As you like to employ the time according to your own fancy, she has a
right to employ it according to hers, and I advise her to go and look
for Fanny."
Eugenia, who had nothing to urge, recommenced playing with Agatha,
but in such ill humour, that she only tried to contradict her,
making her run to the right and to the left against her inclination;
pulling her arm sometimes forward, sometimes backward, sometimes
upward, for she was taller than Agatha. Agatha got angry, tried in
vain to stop her, and not being able to extricate herself from her
hands, cried out with all her might to be let go. But Eugenia still
went on, saying, "You wished to run, then let us run."
They were, however, stopped at the entrance of an arbour, by the
governess, who was walking on this side. "If I were you," she said,
addressing Agatha, "I should go and play with Fanny; she would not
pull you so roughly by the arm."
"What does she want?" replied Eugenia. "I am doing what she wishes."
"But you do not do it in the manner that she wishes, and since you
have no right over her, you can only retain her by doing whatever she
pleases. Thus, the moment that you contradict her in the least thing,
that you do not yield to all her whims, that you do not accommodate
yourself to all her caprices, she will do quite right to go and play
with Fanny if Fanny suits her better."
"Very well, let her go," replied Eugenia. "She shall not touch my
great doll any more, nor look at my book of prints; and she shall not
have the chaplet of horse-chestnuts that I was going to make for her."
"But I did not say that I would go and play with Fanny," replied
Agatha, almost crying at the thought of not having the chaplet of
horse-chestnuts, "only do not pull my arm so violently." Peace was
made. It was now the time for going in; besides, Agatha, dreadfully
frightened at the thought of losing the chaplet, did all day just
whatever Eugenia pleased; so there were no more quarrels on that
occasion.
But they soon recommenced. The mistress said to Eugenia, "Try to love
Agatha a little more if you would not have her prefer Fanny."
"And do I not love her enough?" said Eugenia. "I am constantly making
her presents, and only the day before yesterday, I gave her my
prettiest work-box."
"Yes, after having refused it to her for three days, although you saw
that she longed for it very much! But when she thought of telling you
that Fanny had one quite as pretty, which she had almost promised
her, then with a very bad grace you gave her yours. You did not care
about giving her this pleasure, but you were afraid lest another
should give it. If you took half the pains to make her love you, that
you take to prevent her loving others, you would succeed much better."
But Eugenia did not understand this. She loved Agatha as a doll
which amused her, and with which she did what she pleased. She
carried her on her shoulders for her own sport, sent her to fetch her
handkerchief, or her work, when she had forgotten it, made herself
absolute mistress of the little garden which had been given to them
in common, and carefully watched that she did not obey the wishes of
others, as she would then have been less attentive to hers. Agatha
liked Eugenia because she made her presents, and gave her little
card-board carriages and other things which amused her, but above all
because, being much older, cleverer, and more advanced than herself,
she did almost all her work for her unknown to the mistresses.
Eugenia never restrained on her account either her ill-humour or her
caprices. She left her to weary herself when she was not disposed
to amuse her, and when the others were too much occupied to do so
in her place. She was especially jealous of Fanny, because she knew
that Fanny, who was sensible, and manifested a friendship for Agatha,
would have paid her more attention than she herself cared to be at
the trouble of paying.
The holidays were at hand: Eugenia was going to pass three weeks
in the country, at her home, but Agatha, whose parents resided at
a great distance, could not go away. Eugenia felt sorry to leave
her, but she was consoled by the thought that Fanny was going as
well as herself. It so happened that Agatha after being completely
ennuyée during the first few days, took it into her head to work, in
order to amuse herself. As Eugenia was not there for her to depend
upon, she endeavoured to succeed by herself. She was praised for her
application; this encouraged her, and she became so fond of working,
that she made, especially in embroidery, astonishing progress. She
mentioned nothing of this in her letters to Eugenia, as she wished
to surprise her; but when the latter returned, Agatha showed her a
beautiful bag that she had commenced. "It is very well," said Eugenia
coldly, for she never willingly gave praise; then taking the work
out of her hands, she was going to do some of it; but Agatha no
longer wished any one to touch her work, and therefore prevented her.
