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Tales And Novels, Volume 1 by Maria Edgeworth

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




Mrs. Harcourt, with Isabella and Matilda, paid Mrs. Fanshaw a visit, as
soon as they heard that her daughter was come home.

Miss Fanshaw, an erect stiffened figure, made her entree; and it was
impossible not to perceive that her whole soul was intent upon her manner
of holding her head and placing her elbows, as she came into the room.
Her person had undergone all the ordinary and extraordinary tortures of
back-boards, collars, stocks, dumbbells, &c. She looked at Isabella and
Matilda with some surprise and contempt during the first ten minutes
after her entrance; for they were neither of them seated in the exact
posture which she had been instructed to think the only position in which
a _young lady_ should sit in company. Isabella got up to look at a
drawing; Miss Fanshaw watched every step she took, and settled it in her
own mind that Miss Harcourt did not walk as if she had ever been at
Suxberry House. Matilda endeavoured to engage the figure that sat beside
her in conversation; but the figure had no conversation, and the utmost
that Matilda could obtain was a few monosyllables pronounced with
affected gravity; for at Suxberry House this young lady had been taught
to maintain an invincible silence when produced to strangers; but she
made herself amends for this constraint, the moment she was with her
companions, by a tittering, gossiping species of communication, which
scarcely deserves the name of conversation.

Whilst the silent Miss Fanshaw sat so as to do her dancing-master strict
justice, Mrs. Fanshaw was stating to Mrs. Harcourt the enormous expense
to which she had gone in her daughter's education. Though firm to her
original doctrine, that women had no occasion for learning--in which word
of reproach she included all literature--she nevertheless had been
convinced, by the unanimous voice of fashion, that accomplishments were
_most desirable for young ladies_--desirable, merely because they were
fashionable; she did not, in the least, consider them as sources of
independent occupation.

Isabella was struck with sudden admiration at the sight of a head of
Jupiter which Miss Fanshaw had just finished, and Mrs. Harcourt borrowed
it for her to copy; though Miss Fanshaw was secretly but decidedly of
opinion, that no one who had not learned from the drawing-master at
Suxberry House could copy this head of Jupiter with any chance of
success.

There was a pretty little netting-box upon the table which caught
Matilda's eye, and she asked the silent figure what it was made of. The
silent figure turned its head mechanically, but could give no information
upon the subject. Mrs. Fanshaw, however, said that she had bought the box
at the Repository for ingenious works, and that the reason she chose it
was because Lady N---- had recommended it to her.

"It is some kind of new manufacture, her ladyship tells me, invented by
some poor little boy that she patronizes; her ladyship can tell you more
of the matter, Miss Matilda, than I can," concluded Mrs. Fanshaw; and,
producing her netting, she asked Mrs. Harcourt, "if she had not been
vastly notable to have got forward so fast with her work."

The remainder of the visit was spent in recounting her losses at the
card-table, and in exhortation to Mrs. Harcourt to send Miss Isabella and
Matilda to finish their education at Suxberry House.

Mrs. Harcourt was somewhat alarmed by the idea that her daughters would
not be equal to Miss Fanshaw in accomplishments but, fortunately for Mad.
de Rosier and herself, she was soon induced to change her opinion by
farther opportunities of comparison.

In a few days her visit was returned. Mrs. Harcourt happened to mention
the globe that Isabella was painting: Miss Fanshaw begged to see it, and
she went into Mrs. Harcourt's dressing-room, where it hung. The moment
she found herself with Isabella and Matilda, _out of company_, the silent
figure became talkative. The charm seemed to be broken, or rather
reversed, and she began to chatter with pert incessant rapidity.

"Dear me," said she, casting a scornful glance at Matilda's globe, "this
is vastly pretty, but we've no such thing at Suxberry House. I wonder
Mrs. Harcourt didn't send both of you to Suxberry House--every body sends
their daughters, who can afford it, now, to Suxberry House; but, to be
sure, it's very expensive--we had all silver forks, and every thing in
the highest style, and Mrs. Suxberry keeps a coach. I assure you she's
not at all like a schoolmistress, and she thinks it very rude and vulgar
of any body to call her a schoolmistress. Won't you ask your mamma to
send you, if it's only for the name of it, for one year, to Suxberry
House?"

"No," said Matilda; "we are so happy under the care of Mad. de Rosier."

"Ah, dear me! I forgot--mamma told me _you'd got_ a new French governess
lately--our French teacher, at Suxberry House, was so strict, and so
cross, if one made a mistake in the tenses: it's very well for you your
governess is not cross--does she give you very hard exercises?--let me
look at your exercise book, and I'll tell you whether it's the right
one--I mean _that_ we used to have at Suxberry House."

