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Tales And Novels, Volume 1 by Maria Edgeworth

M >> Maria Edgeworth >> Tales And Novels, Volume 1






CHAPTER V.


Whilst the preceding conversation was passing, Lady Diana Chillingworth
was in Mrs. Bertrand's fruit-shop, occupied with her smelling-bottle and
Miss Burrage. Clara Hope was there also, and Mrs. Puffit, the milliner,
and Mrs. Bertrand, who was assuring her ladyship that not a word of the
affair about the young lady and the lace should go out of her house.

"Your la'ship need not be in the least uneasy," said Mrs. Bertrand, "for
I have satisfied the constable, and satisfied every body; and the
constable allows Miss Warwick's name was not mentioned in the warrant;
and as to the servant girl, she's gone before the magistrate, who, of
course, will send her to the house of correction; but that will no ways
implicate the young lady, and nothing shall transpire from this house
detrimental to the young lady, who is under your la'ship's protection.
And I'll tell your la'ship how Mrs. Puffit and I have settled to tell the
story: with your ladyship's approbation, I shall say--"

"Nothing, if you please," said her ladyship, with more than her usual
haughtiness. "The young lady to whom you allude is under Lady Frances
Somerset's protection, not mine; and whatever you do or say, I beg that
in this affair the name of Lady Diana Chillingworth may not be used."

She turned her back upon the disconcerted milliner as she finished this
speech, and walked to the furthest end of the long room, followed by the
constant flatterer of all her humours, Miss Burrage.

The milliner and Mrs. Bertrand now began to console themselves for the
mortification they had received from her ladyship's pride, and for the
insolent forgetfulness of her companion, by abusing them both in a low
voice. Mrs. Bertrand began with, "Her ladyship's so touchy and so proud;
she's as high as the moon, and higher."

"Oh, all the Chillingworths, by all accounts, are so," said Mrs. Puffit;
"but then, to be sure, they have a right to be so if any body has, for
they certainly are real high-horn people. But I can't tolerate to see
some people, that aren't no ways born nor entitled to it, give themselves
such airs as some people do. Now, there's that Miss Burrage, that
pretends not to know me, ma'am."

"And me, ma'am,--just the same: such provoking assurance--I that knew her
from this high."

"On St. Augustin's Back, you know," said Mrs. Puffit.

"On St. Augustin's Back, you know," echoed Mrs. Bertrand.

"So I told her this morning, ma'am," said Mrs. Puffit.

"And so I told her this evening, ma'am, when the three Miss Herrings came
in to give me a call in their way to the play; girls that she used to
walk with, ma'am, for ever and ever in the green, you know."

"Yes; and that she was always glad to drink tea with, ma'am, when asked,
you know," said Mrs. Puffit.

"Well, ma'am," pursued Mrs. Bertrand, "here she had the impudence to
pretend not to know them. She takes up her glass--my Lady Di. herself
couldn't have done it better, and squeezes up her ugly face this way,
pretending to be near-sighted, though she can see as well as you or I
can."

"Such airs! _she_ near-sighted!" said Mrs. Puffit: "what will the world
come to!"

"Oh, I wish her pride may have a fall," resumed the provoked milliner, as
soon as she had breath. "I dare to say now she wouldn't know her own
relations if she was to meet them; I'd lay any wager she would not
vouchsafe a curtsy to that good old John Barker, the friend of her
father, you know, who gave up to this Miss Burrage I don't know how many
hundreds of pounds, that were due to him, or else miss wouldn't have had
a farthing in the world; yet now, I'll be bound, she'd forget this as
well as St. Augustin's Back, and wouldn't know John Barker from Abraham;
and I don't doubt that she'd pull out her glass at her aunt Dinah,
because she is a cheesemonger's widow."

"Oh no," said Mrs. Bertrand, "she couldn't have the baseness to be
near-sighted to good Dinah Plait, that bred her up, and was all in all to
her."

Just as Mrs. Bertrand finished speaking, into the fruit-shop walked the
very persons of whom she had been talking--Dinah Plait and Mr. Barker.

"Mrs. Dinah Plait, I declare!" exclaimed Mrs. Bertrand.