Eugenia became angry, and when Agatha asked her advice on some point,
she said, "Oh, you can do very well without it, you have become so
clever." Afterwards wishing to know for whom the work was intended,
and Agatha refusing to tell her, she asserted that it was for Fanny,
or for some new friend which she had made during her absence. Agatha
merely laughed, and continued her work. However, she performed many
little acts of friendship for Eugenia, who repelled them because
she saw her also kind to her other schoolfellows, whom she was very
glad to see again. The ill-humour of Eugenia was still further
increased by finding that Agatha, who was now more industrious and
more tractable, and disturbed the other girls less in their work and
in their games, was better received among them, while she on her
part felt more pleasure in their society. Still she always preferred
Eugenia; but as the latter passed her time in quarrelling with her,
they frequently separated in anger.
One day when Agatha had just finished her work-bag, had lined it with
rose-colour, and had put in the strings, the girls showed it to one
another, and admired it, and all were astonished at the progress she
had made. Agatha, greatly pleased, glanced at Eugenia, who ought to
have guessed her intention, but her ill temper completely blinded her.
"It is very tiresome," she said, "to hear people constantly talking
of the same thing."
"What!" replied Agatha, "are you sorry to hear them speak well of me?"
"What does it signify to me," said Eugenia, "since you no longer
love me." Then, taking the bag from the hands of the girl who held
it, "Let me see this beautiful bag," she continued, "I am the only
one to whom you have not shown it!" then seizing it roughly, she
crumpled it, soiled it, and rolling it up into a little ball, she
began running about and tossing it up in her hands. She thought it
was for Fanny, because for two days she and Agatha had held long
consultations together respecting the manner of putting in the
strings. Agatha ran after her crying, and quite in despair at seeing
her work thus pulled about. All the other girls also pursued Eugenia,
who seeing herself surrounded, wanted to put it under her feet, in
order to be able to retain it, or perhaps to tear it to pieces. But
just at the moment, when she was stooping down for this purpose,
one of the girls pulled her by the dress and made her fall upon the
grass. The bag was left free: Fanny picked it up and carried it in
triumph to Agatha, who being the smallest had arrived the last. She
threw herself upon Fanny's neck, exclaiming, "It was for Eugenia, it
shall now be for you. It is you who shall be my friend." Eugenia,
as she had only herself to blame, became all the more enraged, and
declared that she would never have another friend.
Agatha, however, was grieved at having given her pain, and wished to
be reconciled to her; even Fanny, who was kind and gentle, wanted to
give up the bag to her; but Eugenia, still angry, declared that if
she took it, it would only be to throw it over the garden walls; nor
would she speak to Agatha, except to call her _a little ungrateful
thing_.
"Did she owe you then much gratitude?" asked the governess.
"Certainly she did, for all that I have done for her?"
"And what did she owe you for all that you have refused her?"
"Was I then obliged to yield to all her whims?"
"It would appear so, since you wished her to yield to all yours."
"That would have been a difficult matter to settle," said Eugenia
pettishly.
"And you see that it has not been settled. What motive could Agatha
have to induce her to comply with your wishes?"
"I complied with hers often enough."
"Yes, but when your inclinations were opposed, why should it be hers
that must yield? For myself I cannot see why."
"It was because she did not love me."
"And because you did not love her either, since you did not yield to
her more."
"I certainly loved her much more than she loved me, for I always
wished to be with her; but as for her, so long as she was amused, it
was much the same to her whether she was with me or not."
"You should then have tried to become necessary to her."
"I do not know how I should have done that."
"Nothing would have been more easy, if you had shown yourself pleased
whenever she expressed pleasure, no matter whence that pleasure came.
If, for instance, when Louisa called her to look at her book of
prints, instead of being angry at her leaving you, you had appeared
glad that she was going to be amused, then as her joy would have been
increased, by her seeing you pleased, she would never have looked at
a picture without wishing to show it to you; for her pleasure could
never be perfect unless you partook of it, and she would have ended
quite naturally, by not desiring those enjoyments which you could not
share; but for this you ought to have begun by interesting yourself
in her pleasures rather than in your own."