Miss Fanshaw snatched up a book, in which she saw a paper, which she took
for a French exercise.

"Come, show it me, and I'll correct the faults for you, before your
governess sees it, and she'll be so surprised!"

"Mad. de Rosier has seen it," said Matilda;--but Miss Fanshaw, in a
romping manner, pulled the paper out of her hands. It was the translation
of a part of "Les Conversations d'Emilie," which we formerly mentioned.

"La!" said Miss Fanshaw, "we had no such book as this at Suxberry House."

Matilda's translation she was surprised to find correct.

"And do you write themes?" said she--"We always wrote themes once every
week, at Suxberry House, which I used to hate of all things, for I never
could find any thing to say--it made me hate writing, I know;--but that's
all over now; thank goodness, I've done with themes, and French letters,
and exercises, and translations, and all those plaguing things; and now
I've left school for ever, I may do just as I please--that's the best of
going to school; it's over some time or other, and there's an end of it;
but you that have a governess and masters at home, you go on for ever and
ever, and you have no holidays either; and you have no out-of-school
hours; you are kept _hard at it_ from morning till night: now I should
hate that of all things. At Suxberry House, when we had got our task
done, and finished with the writing-master and the drawing-master, and
when we had practised for the music-master, and _all that_, we might be
as idle as we pleased, and do what we liked out of school-hours--you know
that was very pleasant: I assure you, you'd like being at Suxberry House
amazingly."

Isabella and Matilda, to whom it did not appear the most delightful of
all things to be idle, nor the most desirable thing in the world to have
their education finished, and then to lay aside all thoughts of farther
improvement, could not assent to Miss Fanshaw's concluding assertion.
They declared that they did not feel any want of holidays; at which Miss
Fanshaw stared: they said that they had no tasks, and that they liked to
be employed rather better than to be idle; at which Miss Fanshaw laughed,
and sarcastically said, "You need not talk to me as if your governess
were by, for I'm not a tell-tale--I shan't repeat what you say."

Isabella and Matilda, who had not two methods of talking, looked rather
displeased at this ill-bred speech.

"Nay," said Miss Fanshaw, "I hope you aren't affronted _now_ at what I
said; when we are by ourselves, you know, one says just what comes into
one's head. Whose handsome coach is this, pray, with a coronet?"
continued she, looking out of the window: "I declare it is stopping at
your door; do let us go down. I'm never afraid of going into the room
when there's company, for we were taught to go into a room at Suxberry
House; and Mrs. Suxberry says it's very vulgar to be ashamed, and I
assure you it's all custom. I used to colour, as Miss Matilda does, every
minute; but I got over it before I had been long at Suxberry House."

Isabella, who had just been reading "A Father's Legacy to his Daughters,"
recollected at this instant Dr. Gregory's opinion, "that when a girl
ceases to blush, she has lost the most powerful charm of beauty." She had
not, however, time to _quote_ this in Matilda's defence; for Miss Fanshaw
ran down stairs, and Isabella recollected, before she overtook her, that
it would not be polite to remind her of her early loss of charms.

Lady N---- was in the coach which had excited Miss Fanshaw's admiration;
and this young lady had a glorious opportunity of showing the graces that
she had been taught at so much expense, for the room was full of company.
Several morning visitors had called upon Mrs. Harcourt, and they formed a
pretty large circle, which Miss Fanshaw viewed upon her entrance with a
sort of studied assurance.

Mrs. Fanshaw watched Lady N----'s eye as her daughter came into the room;
but Lady N---- did not appear to be much struck with the second-hand
graces of Suxberry House; her eye passed over Miss Fanshaw, in search of
something less affected and more interesting.

Miss Fanshaw had now resumed her _company face_ and attitude; she sat in
prudent silence, whilst Lady N---- addressed her conversation to Isabella
and Matilda, whose thoughts did not seem to be totally engrossed by their
own persons.

Dr. X---- had prepared this lady to think favourably of Mad. de Rosier's
pupils, by the account which he had given her of Isabella's remarks upon
Zeluco.

A person of good sense, who has an encouraging countenance, can easily
draw out the abilities of young people, and from their manner of
listening, as well as from their manner of speaking, can soon form a
judgment of their temper and understanding.

Miss Fanshaw, instead of attending with a desire to improve herself from
sensible conversation, sat with a look as absent as that of an unskilful
actress, whilst the other performers are engaged in their parts.

