilie was just falling asleep, Masham came into her room with a note in her hand.

"Mademoiselle, I am sorry to waken you; but my mistress thought you would not sleep, unless you read this note to-night."

Emilie started up in her bed, and read the following _note_ of four pages.

"Yes I will write, because I am ashamed to speak to you, my dear
Emilie. I beg your pardon for pulling the bell-cord so violently
from your hand last night--you must have thought me quite
ill-bred; and still more, I reproach myself for what I said about
_hypocracy_--You have certainly the sweetest and gentlest temper
imaginable--would to Heaven I had! But the strength of my feelings
absolutely runs away with me. It is the doom of persons of great
sensibility to be both unreasonable and unhappy; and often, alas!
to involve in their misery those for whom they have the most
enthusiastic affection. You see, my dear Emilie, the price you
must pay for being my friend; but you have strength of mind
joined to a feeling heart, and you will bear with my defects.
Dissimulation is not one of them. In spite of all my efforts, I
find it is impossible ever to conceal from you any of even my most
unreasonable fancies--your note, which is so characteristically
frank and artless, has opened my eyes to my own folly. I must show
you that, when I am in my senses, I do you justice. You deserve to
be treated with perfect openness; therefore, however humiliating
the explanation, I will confess to you the real cause of my
displeasure. When you spoke of the heroine of this foolish novel,
what you said was so applicable to some part of my own history
and character, that I could not help suspecting you had heard the
facts from a person with whom you spent some hours lately; and I
was much hurt by your alluding to them in such a severe and public
manner. You will ask me, how I could conceive you to be capable of
such unprovoked malevolence: and my answer is, 'I cannot tell;' I
can only say, such is the effect of the unfortunate susceptibility
of my heart, or, to speak more candidly, of my temper. I confess
I cannot, in these particulars, alter my nature. Blame me as much
as I blame myself; be as angry as you please, or as you can, my
gentle friend: but at last you must pity and forgive me.

"Now that all this affair is off my mind, I can sleep in peace:
and so, I hope, will you, my dear Emilie--Good night! If
friends never quarrelled, they would never taste the joys of
reconciliation. Believe me,

"Your ever sincere and affectionate

"A. SOMERS."

No one tasted the joys of reconciliation more than Emilie; but, after reiterated experience, she was inclined to believe that they cannot balance the evils of quarrelling. Mrs. Somers was one of those, who "confess their faults, but never mend;" and who expect, for this gratuitous candour, more applause than others would claim for the real merit of reformation. So far did this lady carry her admiration of her own candour, that she was actually upon the point of quarrelling with Emilie again, the next morning, because she did not seem sufficiently sensible of the magnanimity with which she had confessed herself to be ill-tempered. These few specimens are sufficient to give an idea of this lady's powers of tormenting; but, to form an adequate notion of their effect upon Emilie's spirits, we must conceive the same sort of provocations to be repeated every day, for several months. Petty torments, incessantly repeated, exhaust the most determined patience.

All this time, Mad. de Coulanges went on very smoothly with Mrs. Somers; for she had not Emilie's sensibility; and, notwithstanding her great quickness, a hundred things might pass, and did pass, before her eyes, without her seeing them. She examined no farther than the surface; and, provided that there was not any deficiency of those _little attentions_ to which she had been accustomed, it never occurred to her that a friend could be more or less pleased: she did not understand or study physiognomy; a smile of the lips was, to her, always a sufficient token of approbation; and, whether it were merely conventional, or whether it came from the heart, she never troubled herself to inquire. Provided that she saw at dinner the usual _couverts_, and that she had a sufficient number of people to converse with, or rather to talk to, she was satisfied that every thing was right. All the variations in Mrs. Somers' temper were unmarked by her, or went under the general head, _vapeurs noirs_. This species of ignorance, or confidence, produced the best effects; for as Mrs. Somers could not, without passing the obvious bounds of politeness, make Mad. de Coulanges sensible of her displeasure, and as she had the utmost respect for the countess's opinion of her good breeding, she was, to a certain degree, compelled to command her temper. Mad. de Coulanges often, without knowing it, tried it terribly, by differing from her in taste and judgment, and by supporting her own side of the question with all the enthusiastic volubility of the French language. Sometimes the English and French music were compared--sometimes the English and French painters; and every time the theatre was mentioned, Mad. de Coulanges pronounced an eulogium on her favourite French actors, and triumphed over the comparison between the elegance of the French, and the _grossièreté_ of the English taste for comedy.