"I never was so glad to see you, Mrs. Plait and Mr. Barker, in all my
days," said Mrs. Puffit.

"Why you should be so particularly glad to see me, Mrs. Puffit, I don't
know," said Mr. Barker, laughing; "but I'm not surprised Dinah Plait
should he a welcome guest wherever she goes, especially with a purse full
of guineas in her hand."

"Friend Bertrand," said Dinah Plait, producing a purse which she held
under her cloak, "I am come to restore this purse to its rightful owner:
after a great deal of trouble, John Barker (who never thinks it a trouble
to do good) hath traced her to your house."

"There is a young lady here, to be sure," said Mrs. Bertrand, "but you
can't see her just at present, for she is talking on _petticlar_ business
with my Lady Frances Somerset above stairs."

"Tis well," said Dinah Plait: "I would willingly restore this purse, not
to the young creature herself, but to some of her friends,--for I fear
she is not quite in a right state of mind. If I could see any of the
young lady's friends."

"Miss Burrage," cried Mrs. Bertrand, in a tone of voice so loud that she
could not avoid hearing it, "are not you one of the young lady's
friends?"

"What young lady's friend?" replied Miss Burrage, without stirring from
her seat.

"Miss Burrage, here's a purse for a young lady," said Mrs. Puffit.

"A purse for whom? Where?" said Miss Burrage, at last deigning to rise,
and come out of her recess.

"There, ma'am," said the milliner. "Now for her glass!" whispered Mrs.
Puffit to Mrs. Bertrand. And, exactly as it had been predicted, Miss
Burrage eyed her aunt Dinah through her glass, pretending not to know
her. "The purse is not mine," said she, coolly: "I know nothing of
it--nothing."

"Hetty!" exclaimed her aunt; but as Miss Burrage still eyed her through
her glass with unmoved invincible assurance, Dinah thought that, however
strong the resemblance, she was mistaken. "No, it can't be Hetty. I beg
pardon, madam," said she, "but I took you for--Did not I hear you say the
name of Burrage, friend Puffit?"

"Yes, Burrage; one of the Burrages of Dorsetshire," said the milliner,
with malicious archness.

"One of the Burrages of Dorsetshire: I beg pardon. But did you ever see
such a likeness, friend Barker, to my poor niece, Hetty Burrage?"

Miss Burrage, who overheard these words, immediately turned her back upon
her aunt. "A grotesque statue of starch,--one of your quakers, I think,
they call themselves: Bristol is full of such primitive figures," said
Miss Burrage to Clara Hope, and she walked back to the recess and to Lady
Di.

"So like, voice and all, to my poor Hester," said Dinah Plait, and she
wiped the tears from her eyes. "Though Hetty has neglected me so of late,
I have a tenderness for her; we cannot but have some for our own
relations."

"Grotesque or not, 'tis a statue that seems to have a heart, and a gude
one," said Clara Hope.

"I wish we could say the same of every body," said Mrs. Bertrand.

All this time, old Mr. Barker, leaning on his cane, had been silent:
"Burrage of Dorsetshire!" said he; "I'll soon see whether she be or no;
for Hetty has a wart on her chin that I cannot forget, let her forget
whom and what she pleases."

Mr. Barker, who was a plain-spoken, determined man, followed the young
lady to the recess; and, after looking her full in the face, exclaimed in
a loud voice, "Here's the wart!--'tis Hetty!"

"Sir!--wart!--man!--Lady Di.!" cried Miss Burrage, in accents of the
utmost distress and vexation.

Mr. Barker, regardless of her frowns and struggles, would by no means
relinquish her hand; but leading, or rather pulling her forwards, he went
on with barbarous steadiness: "Dinah," said he, "'tis your own niece.
Hetty, 'tis your own aunt, that bred you up! What, struggle--Burrage of
Dorsetshire!"

"There certainly," said Lady Diana Chillingworth, in a solemn tone, "is a
conspiracy, this night, against my poor nerves. These people, amongst
them, will infallibly surprise me to death. What is the matter now?--why
do you drag the young lady, sir? She came here with _me_, sir,--with Lady
Diana Chillingworth; and, consequently, she is not a person to be
insulted."

