A Little Innocent
Every house has its skeleton in it somewhere, and it may be a comfort
to some unhappy folks to think that the luckier and most wealthy of
their neighbours have their miseries and causes of disquiet. Our little
innocent Muse of Blanche, who sang so nicely and talked so sweetly, you
would have thought she must have made sunshine where ever she went, was
the skeleton, or the misery, or the bore, or the Nemesis of Clavering
House, and of most of the inhabitants thereof. As one little stone in
your own shoe or your horse’s, suffices to put either to torture and to
make your journey miserable, so in life a little obstacle is sufficient
to obstruct your entire progress, and subject you to endless annoyance
and disquiet. Who would have guessed that such a smiling little fairy
as Blanche Amory could be the cause of discord in any family?
“I say, Strong,” one day the Baronet said, as the pair were conversing
after dinner over the billiard-table, and that great unbosomer of
secrets, a cigar; “I say, Strong, I wish to the doose your wife was
dead.”
“So do I. That’s a cannon, by Jove. But she won’t; she’ll live for
ever—you see if she don’t. Why do you wish her off the hooks, Frank, my
boy?” asked Captain Strong.
“Because then you might marry Missy. She ain’t bad-looking. She’ll have
ten thousand, and that’s a good bit of money for such a poor old devil
as you,” drawled out the other gentleman.
“And gad, Strong, I hate her worse and worse every day. I can’t stand
her, Strong, by gad, I can’t.”
“I wouldn’t take her at twice the figure,” Captain Strong said,
laughing. “I never saw such a little devil in my life.”
“I should like to poison her,” said the sententious Baronet; “by Jove I
should.”
“Why, what has she been at now?” asked his friend.
“Nothing particular,” answered Sir Francis; “only her old tricks. That
girl has such a knack of making everybody miserable that, hang me, it’s
quite surprising. Last night she sent the governess crying away from
the dinner-table. Afterwards, as I was passing Frank’s room, I heard
the poor little beggar howling in the dark, and found his sister had
been frightening his soul out of his body, by telling him stories about
the ghost that’s in the house. At lunch she gave my lady a turn; and
though my wife’s a fool, she’s a good soul—I’m hanged if she ain’t.”
“What did Missy do to her?” Strong asked.
“Why, hang me, if she didn’t begin talking about the late Amory, my
predecessor,” the Baronet said, with a grin. “She got some picture out
of the Keepsake, and said she was sure it was like her dear father, She
wanted to know where her father’s grave was. Hang her father! Whenever
Miss Amory talks about him, Lady Clavering always bursts out crying:
and the little devil will talk about him in order to spite her mother.
Today when she began, I got in a confounded rage; said I was her
father; and—and that sort of thing, and then, sir, she took a shy at
me.”
“And what did she say about you, Frank?” Mr. Strong, still laughing,
inquired of his friend and patron.
“Gad, she said I wasn’t her father; that I wasn’t fit to comprehend
her; that her father must have been a man of genius, and fine feelings,
and that sort of thing: whereas I had married her mother for money.”
“Well, didn’t you?” asked Strong.
“It don’t make it any the pleasanter to hear because it’s true, don’t
you know,” Sir Francis Clavering answered. “I ain’t a literary man and
that; but I ain’t such a fool as she makes me out. I don’t know how it
is, but she always manages to put me in the hole, don’t you understand.
She turns all the house round her in her quiet way, and with her
confounded sentimental airs. I wish she was dead, Ned.”
“It was my wife whom you wanted dead just now,” Strong said, always in
perfect good-humour; upon which the Baron with his accustomed candour,
said, “Well; when people bore my life out, I do wish they were dead,
and I wish Missy were down a well, with all my heart.”