"It was hardly worth the trouble of loving her," said Eugenia
bitterly, "if it was to have been for her pleasure, and not for my
own."
"Then it was yourself that you loved, and not her."
This conversation did not correct Eugenia. She perceived, indeed, the
truth of what had been said to her, but she was deficient in that
sentiment of friendship which leads us to think of others before
ourselves. As her first impulse, always, was to consider what she
wished others to do for her, her second was a feeling of annoyance
at their not having acted sufficiently to her liking; in such a
case, it was useless to hope that she would think of what she owed
to them. Always commencing by imagining that they had acted wrongly
towards her, she did not consider herself under any obligation to
them; she was ignorant of the delight that is experienced, in making
a sacrifice for those we love; and being constantly dissatisfied with
others, she never enjoyed the pleasure of feeling satisfied with
herself.
She did not endeavour to make new friends in the school. What
had passed between her and Agatha, and the conversations of the
governess, had convinced her, that in order to do so, she had too
much to overcome in her own disposition. Besides, the adventure
of the embroidered bag had caused her companions to form a worse
opinion of her than she deserved. She was therefore passing her
time very drearily, when a great misfortune befel her. She lost her
father, and this loss was the more grievous, as her mother had been
long dead, and she was now consequently left quite an orphan. Her
companions displayed much concern for her affliction, and especially
Fanny, who, grieved at having given her pain, on account of Agatha,
was constantly seeking opportunities of being with her. For a time,
as all were occupied about her, Eugenia was pleased with every one;
and as this state of mind rendered her more gentle and considerate,
they imagined that her character had altered, and again began to
love her. But when, after having occupied themselves for some time
with her griefs, her companions returned to their ordinary games and
conversations, she was as much shocked at hearing them laugh, as if
they had all lost their parents. The mistress one day found her in
tears, and complaining that no one any longer took an interest in her
misfortunes.
"Eugenia," said the governess, "who is there among your companions
for whom, in a similar case, you would have interrupted for a longer
period your ordinary occupations and amusements?"
Eugenia only replied by saying, "that no one loved her in that
school, and that she wished she could leave it." This satisfaction
was soon granted to her. Her father's life had been shortened by the
grief occasioned by the bad state of his affairs. When he was dead,
his creditors came together, and made a small annual allowance
to his children; this, however, was not sufficient to defray the
expenses of Eugenia's education, and that of her brother Edward, who
was pursuing his studies in one of the colleges of Germany. It was
therefore arranged that they should both be placed with a cousin, an
elderly lady, who consented to be satisfied with the allowance made.
Eugenia was transported with joy, at the thought of living with her
brother, whom she had not seen for ten years, but who wrote her such
charming letters, and who besides, as she was his only sister, ought
certainly to love her better than any one else in the world.
She was still more enchanted when she saw him. She was then fourteen
years of age, and her brother seventeen; he was tall and handsome,
as well as mild, amiable, and intelligent. He was exceedingly kind
to her, and promised to teach her all he knew himself; he told her
that since they had no fortune, he must try to make one for them, and
began by giving her half the little money he had brought with him
from Germany. Eugenia wept for joy at the kindness of her brother.
When he was gone, she could talk of nothing else. She asked all her
companions, whether they had seen him, and whether they did not
think him handsome; she related the slightest particular of their
conversation, and all that he had done and all that he had seen:
there was not a town through which he had passed the name of which
she did not pronounce with some emphasis. If she forgot anything,
she said, "I will ask him to-morrow when he comes." "Is he coming,
then?" said the little ones, who, always inquisitive, had formed the
project of putting themselves in ambuscade near the door, in order
to see what Eugenia's brother was like. "Oh! he cannot fail," said
Eugenia, with an air of importance; she already seemed to think that
her brother lived only for her convenience, and had nothing to do but
to come and see her.