"Insult her!" said Mr. Barker, whose sturdy simplicity was not to be
baffled or disconcerted either by the cunning of Miss Burrage, or by the
imposing manner and awful name of Lady Diana Chillingworth. "Insult her!
why, 'tis she insults us; she won't know us."

"How should Miss Burrage know you, sir, or any body here?" said Lady
Diana, looking round, as if upon beings of a species different from her
own.

"How should she know her own aunt that bred her up?" said the invincible
John Barker, "and me who have had her on my knee a hundred times, giving
her barley-sugar till she was sick?"

"Sick! I am sure you make me sick," said Lady Diana. "Sir, that young
lady is one of the Burrages of Dorsetshire, as good a family as any in
England."

"Madam," said John Barker, replying in a solemnity of tone equal to her
ladyship's, "that young lady is one of the Burrages of Bristol,
drysalters; niece to Dinah Plait, who is widow to a man, who was, in his
time, as honest a cheesemonger as any in England."

"Miss Burrage!--My God!--don't you speak!" cried Lady Diana, in a voice
of terror.

"The young lady is bashful, my lady, among strangers," said Mrs.
Bertrand.

"Oh, Hester Burrage, is this kind of thee?" said Dinah Plait, with in
accent of mixed sorrow and affection; "but thou art my niece, and I
forgive thee."

"A cheesemonger's niece!" cried Lady Diana, with horror; "how have I been
deceived! But this is the consequence of making acquaintance at Buxton,
and those watering-places: I've done with her, however. Lord bless me!
here comes my sister, Lady Frances! Good heavens! my dear," continued her
ladyship, going to meet her sister, and drawing her into the recess at
the farthest end of the room, "here are more misfortunes--misfortunes
without end. What will the world say? Here's this Miss Burrage,--take no
more notice of her, sister; she's an impostor; who do you think she turns
out to be? Daughter to a drysalter, niece to a cheesemonger! Only
conceive!-a person that has been going about with _me_ every where!--What
will the world say?"

"That it is very imprudent to have _unknown friends_, my dear," replied
Lady Frances. "The best thing you can possibly do is to say nothing about
the matter, and to receive this penitent ward of yours without
reproaches; for if you talk of her _unknown friends_, the world will
certainly talk of yours."

Lady Diana drew back with haughtiness when her sister offered to put Miss
Warwick's hands into hers; but she condescended to say, after an apparent
struggle with herself, "I am happy to hear, Miss Warwick, that you have
returned to your senses. Lady Frances takes you under her protection, I
understand; at which, for all our sakes, I rejoice; and I have only one
piece of advice, Miss Warwick, to give you--"

"Keep it till after the play, my dear Diana," whispered Lady Frances; "it
will have more effect."

"The play!--Bless me!" said Lady Diana, "why, you have contrived to make
Miss Warwick fit to be seen, I protest. But, after all I have gone
through to-night, how can I appear in public? My dear, this Miss
Burrage's business has given me such a shock,--such nervous affections!"

"Nervous affections!--Some people, I do believe, have none but nervous
affections," thought Lady Frances.

"Permit me," said Mrs. Dinah Plait, coming up to Lady Frances, and
presenting Miss Warwick's purse--"permit me, as thou seemest to be a
friend to this young lady, to restore to thee her purse, which she left
by mistake at my house this forenoon. I hope she is better, poor thing!"

"She _is_ better, and I thank you for her, madam," said Lady Frances, who
was struck with the obliging manner and benevolent countenance of Dinah
Plait, and who did not think herself contaminated by standing in the same
room with the widow of a cheesemonger.

"Let me thank you myself, madam," said Angelina; "I am perfectly in my
senses _now_, I can assure you; and I shall never forget the kindness
which you and this benevolent gentleman showed me when you thought I was
in real distress."

"Some people are more grateful than other people," said Mrs. Puffit,
looking at Miss Burrage, who in mortified, sullen silence, followed the
aunt and the benefactor of whom she was ashamed, and who had reason to be
ashamed of her.

We do not imagine that our readers can be much interested for a young
lady who was such a compound of pride and meanness; we shall therefore
only add, that her future life was spent on St. Augustin's Back, where
she made herself at once as ridiculous and as unhappy as she deserved to
be.