Thus it will be seen from the above report of this candid conversation
that our accomplished little friend had some peculiarities or defects
of character which rendered her not very popular. She was a young lady
of some genius, exquisite sympathies and considerable literary
attainments, living, like many another genius, with relatives who could
not comprehend her. Neither her mother nor her stepfather were persons
of a literary turn. Bell’s Life and the Racing Calendar were the extent
of the Baronet’s reading, and Lady Clavering still wrote like a
schoolgirl of thirteen, and with an extraordinary disregard to grammar
and spelling. And as Miss Amory felt very keenly that she was not
appreciated, and that she lived with persons who were not her equals in
intellect or conversational power, she lost no opportunity to acquaint
her family circle with their inferiority to herself, and not only was a
martyr, but took care to let everybody know that she was so. If she
suffered, as she said and thought she did, severely, are we to wonder
that a young creature of such delicate sensibilities should shriek and
cry out a good deal? Without sympathy life is nothing; and would it not
have been a want of candour on her part to affect a cheerfulness which
she did not feel, or pretend a respect for those towards whom it was
quite impossible she should entertain any reverence? If a poetess may
not bemoan her lot, of what earthly use is her lyre? Blanche struck
hers only to the saddest of tunes; and sang elegies over her dead
hopes, dirges over her early frost-nipt buds of affection, as became
such a melancholy fate and Muse.
Her actual distresses, as we have said, had not been up to the present
time very considerable: but her griefs lay; like those of most of us,
in her own soul—that being sad and habitually dissatisfied, what wonder
that she should weep? So Mes Larmes dribbled out of her eyes any day at
command: she could furnish an unlimited supply of tears, and her
faculty of shedding them increased by practice. For sentiment is like
another complaint mentioned by Horace, as increasing by self-indulgence
(I am sorry to say, ladies, that the complaint in question is called
the dropsy), and the more you cry, the more you will be able and
desirous to do so.
Missy had begun to gush at a very early age. Lamartine was her
favourite bard from the period when she first could feel: and she had
subsequently improved her mind by a sedulous study of novels of the
great modern authors of the French language. There was not a romance of
Balzac and George Sand which the indefatigable little creature had not
devoured—by the time she was sixteen: and, however little she
sympathised with her relatives at home, she had friends, as she said,
in the spirit-world, meaning the tender Indiana, the passionate and
poetic Lelia, the amiable Trenmor, that high-souled convict, that angel
of the galleys,—the fiery Stenio,—and the other numberless heroes of
the French romances. She had been in love with Prince Rodolph and
Prince Djalma while she was yet at school, and had settled the divorce
question, and the rights of woman, with Indiana, before she had left
off pinafores. The impetuous little lady played at love with these
imaginary worthies as a little while before she had played at maternity
with her doll. Pretty little poetical spirits! It is curious to watch
them with those playthings. To-day the blue-eyed one is the favourite,
and the black-eyed one is pushed behind the drawers. To-morrow
blue-eyes may take its turn of neglect and it may be an odious little
wretch with a burnt nose, or torn bead of hair, and no eyes at all,
that takes the first place in Miss’s affection, and is dandled and
caressed in her arms.
As novelists are supposed to know everything, even the secrets of
female hearts, which the owners themselves do not perhaps know, we may
state that at eleven years of age Mademoiselle Betsi, as Miss Amory was
then called, had felt tender emotions towards a young Savoyard
organ-grinder at Paris, whom she persisted in believing to be a prince
carried off from his parents; that at twelve an old and hideous
drawing-master (but, ah, what age or personal defects are proof against
woman’s love?) had agitated her young heart; and that, at thirteen,
being at Madame de Caramel’s boarding-school, in the Champs Elysees,
which, as everybody knows, is next door to Monsieur Rogron’s (Chevalier
of the Legion of Honour) pension for young gentlemen, a correspondence
by letter took place between the seduisante Miss Betsi and two young
gentlemen of the College of Charlemagne, who were pensioners of the
Chevalier Rogron.
In the above paragraph our young friend has been called by a Christian
name different to that under which we were lately presented to her. The
fact is, that Miss Amory, called Missy at home, had really at the first
been christened Betsy—but assumed the name of Blanche of her own will
and fantasy, and crowned herself with it; and the weapon which the
Baronet, her stepfather, held in terror over her, was the threat to
call her publicly by her name of Betsy, by which menace he sometimes
managed to keep the young rebel in order.