"Good Heaven!" said she, "your fashionable comedies would be too absurd to make the lowest of our audiences at the Boulevards laugh; you have excluded sentiment and wit, and what have you in their place? Characters out of drawing and out of nature; grotesque figures, such as you see in a child's magic lantern. Then you talk of English humour--I wish I could understand it; but I cannot be diverted with seeing a tailor turned gentleman pricking his father with a needle, or a man making grimaces over a jug of sour beer."

Mrs. Somers, piqued perhaps by the justice of some of these observations, would dryly answer, that it was impossible for a foreigner to comprehend English humour--that she believed the French, in particular, were destitute of taste for humour.

Mad. de Coulanges insisted upon it, that the French have humour; and Molière furnished her with many admirable illustrations.

Emilie, in support of her mother, read a passage from that elegant writer, M. Suard[1], who has lately attacked, with much ability, the pretensions of the English to the exclusive possession of humour.

[Footnote 1: "Il est très-difficile de se faire une idée nette de ce que les Anglais entendent par ce mot; on a tenté plusieurs fois sans succès d'en donner une définition précise. Congreve, qui assurement a mis beaucoup d'_humour_ dans ses comédies, dit, que c'est _une manière singulière et inévitable de faire ou de dire quelque chose, qui est naturelle et propre à un homme seul, et qui distingue ses discours et ses actions des discours et des actions de tout autre._

"Cette définition, que nous traduisons littéralement, n'est pas lumineuse; elle conviendrait également à la manière dont Alexandre parle et agit dans Plutarque, et à celle dont Sancho parle et agit dans Cervantes. II y a apparence que l'_humour_ est comme l'esprit, et que ceux qui en ont le plus ne savent pas trop bien ce que c'est.

"Nous croyons que ce genre de plaisanterie consiste surtout dans des idées ou des tournures originales, qui tiennent plus au caractère qu'à l'esprit, et qui semblent échapper à celui qui les produit.

"L'homme d'_humour_ est un plaisant sérieux, qui dit des choses plaisantes sans avoir l'air de vouloir être plaisant. Au reste, une scene de Vanbrugh ou une satire de Swift, feront mieux sentir ce que c'est, que toutes les définitions du monde. Quant à la prétention de quelques Anglais sur la possession exclusive de l'_humour_, nous pensons que si ce qu'ils entendent par ce mot est un genre de plaisanterie qu'on ne trouve ni dans Aristophane, dans Plaute, et dans Lucien, chez lea anciens; ni dans l'Arioste, le Berni, le Pulci, et tant d'autres, chez les Italiens; ni dans Cervantes, chez les Espagnols; ni dans Rabener, chez les Allemands; ni dans le Pantagruel, la satire Ménippée, le Roman comique, les comédies de Molière, de Dufrèny, de Regnard etc., nous ne savons pas ce que c'est, et nous ne prendrons pas la peine de la chercher."--_Suard, Mélanges de Littérature_, vol. iv. p. 366.]

Mrs. Somers then changed her ground, and inveighed against French tragedy, and the unnatural tones and attitudes of the French tragic actors.

"Your heroes on the French stage," said she, "always look over their right shoulders, to express magnanimous disdain; and a lover, whether he be Grecian or Roman, Turk, Israelite, or American, must regularly show his passion by the pompous emphasis with which he pronounces the word MADAME!--a word which must certainly have, for a French audience, some magical charm, incomprehensible to other nations."

What was yet more incomprehensible to Mad. de Coulanges, was the enthusiasm of the English for that bloody-minded barbarian Shakspeare, who is never satisfied till he has strewn the stage with dead bodies; who treats his audience like children, that are to be frightened out of their wits by ghosts of all sorts and sizes in their winding sheets; or by a set of old beggarmen, dressed in women's clothes, armed with broomsticks, and dancing and howling out their nonsensical song round a black kettle.

Mrs. Somers, smiling as in scorn, would only reply, "Madame la comtesse, yours is Voltaire's Shakspeare, not ours.--Have you read Mrs. Montagu's essay upon Shakspeare?"

"No."

"Then positively you must read it before we say one word more upon the subject."

Mad. de Coulanges, though unwilling to give up the pleasure of talking, took the book, which Mrs. Somers pressed upon her, with a promise to read it through some morning; but, unluckily, she chanced to open it towards the end, and happened to see some animadversions upon Racine, by which she was so astonished and disgusted that she could read no more. She threw down the book, defying _any good critic to point out a single bad line in Racine_. "This is a defiance I have heard made by men of letters of the highest reputation in Paris," added la comtesse: "have not you, Mons. l'Abbé?"

The abbé, who was madame's common voucher, acceded, with this slight emendation--that he had heard numbers defy any critic of good taste to point out a flat line in _Phædre_.