As for our heroine, under the friendly and judicious care of Lady Frances
Somerset, she acquired that which is more useful to the possessor than
genius--good sense. Instead of rambling over the world in search of an
_unknown friend_, she attached herself to those of whose worth she
received proofs more convincing than a letter of three folio sheets,
stuffed with sentimental nonsense. In short, we have now, in the name of
Angelina Warwick, the pleasure to assure all those whom it may concern,
that it is possible for a young lady of sixteen to cure herself of the
affectation of sensibility, and the folly of romance.






THE GOOD FRENCH GOVERNESS


Among the sufferers during the bloody reign of Robespierre, was Mad. de
Rosier, a lady of good family, excellent understanding, and most amiable
character. Her husband, and her only son, a promising young man of about
fourteen, were dragged to the horrid prison of the Conciergerie, and
their names, soon afterward, appeared in the list of those who fell a
sacrifice to the tyrant's cruelty. By the assistance of a faithful
domestic, Mad. de Rosier, who was destined to be the next victim, escaped
from France, and took refuge in England--England!--that generous country,
which, in favour of the unfortunate, forgets her national prejudices, and
to whom, in their utmost need, even her "_natural enemies_" fly for
protection. English travellers have sometimes been accused of forgetting
the civilities which they receive in foreign countries; but their conduct
towards the French emigrants has sufficiently demonstrated the injustice
of this reproach.

Mad. de Rosier had reason to be pleased by the delicacy of several
families of distinction in London, who offered her their services under
the name of gratitude; but she was incapable of encroaching upon the
kindness of her friends. Misfortune had not extinguished the energy of
her mind, and she still possessed the power of maintaining herself
honourably by her own exertions. Her character and her abilities being
well known, she easily procured recommendations as a preceptress. Many
ladies anxiously desired to engage such a governess for their children,
but Mrs. Harcourt had the good fortune to obtain the preference.

Mrs. Harcourt was a widow, who had been a very fine woman, and continued
to be a very fine lady; she had good abilities, but, as she lived in a
constant round of dissipation, she had not time to cultivate her
understanding, or to attend to the education of her family; and she had
satisfied her conscience by procuring for her daughters a fashionable
governess and expensive masters. The governess whose place Mad. de Rosier
was now to supply, had quitted her pupils, to go abroad with a lady of
quality, and Mrs. Harcourt knew enough of the world to bear her loss
without emotion;--she, however, stayed at home one whole evening, to
receive Mad. de Rosier, and to introduce her to her pupils. Mrs. Harcourt
had three daughters and a son--Isabella, Matilda, Favoretta, and Herbert.
Isabella was about fourteen; her countenance was intelligent, but rather
too expressive of confidence in her own capacity, for she had, from her
infancy, been taught to believe that she was a genius. Her memory had
been too much cultivated; she had learned languages with facility, and
had been taught to set a very high value upon her knowledge of history
and chronology. Her temper had been hurt by flattery, yet she was capable
of feeling all the generous passions.

Matilda was a year younger than Isabella; she was handsome, but her
countenance, at first view, gave the idea of hopeless indolence; she did
not learn the French and Italian irregular verbs by rote as expeditiously
as her sister, and her impatient preceptress pronounced, with an
irrevocable nod, that Miss Matilda was _no_ genius. The phrase was
quickly caught by her masters, so that Matilda, undervalued even by her
sister, lost all confidence in herself, and with the hope of success,
lost the wish for exertion. Her attention gradually turned to dress and
personal accomplishments; not that she was vain of her beauty, but she
had more hopes of pleasing by the graces of her person than of her mind.
The timid, anxious blush, which Mad. De Rosier observed to vary in
Matilda's countenance, when she spoke to those for whom she felt
affection, convinced this lady that, if Matilda were _no_ genius, it must
have been the fault of her education. On sensibility, all that is called
genius, perhaps, originally depends: those who are capable of feeling a
strong degree of pain and pleasure may surely be excited to great and
persevering exertion, by calling the proper motives into action.