We have spoken just now of children’s dolls, and of the manner in which
those little people take up and neglect their darling toys, and very
likely this history will show that Miss Blanche assumed and put away
her live dolls with a similar girlish inconstancy. She had had hosts of
dear, dear, darling, friends ere now, and had quite a little museum of
locks of hair in her treasure-chest, which she had gathered in the
course of her sentimental progress. Some dear friends had married: some
had gone to other schools: one beloved sister she had lost from the
pension, and found again, O, horror! her darling, her Leocadie keeping
the books in her father’s shop, a grocer in the Rue du Bac: in fact,
she had met with a number of disappointments, estrangements,
disillusionments, as she called them in her pretty French jargon, and
had seen and suffered a great deal for so young a woman. But it is the
lot of sensibility to suffer, and of confiding tenderness to be
deceived, and she felt that she was only undergoing the penalties of
genius in these pangs and disappointments of her young career.
Meanwhile, she managed to make the honest lady, her mother, as
uncomfortable as circumstances would permit; and caused her worthy
stepfather to wish she was dead. With the exception of Captain Strong,
whose invincible good-humour was proof against her sarcasms, the little
lady ruled the whole house with her tongue. If Lady Clavering talked
about Sparrowgrass instead of Asparagus, or called an object a hobject,
as this unfortunate lady would sometimes do, Missy calmly corrected
her, and frightened the good soul, her mother, into errors only the
more frequent as she grew more nervous under her daughter’s eye.
It is not to be supposed, considering the vast interest which the
arrival of the family at Clavering Park inspired in the inhabitants of
the little town, that Madame Fribsby alone, of all the folks in
Clavering, should have remained unmoved and incurious. At the first
appearance of the Park family in church, Madame noted every article of
toilette which the ladies wore, from their bonnets to their brodequins,
and took a survey of the attire of the ladies’ maids in the pew
allotted to them. We fear that Doctor Portman’s sermon, though it was
one of his oldest and most valued compositions, had little effect upon
Madame Fribsby on that day.
In a very few days afterwards, she had managed for herself an interview
with Lady Clavering’s confidential attendant in the housekeeper’s room
at the Park; and her cards in French and English, stating that she
received the newest fashions from Paris from her correspondent Madame
Victorine, and that she was in the custom of making court and ball
dresses for the nobility and gentry of the shire, were in the
possession of Lady Clavering and Miss Amory, and favourably received,
as she was happy to hear, by those ladies.
Mrs. Bonner, Lady Clavering’s lady, became soon a great frequenter of
Madame Fribsby’s drawing-room, and partook of many entertainments at
the milliner’s expense. A meal of green tea, scandal, hot Sally-Lunn
cakes, and a little novel reading, were always at the service of Mrs.
Bonner, whenever she was free to pass an evening in the town. And she
found much more time for these pleasures than her junior officer, Miss
Amory’s maid, who seldom could be spared for a holiday, and was worked
as hard as any factory-girl by that inexorable little Muse, her
mistress.
The Muse loved to be dressed becomingly, and, having a lively fancy and
a poetic desire for change, was for altering her attire every day. Her
maid having a taste in dressmaking—to which art she had been an
apprentice at Paris, before she entered into Miss Blanche’s service
there—was kept from morning till night altering and remodelling Miss
Amory’s habiliments; and rose very early and went to bed very late, in
obedience to the untiring caprices of her little taskmistress. The girl
was of respectable English parents. There are many of our people,
colonists of Paris, who have seen better days, who are not quite
ruined, who do not quite live upon charity, and yet cannot get on
without it; and as her father was a cripple incapable of work, and her
return home would only increase the burthen and add to the misery of
the family, poor Pincott was fain to stay where she could maintain
herself, and spare a little relief to her parents.
Our Muse, with the candour which distinguished her, never failed to
remind her attendant of the real state of matters. “I should send you
away, Pincott, for you are a great deal too weak, and your eyes are
failing you, and you are always crying and snivelling and wanting the
doctor; but I wish that your parents at home should be supported, and I
go on enduring you for their sake, mind,” the dear Blanche would say to
her timid little attendant. Or, “Pincott, your wretched appearance and
slavish manner, and red eyes, positively give me the migraine; and I
think I shall make you wear rouge, so that you may look a little
cheerful;” or, “Pincott, I can’t bear, even for the sake of your
starving parents, that you should tear my hair out of my head in that
manner; and I will thank you to write to them and say that I dispense
with your services.” After which sort of speeches, and after keeping
her for an hour trembling over her hair, which the young lady loved to
have combed, as she perused one of her favourite French novels, she
would go to bed at one o’clock, and say, “Pincott, you may kiss me.