Mrs. Somers would, perhaps, have acknowledged the beauties of Phædre, if she had not been piqued by this defiance; but exaggeration on one side produced injustice on the other: and these disputes about Racine and Shakspeare were continually renewed, and never ended to the satisfaction of either party. Those who will not make allowances for national prejudice, and who do not consider how much all our tastes are influenced by early education, example, and the accidental association of ideas, may dispute for ever without coming to any conclusion; especially, if they avoid stating any distinct proposition; if each of the combatants sets up a standard of his own, as the universal standard of taste; and if, instead of arguments, both parties have recourse to wit and ridicule. In these skirmishes, however, Mad. de Coulanges, though apparently the most eager for victory, never seriously lost her temper--her eagerness was more of manner than of mind; after pleading the cause of Racine, as if it were a matter of life and death, as if the fate of Europe or the universe depended upon it, she would turn to discuss the merits of a riband with equal vehemence, or coolly observe that she was hoarse, and that she would quit Racine for a better thing--_de l'eau sucré_. Mrs. Somers, on the contrary, took the cause of Shakspeare, or any other cause that she defended, seriously to heart. The wit or raillery of her adversary, if she affected not to be hurt by it at the moment, left a sting in her mind which rankled long and sorely. Though she often failed to refute the arguments brought against her, yet she always rose from the debate precisely of her first opinion; and even her silence, which Mad. de Coulanges sometimes mistook for assent or conviction, was only the symptom of contemptuous pity--the proof that she deemed the understanding of her opponent beneath all fair competition with her own. The understanding of Mad. de Coulanges had, indeed, in the space of a few months, sunk far below the point of mediocrity, in Mrs. Somers' estimation--she had begun by overvaluing, and she ended by underrating it. She at first had taken it for granted that Mad. de Coulanges possessed a "very superior understanding and great strength of mind;" then she discovered that la comtesse was "uncommonly superficial, even for a Frenchwoman;" and at last she decided, that "really Mad. de Coulanges was a very silly woman."

Mrs. Somers now began to be seriously angry with Emilie for always being of her mother's opinion: "It is really, Mlle. de Coulanges, carrying your filial affection too far. We cold-hearted English can scarcely conceive this sort of fervid passion, which French children express about every thing, the merest trifle, that relates to _mamma!_--Well! it is an amiable national prejudice; and one cannot help wishing that it may never, like other amiable enthusiasms, fail in the moment of serious trial."

Emilie, touched to the quick upon a subject nearest her heart, replied with a degree of dignity and spirit which surprised Mrs. Somers, who had never seen in her any thing but the most submissive gentleness. "The affection, whether enthusiastic or not, which we French children profess for our parents, has been of late years put to some strong trials, and has not been found to fail. In many instances it has proved superior to all earthly terrors--to imprisonment--to torture--to death--to Robespierre. Daughters have sacrificed themselves for their parents.--Oh! if _my_ life could have saved my father's!"

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?"

"From my bedchamber," said Lady Littleton. "They have, unluckily, misunderstood my orders; and they have freshly painted every one in my house."

"Then it is impossible that you should sleep here--I will not allow you--it will poison you--it will give you the palsy immediately--it is destruction--it is death. You must come home with me directly--I insist upon it--But, no," said she, checking herself, with a look of sudden disappointment, "no, my dearest friend! I cannot invite you; for I have not a bed to offer you."

"Yes, mine--you forget mine--dear Mrs. Somers," cried Emilie; "you know I can sleep with mamma."

"By no means, Mlle. de Coulanges; you cannot possibly imagine--"

"I only imagine the truth," said Emilie, "that this arrangement would be infinitely more convenient to mamma; I know she likes to have me in the room with her. Pray, dear Mrs. Somers, let it be so."

Mrs. Somers made many ceremonious speeches: but Lady Littleton seemed so well inclined to accept Emilie's offered room, that she was obliged to yield. She was vexed to perceive that Emilie's manners pleased Lady Littleton; and, after they returned home, the activity with which Emilie moved her books, her drawing-box, work, &c., furnished Mrs. Somers with fresh matter for displeasure. At night, when Lady Littleton went to take possession of her apartment, and when she observed how active and obliging Mlle. de Coulanges had been, Mrs. Somers shook her head, and replied, "All this is just a proof to me of what I asserted, Lady Littleton--and what I must irrevocably assert--that Mlle. de Coulanges has no soul. You are a new acquaintance, and I am an old friend. She exerts herself to please you; she does not care what I think or what I feel about the matter. Now this is just what I call having no soul."