There was a small book-case, in a recess, at the farthest end of the
room, and upon a little table there were some books, which Isabella and
Matilda had been reading with Mad. de Rosier. Mrs. Fanshaw looked towards
the table, with a sarcastic smile, and said--

"You are great readers, young ladies, I see: may we know what are your
studies?"

Miss Fanshaw, to show how well she could walk, crossed the room, and took
up one of the books.

"'Alison upon Taste'--that's a pretty book, I dare say--but la! what's
this, Miss Isabella? 'A Smith's Theory of Moral Sentiments'--dear me!
that must be a curious performance--by a smith! a common smith!"

Isabella, good-naturedly, stopped her from farther absurd exclamations by
turning to the title-page of the book and showing her the words _"Adam
Smith."_

"Ah! _A_ stands for _Adam!_ very true--I thought it was _a_ smith," said
Miss Fanshaw.

"Well, my dear," said her mother, who had quickness enough to perceive
that her daughter had made some mistake, by the countenances of the
company, but who had not sufficient erudition to know what the mistake
could be--"well, my dear, and suppose it was _a_ smith, there's nothing
extraordinary in that--nothing extraordinary in a smith's writing a book
nowadays,--why not a common blacksmith, as well as a common ploughman?--I
was asked, I know, not long ago, to subscribe _to_ the poems of a common
ploughman."

"The Ayrshire ploughman?" said Lady N----.

"Yes, they called him so, as I recollect, and I really had a mind to put
my name down, for I think I saw your ladyship's amongst the subscribers."

"Yes, they are beautiful poems," said Lady N----.

"So I understand--there are some vastly pretty things in his
collection--but one hears of so many good things coming out every day,"
said Mrs. Fanshaw, in a plaintive voice. "In these days, I think, every
body writes--"

"And reads," said Lady N----.

"And reads," said Mrs. Fanshaw. "We have learned ladies now, wherever one
goes, who tell one they never play at cards--I am sure they are very bad
company. Jane," said she, turning to her daughter, "I hope you won't take
it into your head to turn out a reading lady!"

"Oh dear, no!" said Miss Fanshaw: "we had not much time for reading at
Suxberry House, we were so busy with our masters;--we had a charming
English master though, to teach us elocution, because it's so fashionable
now to read loud well. Mrs. Harcourt, _isn't it odd_ to read English
books to a French governess?" continued this young lady, whose
constrained taciturnity now gave way to a strong desire to show herself
off before Lady N----. She had observed that Isabella and Matilda had
been listened to with approbation, and she imagined that, when she spoke,
she should certainly eclipse them. Mrs. Harcourt replied to her
observation, that Mad. de Rosier not only read and spoke English
remarkably well, but that she had also a general knowledge of English
literature.

"Oh! here are some French books," said Miss Fanshaw, taking down one out
of the book-case--"'Journal Etranger'--dear me! are you translating _of_
this, Miss Isabella?"

"No," said Mrs. Harcourt; "Madame de Rosier brought it down stairs
yesterday, to show us an essay of Hume's on the study of history, which
is particularly addressed to women; and Mad. de Rosier says that it is
not to be found in several of the late editions of Hume's Essays--she
thought it singular that it should be preserved in a French translation."

"There is," said Isabella, "an entertaining account in that essay of a
lady who asked Hume to lend her some novels! He lent her Plutarch's
Lives, which she thought very amusing, till she found out that they were
true. As soon as she came to the names of Caesar and Alexander, she
returned the books."

Mrs. Fanshaw was surprised that Lady N---- begged to look at this essay;
and was much disappointed to observe that the graceful manner in which
Miss Fanshaw presented the book to her ladyship escaped notice.

"Pray, Miss Matilda, is that a drawing?" said Mrs. Fanshaw, in hopes of
leading to a more favourable subject.

"Oh, dear me! do pray favour us with a sight of it!" cried Miss Fanshaw,
and she eagerly unrolled the paper, though Matilda assured her that it
was not a drawing.

It was Hogarth's print of a country dance, which was prefixed to his
"Analysis of Beauty."

"It is the _oddest_ thing!" exclaimed Miss Fanshaw, who thought every
thing _odd_ or _strange_ which she had not seen at Suxberry house.
Without staying to observe the innumerable strokes of humour and of
original genius in the print, she ran on--"La! its hardly worth any one's
while, surely, to draw such a set of vulgar figures--one hates low
humour." Then, in a hurry to show her taste for dress, she observed that
"people, formerly, must have had no taste at all;--one can hardly believe
such things were ever worn."