Good night. I should like you to have the pink dress ready for the
morning.” And so with blessing upon her attendant, she would turn round
and go to sleep.
The Muse might lie in bed as long as she chose of a morning, and
availed herself of that privilege; but Pincott had to rise very early
indeed to get her mistress’s task done; and had to appear next day with
the same red eyes and the same wan face, which displeased Miss Amory by
their want of gaiety, and caused the mistress to be so angry, because
the servant persisted in being and looking unwell and unhappy. Not that
Blanche ever thought she was a hard mistress. Indeed, she made quite a
friend of Pincott, at times, and wrote some very pretty verses about
the lonely little tiring-maid, whose heart was far away. Our beloved
Blanche was a superior being, and expected to be waited upon as such.
And I do not know whether there are any other ladies in this world who
treat their servants or dependants so, but it may be that there are
such, and that the tyranny which they exercise over their subordinates,
and the pangs which they can manage to inflict with a soft voice, and a
well-bred simper, are as cruel as those which a slave-driver
administers with an oath and a whip.
But Blanche was a Muse—a delicate little creature, quite tremulous with
excitability, whose eyes filled with tears at the smallest emotion; and
who knows, but that it was the very fineness of her feelings which
caused them to be froissed so easily? You crush a butterfly by merely
touching it. Vulgar people have no idea of the sensibility of a Muse.
So little Pincott being occupied all day and night in stitching,
hemming, ripping, combing, ironing, crimping, for her mistress; reading
to her when in bed,—for the girl was mistress of the two languages, and
had a sweet voice and manner—could take no share in Madame Fribsby’s
soirees, nor indeed was she much missed, or considered of sufficient
consequence to appear at their entertainments.
But there was another person connected with the Clavering
establishment, who became a constant guest of our friend, the milliner.
This was the chief of the kitchen, Monsieur Mirobolant, with whom
Madame Fribsby soon formed an intimacy.
Not having been accustomed to the appearance or society of persons of
the French nation, the rustic inhabitants of Clavering were not so
favourably impressed by Monsieur Alcide’s manners and appearance, as
that gentleman might have desired that they should be. He walked among
them quite unsuspiciously upon the afternoon of a summer day, when his
services were not required at the House, in his usual favourite
costume, namely, his light green frock or paletot, his crimson velvet
waistcoat, with blue glass buttons, his pantalon Ecossais, of a very
large and decided check pattern, his orange satin neckcloth, and his
jean-boots, with tips of shiny leather,—these, with a gold-embroidered
cap, and a richly gilt cane, or other varieties of ornament of a
similar tendency, formed his usual holiday costume, in which he
flattered himself there was nothing remarkable (unless, indeed, the
beauty of his person should attract observation), and in which he
considered that he exhibited the appearance of a gentleman of good
Parisian ton.
He walked then down the street, grinning and ogling every woman he met
with glances, which he meant should kill them outright, and peered over
the railings, and in at the windows, where females were, in the
tranquil summer evening. But Betsy, Mrs. Pybus’s maid, shrank back with
a Lor bless us, as Alcide ogled her over the laurel-bush; the Miss
Bakers, and their mamma, stared with wonder; and presently a crowd
began to follow the interesting foreigner, of ragged urchins and
children, who left their dirt-pies in the street to pursue him.
For some time he thought that admiration was the cause which led these
persons in his wake, and walked on, pleased himself that he could so
easily confer on others so much harmless pleasure. But the little
children and dirt-pie manufacturers were presently succeeded by
followers of a larger growth, and a number of lads and girls from the
factory being let loose at this hour, joined the mob, and began
laughing, jeering, hooting, and calling opprobrious names at the
Frenchman. Some cried out “Frenchy! Frenchy!” some exclaimed “Frogs!”
one asked for a lock of his hair, which was long and in richly-flowing
ringlets; and at length the poor artist began to perceive that he was
an object of derision rather than of respect to the rude grinning mob.
It was at this juncture that Madame Fribsby spied the unlucky gentleman
with the train at his heels, and heard the scornful shouts with which
they assailed him. She ran out of her room, and across the street to
the persecuted foreigner; she held out her hand, and, addressing him in
his own language, invited him into her abode; and when she had housed
him fairly within her door, she stood bravely at the threshold before
the gibing factory girls and boys, and said they were a pack of cowards
to insult a poor man who could not speak their language, and was alone
and without protection. The little crowd, with some ironical cheers and
hootings, nevertheless felt the force of Madame Fribsby’s vigorous
allocution, and retreated before her; for the old lady was rather
respected in the place, and her oddity and her kindness had made her
many friends there.