Favoretta, the youngest daughter, was about six years old. At this age,
the habits that constitute character are not formed, and it is,
therefore, absurd to speak of the character of a child six years old.
Favoretta had been, from her birth, the plaything of her mother and of
her mother's waiting-maid. She was always produced, when Mrs. Harcourt
had company, to be admired and caressed by the fashionable circle; her
ringlets and her lively nonsense were the never-failing means of
attracting attention from visitors. In the drawing-room, Favoretta,
consequently, was happy, always in high spirits, and the picture of good
humour; but, change the scene, and Favoretta no longer appeared the
same person: when alone, she was idle and spiritless; when with her
maid or with her brother and sisters, pettish and capricious. Her usual
play-fellow was Herbert, but their plays regularly ended in
quarrels--quarrels in which both parties were commonly in the wrong,
though the whole of the blame necessarily fell upon Herbert, for Herbert
was neither caressing nor caressed. Mrs. Grace, the waiting-maid,
pronounced him to be the plague of her life, and prophesied evil of him,
because, as she averred, if she combed his hair a hundred times a day, it
would never be fit to be seen; besides this, she declared "there was no
managing to keep him out of mischief," and he was so "thick-headed at his
book," that Mrs. Grace, on whom the task of teaching him his alphabet
had, during the negligent reign of the late governess, devolved, affirmed
that he never would learn to read like any other young gentleman. Whether
the zeal of Mrs. Grace for his literary progress were of service to his
understanding, may be doubted; there could be no doubt of its effect upon
his temper; a sullen gloom overspread Herbert's countenance, whenever the
shrill call of "Come and say your task, Master Herbert!" was heard; and
the continual use of the imperative mood--"Let that alone, _do_, Master
Herbert!"--"Don't make a racket, Master Herbert!"--"Do hold your tongue
and sit still where I bid you, Master Herbert!" operated so powerfully
upon this young gentleman, that, at eight years old, he partly fulfilled
his tormentor's prophecies, for he became a little surly rebel, who took
pleasure in doing exactly the contrary to every thing that he was desired
to do, and who took pride in opposing his powers of endurance to the
force of punishment. His situation was scarcely more agreeable in the
drawing-room than in the nursery, for his mother usually announced him to
the company by the appropriate appellation of _Roughhead_; and Herbert
_Roughhead_ being assailed, at his entrance into the room, by a variety
of petty reproaches and maternal witticisms upon his uncouth appearance,
became bashful and awkward, averse from _polite_ society, and prone to
the less fastidious company of servants in the stable and the kitchen.
Mrs. Harcourt absolutely forbade his intercourse with the postilions,
though she did not think it necessary to be so strict in her injunctions
as to the butler and footman; because, argued she, "children will get to
the servants when one's from home, and it is best that they should be
with such of them as one can trust. Now Stephen is quite a person one can
entirely depend upon, and he has been so long in the family, the children
are quite used to him, and safe with him."

How many mothers have a Stephen, on whom they can entirely depend!

Mrs. Harcourt, with politeness, which in this instance supplied the place
of good sense, invested Mad. de Rosier with full powers, as the
preceptress of her children, except as to their religious education; she
stipulated that Catholic tenets should not be instilled into them. To
this Mad. de Rosier replied--"that children usually follow the religion
of their parents, and that proselytes seldom do honour to their
conversion; that were she, on the other hand, to attempt to promote her
pupils' belief in the religion of their country, her utmost powers could
add nothing to the force of public religious instruction, and to the
arguments of those books which are necessarily put into the hands of
every well-educated person."

With these opinions, Mad. de Rosier readily promised to abstain from all
direct or indirect interference in the religious instruction of her
pupils. Mrs. Harcourt then introduced her to them as "a friend, in whom
she had entire confidence, and whom she hoped and believed they would
make it their study to please."

Whilst the ceremonies of the introduction were going on, Herbert kept
himself aloof, and, with his whip suspended over the stick on which he
was riding, eyed Mad. de Rosier with no friendly aspect: however, when
she held out her hand to him, and when he heard the encouraging tone of
her voice, he approached, held his whip fast in his right hand, but very
cordially gave the lady his left to shake.

"Are you to be my governess?" said he: "you won't give me very long
tasks, will you?"

"Favoretta, my dear, what has detained you so long?" cried Mrs. Harcourt,
as the door opened, and as Favoretta, with her hair in nice order, was
ushered into the room by Mrs. Grace. The little girl ran up to Mad. de
Rosier, and, with the most caressing freedom, cried,--

"Will you love me? I have not my red shoes on to-day!"