"My dear Mrs. Somers," said Lady Littleton, "be reasonable; and you must perceive that Emilie's eagerness to please me arises from her regard and gratitude to you: she has, I make no doubt, heard that I am your intimate friend, and your praises have disposed her to like me.--Is this a proof that she has no soul?"

"My dear Lady Littleton, we will not dispute about it--I see you are fascinated, as I was at first. Manner is a prodigious advantage--but I own I prefer solid English sincerity. Stay a little: as soon as Mlle. de Coulanges thinks herself secure of you, she will completely abandon me. I make no doubt that she will complain to you of my bad temper and ill usage; and I dare say that she will succeed in prejudicing you against me."

"She will succeed only in prejudicing me against herself, if she attempt to injure you," said Lady Littleton; "but, till I have some plain proof of it, I cannot believe that any person has such a base and ungrateful disposition."

Mrs. Somers spent an hour and a quarter in explaining her causes of complaint against both mother and daughter; and she at last retired much dissatisfied, because her friend was not as angry as she was, but persisted in the resolution to see more before she decided. After passing a few days in the house with Mlle. de Coulanges, Lady Littleton frankly declared to Mrs. Somers that she thought her complaints of Emilie's temper quite unreasonable, and that she was a most amiable and affectionate girl. Respect for Lady Littleton restrained Mrs. Somers from showing the full extent of her vexation; she contented herself with repeating, "Mlle. de Coulanges is certainly a very amiable young woman--I would by no means prejudice you against her--but when you know her as well as I do, you will find that she has no soul."

Mrs. Somers, in the course of four-and-twenty hours, found a multitude of proofs in support of her opinion; but they were none of them absolutely satisfactory to Lady Littleton's judgment. Whilst they were debating about her character, Emilie came into the room to show Mrs. Somers a _French_ translation, which she had been making, of a pretty little English poem, called "The Emigrant's Grave." It was impossible to be displeased with the translation, or with the motive from which it was attempted; for it was done at the particular request of Mrs. Somers. This lady's ingenuity, however, did not fail to discover some cause for dissatisfaction. Mlle. de Coulanges had adapted the words to a French, and not to an English air.

"This is a favourite air of mamma's," said Emilie, "and I thought that she would be pleased by my choosing it."

"Yes," replied Mrs. Somers, in her constrained voice, "I remember that the Countess de Coulanges and her friend--or your friend--M. de Brisac, were charmed with this air, when you sang it the other night. I found fault with it, I believe--but then you had a majority against me; and with some people that is sufficient. Few ask themselves _what constitutes a majority_--numbers or sense. Judgments and tastes may differ in value; but one vote is always as good as another, in the opinion of those who are decided merely by numbers."

"I hope that I shall never be one of those," said Emilie. "Upon the present occasion I assure you, my dear Mrs. Somers, that I was influenced by--"

"Oh! my dear Mlle. de Coulanges," interrupted Mrs. Somers, "you need not give yourself the trouble to explain about such a trifle--the thing is perfectly clear. And nothing is more natural than that you should despise the taste of a friend when put in competition with that of a lover."

"Of a lover!"

"Yes, of a lover. Why should Mlle. de Coulanges think it necessary to look astonished? But young ladies imagine this sort of dissimulation is becoming; and can I hope to meet with an exception, or to find one superior to the _finesse_ of her sex?--I beg your pardon, Mlle. de Coulanges, I really forgot that Lady Littleton was present when this terrible word lover escaped--but I can assure you that frankness is not incompatible with _her_ ideas of delicacy."

"You are mistaken, dear Mrs. Somers; indeed you are mistaken," said Emilie; "but you are displeased with me now, and I will take a more favourable moment to set you right. In the mean time, I will go and water the hydrangia, which I forgot, and which I reproached myself for forgetting yesterday."

Emilie left the room.

"Are you convinced now, my dear Lady Littleton," cried Mrs. Somers, "that this girl has no soul--and very little heart?"

"I am convinced only that she has an excellent temper," said Lady Littleton. "I hope you do not think a good temper is incompatible with a heart or a soul."

"I will tell you what I think, and what I am sure of," cried Mrs. Somers, raising her voice; "that Mlle. de Coulanges will be a constant cause of dispute and uneasiness between you and me, Lady Littleton--I foresee the end of this. As a return for all I have done for her and her mother, she will rob me of the affections of one whom I love and esteem, respect and admire--as she well knows--above all other human beings. She will rob me of the affections of one who has been my friend, my best, my only constant friend, for twenty years!--Oh! why am I doomed eternally to be the victim of ingratitude?"