Poor Mirobolant was grateful indeed to hear the language of his country
ever so ill spoken. Frenchmen pardon our faults in their language much
more readily than we excuse their bad English; and will face our
blunders throughout a long conversation, without the least propensity
to grin. The rescued artist vowed that Madame Fribsby was his guardian
angel, and that he had not as yet met with such suavity and politeness
among les Anglaises. He was as courteous and complimentary to her as if
it was the fairest and noblest of ladies whom he was addressing: for
Alcide Mirobolant paid homage after his fashion to all womankind, and
never dreamed of a distinction of ranks in the realms of beauty, as his
phrase was.
A cream, flavoured with pineapple—a mayonnaise of lobster, which he
flattered himself was not unworthy of his hand, or of her to whom he
had the honour to offer it as an homage, and a box of preserved fruits
of Provence, were brought by one of the chef’s aides-de-camp, in a
basket, the next day to the milliner’s, and were accompanied with a
gallant note to the amiable Madame Fribsbi. “Her kindness,” Alcide
said, “had made a green place in the desert of his existence,—her
suavity would ever contrast in memory with the grossierete of the
rustic population, who were not worthy to possess such a jewel.” An
intimacy of the most confidential nature thus sprang up between the
milliner and the chief of the kitchen; but I do not know whether it was
with pleasure or mortification that Madame received the declarations of
friendship which the young Alcides proffered to her, for he persisted
in calling her “La respectable Fribsbi,” “La vertueuse Fribsbi,”—and in
stating that he should consider her as his mother, while he hoped she
would regard him as her son. Ah! it was not very long ago, Fribsby
thought, that words had been addressed to her in that dear French
language, indicating a different sort of attachment. And she sighed as
she looked up at the picture of her Carabineer. For it is surprising
how young some people’s hearts remain when their heads have need of a
front or a little hair-dye,—and, at this moment, Madame Fribsby, as she
told young Alcide, felt as romantic as a girl of eighteen.
When the conversation took this turn—and at their first intimacy Madame
Fribsby was rather inclined so to lead it—Alcide always politely
diverged to another subject: it was as his mother that he persisted in
considering the good milliner. He would recognise her in no other
capacity, and with that relationship the gentle lady was forced to
content herself, when she found how deeply the artist’s heart was
engaged elsewhere.
He was not long before he described to her the subject and origin of
his passion.
“I declared myself to her,” said Alcide, laying his hand on his heart,
“in a manner which was as novel as I am charmed to think it was
agreeable. Where cannot Love penetrate, respectable Madame Fribsbi?
Cupid is the father of invention!—I inquired of the domestics what were
the plats of which Mademoiselle partook with most pleasure; and built
up my little battery accordingly. On a day when her parents had gone to
dine in the world (and I am grieved to say that a grossier dinner at a
restaurateur, in the Boulevard, or in the Palais Royal seemed to form
the delights of these unrefined persons), the charming Miss entertained
some comrades of the pension; and I advised myself to send up a little
repast suitable to so delicate young palates. Her lovely name is
Blanche. The name of the maiden is white; the wreath of roses which she
wears is white. I determined that my dinner should be as spotless as
the snow. At her accustomed hour, and instead of the rude gigot a
l’eau, which was ordinarily served at her too simple table, I sent her
up a little potage a la Reine—a la Reine Blanche I called it,—as white
as her own tint—and confectioned with the most fragrant cream and
almonds. I then offered up at her shrine a filet de merlan à l’Agnes,
and a delicate plat which I designated as Eperlan a la Sainte-Therese,
and of which my charming Miss partook with pleasure. I followed this by
two little entrees of sweetbread and chicken; and the only brown thing
which I permitted myself in the entertainment was a little roast of
lamb, which I lay in a meadow of spinaches, surrounded with
croustillons, representing sheep, and ornamented with daisies and other
savage flowers. After this came my second service: a pudding a la Reine
Elizabeth (who, Madame Fribsbi knows, was a maiden princess); a dish of
opal-coloured plover’s eggs which I called Nid de tourtereaux a la
Roucoule; placing in the midst of them two of those tender volatiles,
billing each other, and confectioned with butter; a basket containing
little gateaux of apricots, which, I know, all young ladies adore; and
a jelly of marasquin, bland insinuating, intoxicating as the glance of
beauty. This I designated Ambroisie de Calypso a la Souveraine de mon
Coeur. And when the ice was brought in—an ice of plombiere and
cherries—how do you think I had shaped them, Madame Fribsbi? In the
form of two hearts united with an arrow, on which I had laid, before it
entered, a bridal veil in cut-paper, surmounted by a wreath of virginal
orange-flowers. I stood at the door to watch the effect of this entry.