Whilst Mad. de Rosier assured Favoretta that the want of the red shoes
would not diminish her merit, Matilda whispered to Isabella--"Mourning
is very becoming to her, though she is not fair;" and Isabella, with a
look of absence, replied--"But she speaks English amazingly well for a
French woman."

Mad. de Rosier did speak English remarkably well; she had spent some
years in England, in her early youth, and, perhaps, the effect of her
conversation was heightened by an air of foreign novelty. As she was not
hackneyed in the common language of conversation, her ideas were
expressed in select and accurate terms, so that her thoughts appeared
original, as well as just.

Isabella, who was fond of talents, and yet fonder of novelty, was
charmed, the first evening, with her new friend, more especially as she
perceived that her abilities had not escaped Mad. de Rosier. She
displayed all her little treasures of literature, but was surprised to
observe that, though every shining thing she said was taken notice of,
nothing dazzled the eyes of her judge; gradually her desire to talk
subsided, and she felt some curiosity to hear. She experienced the new
pleasure of conversing with a person whom she perceived to be her
superior in understanding, and whose superiority she could admire,
without any mixture of envy.

"Then," said she, pausing, one day, after having successfully enumerated
the dates of the reigns of all the English kings, "I suppose you have
something in French, like our Gray's Memoria Technica, or else you never
could have such a prodigious quantity of dates in your head. Had you as
much knowledge of chronology and history, when you were of my age,
as--as--"

"As you have?" said Mad. de Rosier: "I do not know whether I had at your
age, but I can assure you that I have not now."

"Nay," replied Isabella, with an incredulous smile, "but you only say
that from modesty."

"From vanity, more likely."

"Vanity! impossible--you don't understand me."

"Pardon me, but you do not understand _me_."

"A person," cried Isabella, "can't, surely, be vain--what we, in English,
call vain--of _not_ remembering any thing."

If you think books have dumbed down …
Alison Flood: Today we can take our laptops on the road, but could we use them to produce On The Road?

Kerouac's On the Road manuscript travels to the Midlands

John Crace swallows a very thirsty volume

Documentary to lay bare 'Narnia Code'

He wrote it in just three weeks, furiously and loudly tap-tap-tapping away on his typewriter on 12ft long reels of paper so that he did not have to stop, just writing writing writing fuelled only, he said, by coffee…

It became one of the most important American novels of the last century and yesterday the original manuscript - a scroll taped together with eight reels of paper - of Jack Kerouac's On The Road was unfurled in the UK for the first time.
Fifty years after the novel which more or less defined the Beat generation, was published in Britain, the Barber Institute in Birmingham is showing what is now one of the most valuable literary manuscripts in existence as part of its exhibition Jack Kerouac: Back On the Road.

The exhibition's curator Professor Dick Ellis said there had been a lot of competition to get the scroll which is itself spending a lot of time on the move, having toured a string of US cities and hitting the road to Rome once this show is over. "We're very excited indeed," he said. "This is an iconic manuscript. It is a record of the huge effort Kerouac put into composing it. It was 20 days of typing 6,500 words a day, flat out, in spontaneous composition. He wanted to record things with the most possible accuracy using the spontaneous technique. His typewriter became a compositional instrument.

"Truman Capote once accused Kerouac of typing rather than writing, I would say he was learning the ability of using the typewriter like a jazz instrument, like a saxophone. He also had an incredible memory. And he had great speed at typing, he became a lightning typist. He came to be able to use a typewriter in a way that has not been seen before or since. Kerouac said he wrote fast because the road was fast."

About 22 of the scroll's 120ft will be on display in a specially built cabinet and while visitors will have to slightly tilt their heads, Ellis believes they will get a much deeper knowledge of what Kerouac was all about. It comes to Birmingham courtesy of Jim Irsay, owner of the Indianapolis Colts, who bought it for $2.4m (£1.6m) in 2001 before agreeing to a tour. Of course, in the published novel, there are paragraph breaks but in the scroll, there are none. Kerouac did not have the time. The exhibition runs until January 28.

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