The next day came, but Edward did not make his appearance. Eugenia,
greatly agitated, watched the door and the clock. "He must have
mistaken the hour," said she. But it was not the hour apparently,
but the day that he had mistaken, for it passed and still he did
not come. Neither did he make his appearance on the following day.
Eugenia's heart was bursting with grief and vexation, and her
annoyance was increased by the derision of the little girls, who
incessantly repeated, "_Oh! he cannot fail to come_."
"I shall scold him well," said Eugenia, pretending to laugh. The
following day she was sent for, as a person had come to take her
to her cousin's house. She did not doubt that her brother had also
come; but she only saw her cousin's old cook, who told her in a
grumbling tone to make haste because the coach must only be kept
an hour, and that it was already dear enough. But Eugenia did not
understand her. Quite bewildered at not seeing Edward with her,
she already thought herself forgotten and abandoned. She scarcely
embraced her companions, who had surrounded her to bid her farewell,
but throwing herself into the coach began to weep, while the cook
kept grumbling between her teeth, "that it was well worth the trouble
of coming to eat other people's bread only to complain under their
very eyes." It was nevertheless certain that the small sum paid for
the board of Eugenia and Edward was an advantage to their cousin,
who was not rich; but the cook was avaricious, and out of humour,
and did not reflect, so that thus she only saw the extra expense.
Besides, she was accustomed to govern her mistress, who, provided
she had every day a dinner which suited her dog and her cat, fresh
chickweed for her birds, and nuts for her parrot, allowed the cook to
do just as she pleased. The arrival of these two additional guests
quite disconcerted her. Eugenia felt distressed and humiliated, but
did not, however, dare to complain. She was no longer with persons
to whom she had been accustomed to exhibit her ill humour, and her
new position intimidated her. As to her cousin, with whom she was
acquainted, she knew very well that she would not torment her, but
she also knew that she would in no way trouble herself about her;
and it was especially requisite to Eugenia's happiness that people
should take an interest in her. Therefore it was of Edward alone
that she thought. It was he whom she was anxious to see, in order to
let the whole weight of her vexation fall upon him; it was on his
account that she was careful on entering not to conceal her eyes too
much under her bonnet, so that he might clearly see that she had been
weeping.
She entered the room, but he was not there. The table was laid, but
only for two: she saw that Edward would not come, would not dine with
her on the day of her arrival. She did not inquire for him, for she
could not speak. Her cousin wished her good morning, just as if she
had seen her on the previous evening, and did not even perceive that
her eyes were red with crying. But the moment she began to eat her
bosom swelled, and a sob escaped her which made her cousin raise her
eyes.
"You are sorry to leave your school, my dear," she said; "that is
quite natural, but you will soon get over that." Then, without
thinking any more about it, or even troubling herself to see whether
Eugenia was eating or not, she began to give the cat and dog their
dinners, and to talk to Catau, who, being very ill-mannered, either
did not reply at all or gave wrong answers, so that she had to repeat
the same question twenty times over. After dinner, an old lodger
in the house came up to play a game at piquet, which lasted until
the evening. Eugenia could therefore torment or comfort herself,
or sulk at her leisure, without there being any one to call her to
account for it. At last she heard Edward arrive; she was so greatly
delighted, that she endeavoured to frown as much as possible on
receiving him, and succeeded so well in giving a gloomy expression to
her face, that Edward, who ran eagerly to embrace her, drew back a
step or two to inquire what was the matter with her.
"Oh! nothing is the matter with me," she said drily.
He insisted upon knowing, and as she persisted in giving similar
answers to his inquiries, he at last pretty well conjectured the
cause of her annoyance, and explained to her that during the last
three days he had been occupied in visiting some of his father's
relations, whom he wished to conciliate, in order to see if they
could obtain any employment for him; and on this day he had been to
visit one of them who lived at a considerable distance, and who could
not be seen until four o'clock, so that he had been unable to return
by dinner-time. He then reminded her, that it was very unreasonable
to be so vexed, and tried to joke with her; but seeing that she
neither yielded to reason nor pleasantry, he went off singing, and
seated himself for a moment beside the piquet-players. Presently
after he went to his room, having first gaily kissed his sister, in
order to prove to her, that for his part he was not out of humour.