It was but one cry of admiration. The three young ladies filled their
glasses with the sparkling Ay, and carried me in a toast. I heard it—I
heard Miss speak of me—I heard her say, ‘Tell Monsieur Mirobolant that
we thank him—we admire him—we love him!’ My feet almost failed me as
she spoke.
“Since that, can I have any reason to doubt that the young artist has
made some progress in the heart of the English Miss? I am modest, but
my glass informs me that I am not ill-looking. Other victories have
convinced me of the fact.”
“Dangerous man!” cried the milliner.
“The blond misses of Albion see nothing in the dull inhabitants of
their brumous isle, which can compare with the ardour and vivacity of
the children of the South. We bring our sunshine with us; we are
Frenchmen, and accustomed to conquer. Were it not for this affair of
the heart, and my determination to marry an Anglaise, do you think I
would stop in this island (which is not altogether ungrateful, since I
have found here a tender mother in the respectable Madame Fribsbi), in
this island, in this family? My genius would use itself in the company
of these rustics—the poesy of my art cannot be understood by these
carnivorous insularies. No—the men are odious, but the women—the women!
I own, dear Fribsbi, are seducing! I have vowed to marry one; and as I
cannot go into your markets and purchase, according to the custom of
the country, I am resolved to adopt another custom, and fly with one to
Gretna Grin. The blonde Miss will go. She is fascinated. Her eyes have
told me so. The white dove wants but the signal to fly.”
“Have you any correspondence with her?” asked Fribsby, in amazement,
and not knowing whether the young lady or the lover might be labouring
under a romantic delusion.
“I correspond with her by means of my art. She partakes of dishes which
I make expressly for her. I insinuate to her thus a thousand hints
which as she is perfectly spiritual, she receives. But I want other
intelligences near her.”
“There is Pincott, her maid,” said Madame Fribsby, who, by aptitude or
education, seemed to have some knowledge of affairs of the heart, but
the great artist’s brow darkened at this suggestion.
“Madame,” he said, “there are points upon which a gallant man ought to
silence himself; though, if he break the secret, he may do so with the
least impropriety to his best friend—his adopted mother. Know then,
that there is a cause why Miss Pincott should be hostile to me—a cause
not uncommon with your sex—jealousy.”
“Perfidious monster!” said the confidante.
“Ah, no,” said the artist, with a deep bass voice, and a tragic accent
worthy of the Port St Martin and his favourite melodrames, “not
perfidious, but fatal. Yes, I am a fatal man, Madame Fribsbi. To
inspire hopeless passion is my destiny. I cannot help it that women
love me. Is it my fault that that young woman deperishes and languishes
to the view of the eye, consumed by a flame which I cannot return?
Listen! There are others in this family who are similarly unhappy. The
governess of the young Milor has encountered me in my walks, and looked
at me in a way which can bear but one interpretation. And Milady
herself, who is of mature age, but who has oriental blood, has once or
twice addressed compliments to the lonely artist which can admit of no
mistake. I avoid the household, I seek solitude, I undergo my destiny.
I can marry but one, and am resolved it shall be to a lady of your
nation. And, if her fortune is sufficient I think Miss would be the
person who would be most suitable. I wish to ascertain what her means
are before I lead her to Gretna Grin.”
Whether Alcides was as irresistible a conqueror as his namesake, or
whether he was simply crazy, is a point which must be left to the
reader’s judgment. But the latter if he had had the benefit of much
French acquaintance, has perhaps met with men amongst them who fancied
themselves almost as invincible; and who, if you credit them, have made
equal havoc in the hearts of les Anglaises.