Mrs. Fanshaw, touched by this reflection upon the taste of former times,
though she seldom presumed to oppose any of her daughter's opinions,
could not here refrain from saying a few words in defence of sacks, long
waists, and whalebone stays, and she pointed to a row of stays in the
margin of one of these prints of Hogarth.

Miss Fanshaw, who did not consider that, with those who have a taste for
propriety in manners, she could not gain any thing by a triumph over her
mother, laughed in a disdainful manner at her mother's "_partiality for
stays_," and _wondered_ how any body could think long waists becoming.

"Surely, any body who knows any thing of drawing, or has any taste for an
antique figure, must acknowledge the present fashion to be most
graceful." She appealed to Isabella and Matilda.

They were so much struck with the impropriety of her manner towards her
mother, that they did not immediately answer; Matilda at length said, "It
is natural to like what we have been early used to;" and, from unaffected
gentleness, eager to prevent Miss Fanshaw from further exposing her
ignorance, she rolled up the print; and Lady N----, smiling at Mrs.
Harcourt, said, "I never saw a print more _gracefully_ rolled up in my
life." Miss Fanshaw immediately rolled up another of the prints, but no
applause ensued.

At the next pause in the conversation, Mrs. Fanshaw and her daughter took
their leave, seemingly dissatisfied with their visit.

Matilda, just after Mrs. Fanshaw left the room, recollected her pretty
netting-box, and asked Lady N---- whether she knew any thing of the
little boy by whom it was made.

Her ladyship gave such an interesting account of him, that Matilda
determined to have her share in relieving his distress.

Matilda's benevolence was formerly rather passive than active; but from
Mad. de Rosier she had learned that sensibility should not be suffered to
evaporate in sighs, or in sentimental speeches. She had also learnt that
economy is necessary to generosity; and she consequently sometimes denied
herself the gratification of her own tastes, that she might be able to
assist those who were in distress.

She had lately seen a beautiful print[3] of the king of France taking
leave of his family; and, as Mad. de Rosier was struck with it, she
wished to have bought it for her; but she now considered that a guinea,
which was the price of the print, might be better bestowed on this poor,
little, ingenious, industrious boy; so she begged her mother to send to
the repository for one of his boxes. The servants were all busy, and
Matilda did not receive her box till the next morning.

[Footnote 3: By Egginton.]

Herbert was reading to Mad. de Rosier when the servant brought the box
into the room. Favoretta got up to look at it, and immediately Herbert's
eye glanced from his book: in spite of all his endeavours to command his
attention, he heard the exclamations of "Beautiful!--How smooth!--like
tortoise-shell!--What can it be made of?"

"My dear Herbert, shut the book," said Mad. de Rosier, "if your head be
in that box. Never read one moment after you have ceased to attend."

"It is my fault," said Matilda; "I will put the box out of the way till
he has finished reading."

When Herbert had recalled his wandering thoughts, and had fixed his mind
upon what he was about, Mad. de Rosier put her hand upon the book--he
started--"Now let us see the _beautiful_ box," said she.

After it had passed through Favoretta and Herbert's impatient hands,
Matilda, who had scarcely looked at it herself, took it to the window, to
give it a sober examination. "It is not made of paper, or pasteboard, and
it is not the colour of tortoise-shell," said Matilda: "I never saw any
thing like it before; I wonder what it can be made of?"

Herbert, at this question, unperceived by Matilda, who was examining the
box very earnestly, seized the lid, which was lying upon the table, and
ran out of the room; he returned in a few minutes, and presented the lid
to Matilda. "I can tell you one thing, Matilda," said he, with an
important face--"it is an animal--an animal substance, I mean."

"Oh, Herbert," cried Matilda, "what have you been doing?--you have
blackened the corner of the box."

"Only the least bit in the world," said Herbert, "to try an experiment. I
only put one corner to the candle that Isabella had lighted to seal her
letter."

"My dear Herbert, how could you burn your sister's box?" expostulated
Madame de Rosier: "I thought you did not love mischief."

"Mischief!--no, indeed; I thought you would be pleased that I remembered
how to distinguish animal from vegetable substances. You know, the day
that my hair was on fire, you told me how to do that; and Matilda wanted
to know what the box was made of; so I tried."

"Well," said Matilda, good-naturedly, "you have not done me much harm."

"But another time," said Mad. de Rosier, "don't burn a box that costs a
guinea to try an experiment; and, above all things, never, upon any
account, take what is not your own."