Eugenia was very much annoyed that he took the matter so easily;
and although she had a little recovered, she thought she ought to
preserve her dignity as an offended person. Thus, when Edward, on
the following morning, asked her whether she would like him to give
her some lessons in drawing, she replied coldly, "that she did not
know, that she would see." Edward, believing that she was indifferent
about the matter, did not urge it further, and she was very much
annoyed that he had taken quite literally what she had said. He went
out, and she became angry with him for leaving her, although she
had not accepted his proposition to remain. He returned to dinner,
greatly delighted at having met one of his old companions. His friend
had introduced him to his father, and the latter had invited him to
spend a few days with them in the country during the summer. Eugenia
observed drily, that he was in a great hurry to leave them.
"It is not just now, and it is only for a few days," replied Edward.
"Would you not have taken advantage of a similar offer if it had
presented itself to you?"
"Oh! as to that, no such offer would have been made to me."
"And is it then on this account that you are sorry I should profit by
it?" said Edward, with still more gentleness than before.
Eugenia began to cry: she felt the injustice of that egotism, which
could not endure that those she loved should enjoy any pleasure which
she did not share; but it was in her heart, and she did not know how
to conquer it. Edward kissed her, comforted her, and passed the whole
evening with her, talking to her of their affairs, of his projects,
and of a thousand other rational subjects. Eugenia, quite delighted,
thought, when she went to bed, that no one could have a more amiable
brother than herself. The following days passed off very well. He
had proposed to her to employ a part of their mornings in reading
English together, and this they had done; but as he was very anxious
to gain information, he had been advised to attend some of the public
lectures, and to visit the manufactories. The mornings being thus
taken up, he proposed to defer the English until the evening; but
Eugenia, who was displeased that the lesson did not take precedence
of everything else, replied that she did not like studying at night.
Edward said no more about the matter.
By degrees he ceased altogether to speak about his affairs. He would
have had the greatest pleasure in giving her an account of his
proceedings, but Eugenia was always annoyed at those occupations
which took him away from home, and listened to his accounts of them
in so cold and listless a manner, and sometimes even she was so much
displeased, that, fancying she took no interest in his pleasures,
he soon became silent, and did not again recur to them. Certain of
not being able to speak a word without giving her pain, he became
uncomfortable and constrained in her society. In the evening, after
having spent some time behind the piquet-table of his cousin, in
studying his words, he either retired to his room, or went out. As
for Eugenia, she could never go out, for her cousin was subject to
rheumatism, and would not have dared to expose herself to the air;
and, besides, would not have put herself out of the way on Eugenia's
account. Tears often started into Edward's eyes, when he looked upon
his sister, and thought of the melancholy life she led; but if he
wished to speak a kind word to her, she repulsed him with so much
asperity, that he renounced the hope of ever being able to render her
happy.
As he was extremely sensible for his age, his father's friends
had introduced him into several families, where he had been well
received, and was sometimes invited to spend the evening with them.
The idea that he could amuse himself while she was wearied to death,
threw Eugenia into despair. The house that he mostly frequented, was
that of Fanny's aunt, with whom Fanny had resided since she left
school, as her mother had been long dead. Eugenia was indignant that
Fanny had not sought to renew their acquaintance, though Edward had
assured her that she had the greatest wish to do so, but was not
permitted by her aunt, on account of their old cousin, whom she did
not like. Eugenia persuaded herself, however, that Fanny had not done
as much as she could have done. She was angry with the aunt, with the
niece, and with Edward, who took pleasure in their society, and who
no longer dared to speak to her of Fanny's amiability and kindness,
as on two or three occasions he had attempted to do.
Eugenia sometimes saw Mademoiselle Benoît. This lady was the
governess who had so vainly endeavoured to make her more reasonable.
Her griefs were the only topic of their conversation, and Edward was
the text.