The corner of the lid that had been held to the candle was a little
warped, so that the lid did not slide into its groove as easily as it did
before. Herbert was disposed to use force upon the occasion; but Matilda
with difficulty rescued her box by an argument which fortunately reached
his understanding in time enough to stop his hand.

"It was the heat of the candle that warped it," said she: "let us dip it
into boiling water, which cannot be made _too_ hot, and that will,
perhaps, bring it back to its shape."

The lid of the box was dipped into boiling-water, and restored to its
shape. Matilda, as she was wiping it dry, observed that some yellow
paint, or varnish, came off, and in one spot, on the inside of the lid,
she discovered something like writing.

"Who will lend me a magnifying glass?"

Favoretta produced hers.

"I have kept it," said she, "a great, _great_ while, ever since we were
at the Rational Toy-shop."

"Mad. de Rosier, do look at this!" exclaimed Matilda--"here are letters
quite plain!--I have found the name, I do believe, of the boy who made
the box!" and she spelled, letter by letter, as she looked through the
magnifying glass, the words Henri-Montmorenci.

Mad. de Rosier started up; and Matilda, surprised at her sudden emotion,
put the box and magnifying glass into her hand. Madame de Rosier's hand
trembled so much that she could not fix the glass.

"Je ne vois rien--lisez--vite!--ma chere amie--un mot de plus!" said she,
putting the glass again into Matilda's hand, and leaning over her
shoulder with a look of agonizing expectation.

The word _de_ was all Matilda could make out--Isabella tried--it was in
vain--no other letters were visible.

"_De_ what?--_de_ Rosier!--it must be! my son is alive!" said the mother.

Henri-Montmorenci was the name of Mad. de Rosier's son; but when she
reflected for an instant that this might also be the name of some other
person, her transport of joy was checked, and seemed to be converted into
despair.

Her first emotions over, the habitual firmness of her mind returned. She
sent directly to the repository--no news of the boy could there be
obtained. Lady N---- was gone, for a few days, to Windsor; so no
intelligence could be had from her. Mrs. Harcourt was out--no carriage
at home--but Mad. de Rosier set out immediately, and walked to
Golden-square, near which place she knew that a number of French
emigrants resided. She stopped first at a bookseller's shop; she
described the person of her son, and inquired if any such person had been
seen in that neighbourhood.

The bookseller was making out a bill for one of his customers, but struck
with Mad. de Rosier's anxiety, and perceiving that she was a foreigner by
her accent, he put down his pen, and begged her to repeat, once more, the
description of her son. He tried to recollect whether he had seen such a
person--but he had not. He, however, with true English good-nature, told
her that she had an excellent chance of finding him in this part of the
town, if he were in London--he was sorry that his shopman was from home,
or he would have sent him with her through the streets near the square,
where he knew the emigrants chiefly lodged;--he gave her in writing a
list of the names of these streets, and stood at his door to watch and
speed her on her way.

She called at the neighbouring shops--she walked down several narrow
streets, inquiring at every house, where she thought that there was any
chance of success, in vain. At one a slip-shod maid-servant came to the
door, who stared at seeing a well-dressed lady, and who was so
bewildered, that she could not, for some time, answer any questions; at
another house the master was out; at another, the master was at dinner.
As it got towards four o'clock, Mad. de Rosier found it more difficult to
obtain civil answers to her inquiries, for almost all the tradesmen were
at dinner, and when they came to the door, looked out of humour, at being
interrupted, and disappointed at not meeting with a customer. She walked
on, her mind still indefatigable:--she heard a clock in the neighbourhood
strike five--her strength was not equal to the energy of her mind--and
the repeated answers of, "We know of no such person"--"No such boy lives
here, ma'am," made her at length despair of success.

One street upon her list remained unsearched--it was narrow, dark, and
dirty;--she stopped for a moment at the corner, but a porter, heavily
laden, with a sudden "By your leave, ma'am!" pushed forwards, and she was
forced into the doorway of a small ironmonger's shop. The master of the
shop, who was weighing some iron goods, let the scale go up, and, after a
look of surprise, said--

"You've lost your way, madam, I presume--be pleased to rest yourself--it
is but a dark place;" and wiping a stool, on which some locks had been
lying, he left Mad. de Rosier, who was, indeed, exhausted with fatigue,
to rest herself, whilst, without any officious civility, after calling
his wife from a back shop, to give the lady a glass of water, he went on
weighing his iron and whistling.

If you think books have dumbed down …
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Kerouac's On the Road manuscript travels to the Midlands

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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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