“Feels every vanity in fondness lost,
And asks no power but that of pleasing most.”
On Sunday evening a large company assembled at our heroine’s summons.
They were all seated in due form: the reader with his book open, and
waiting for the arrival of the bride, for whom a conspicuous place was
destined, where the spectators, and especially Mrs. Nettleby and our
Griselda, could enjoy a full view of her countenance.
“Lord bless me! it is getting late: I am afraid--I am really afraid
Mrs. Granby will not come.”
The ladies had time to discuss who and what she was: as she had lived
in the country, few of them had seen, or could tell any thing about
her; but our heroine circulated her opinion in whispers, and every
one was prepared to laugh at _the pattern wife, the original Griselda
revived_, as Mrs. Nettleby sarcastically called her.
Mrs. Granby was announced. The buzz was hushed and the titter
suppressed; affected gravity appeared in every countenance, and
all eyes turned with malicious curiosity upon the bride as she
entered.--The timidity of Emma’s first appearance was so free both
from awkwardness and affectation, that it interested at least every
gentleman present in her favour. Surrounded by strangers, but quite
unsuspicious that they were prepared to consider her as an object of
ridicule or satire, she won her way to the lady of the house, to whom
she addressed herself as to a friend.
“Is not she quite a different person from what you had expected?”
whispered one of the ladies to her neighbour, as Emma passed. Her
manner seemed to solicit indulgence rather than to provoke envy. She
was very sorry to find that the company had been waiting for her; she
had been detained by the sudden illness of Mr. Granby’s mother.
Whilst Emma was making this apology, some of the audience observed
that she had a remarkably sweet voice; others discovered that there
was something extremely feminine in her person. A gentleman, who saw
that she was distressed at the idea of being seated in the conspicuous
place to which she was destined by the lady of the house, got up, and
offered his seat, which she most thankfully accepted.
“Oh, my dear Mrs. Granby, I cannot possibly allow you to sit there,”
cried the lady of the house. “You must have the honours of the day,”
added she, seizing Emma’s hand to conduct her to the _place of
honour_.
“Pray excuse me,” said Mrs. Granby, “honours are so little suited to
me: I am perfectly well here.”
“But with that window _at your back_, my dear madam!” said Mrs.
Nettleby.
“I do not feel the slightest breath of air. But perhaps I crowd these
ladies.”
“Not in the least, not in the least,” said the ladies, who were on
each side of her: they were won by the irresistible gentleness of
Emma’s manner. Our heroine was vexed to be obliged to give up her
point; and relinquishing Mrs. Granby’s hand, returned to her own seat,
and said in a harsh tone to her husband,
“Well! my dear, if we are to have any reading to-night, you had better
begin.”
The reading began; and Emma was so completely absorbed, that she did
not perceive that most of the audience were intent upon her. Those who
act any part may be ridiculous in the playing it, but those are safe
from the utmost malignity of criticism who are perfectly unconscious
that they have any part to perform. Emma had been abashed at her first
appearance in an assembly of strangers, and concerned by the idea that
she had kept them waiting; but as soon as this embarrassment passed
over, her manners resumed their natural ease--a degree of ease which
surprised her judges, and which arose from the persuasion that she
was not of sufficient consequence to attract attention. Our heroine
was provoked by the sight of this insolent tranquillity, and was
determined that it should not long continue. The reader came to the
promise which Gualtherus exacts from his bride:--
“Swear that with ready will, and honest heart,
Like or dislike, without regret or art,
In presence or alone, by night or day,
All that I will, you fail not to obey;
All I intend to forward, that you seek,
Nor ever once object to what I speak.
Nor yet in part alone my wish fulfil;
Nor though you do it, do it with ill-will;
Nor with a forced compliance half refuse;
And acting duty, all the merit lose.
To strict obedience add a willing grace,
And let your soul be painted in your face;
No reasons given, and no pretences sought,
To swerve in deed or word, in look or thought.”
“Well, ladies!” cried the modern Griselda, “what do you think of
this?”
Shrill exclamations of various vehemence expressed with one accord the
sentiments, or rather feelings, of almost all the married ladies who
were present.
“Abominable! Intolerable! Insufferable! Horrible! I would rather have
seen the man perish at my feet; I would rather have died: I would have
remained unmarried all my life rather than have submitted to such
terms.”
A few young unmarried ladies who had not spoken, or who had not
been heard to speak in the din of tongues, were appealed to by the
gentlemen next them. They could not be prevailed upon to pronounce any
distinct opinion: they qualified, and hesitated, and softened, and
equivocated, and “were not positively able to judge, for really they
had never thought upon the subject.”
Upon the whole, however, it was evident that they did not betray that
natural horror which pervaded the more experienced matrons. All agreed
that the terms were “hard terms,” and ill expressed: some added, that
only love could persuade a woman to submit to them: and some still
more sentimental maidens, in a lower voice, were understood to say,
that as nothing is impossible to Cupid, they might be induced to
such submission; but that it must be by a degree of love which they
solemnly declared they had never felt or could imagine as yet.
“For my part,” cried the modern Griselda, “I would sooner have lived
an old maid to the days of Methusalem than have been so mean as to
have married any man on earth upon such terms. But I know there are
people who can never think ‘marriage dear-bought.’ My dear Mrs.
Granby, we have not yet heard your opinion, and we should have had
yours first, as bride.”
“I forgot that I was bride,” said Emma.
“Forgot! Is it possible?” cried Mrs. Nettleby: “now this is an excess
of modesty of which I have no notion.”
“But for which Mr. Granby,” continued our heroine, turning to Mr.
Granby, who at this moment entered the room, “ought to make his best
bow. Here is your lady, sir, who has just assured us that she forgot
she was a bride: bow to this exquisite humility.”
“Exquisite vanity!” cried Mr. Granby; “she knows
“‘How much the wife is dearer than the bride.’”
“She will be a singularly happy woman if she knows _that_ this time
twelvemonth,” replied our heroine, darting a reproachful look at her
silent husband. “In the mean time, do let us hear Mrs. Granby speak
for herself; I must have her opinion of Griselda’s promise to obey her
lord, right or wrong, in all things, no reasons given, to submit in
deed, and word, and look, and thought. If Mrs. Granby tells us that is
her theory, we must all reform our practice.”
Every eye was fixed upon Emma, and every ear was impatient for her
answer.
“I should never have imagined,” said she, smiling, “that any person’s
practice could be influenced by my theory, especially as I have no
theory.”
“No more humility, my dear; if you have no theory, you have an opinion
of your own, I hope, and we must have a distinct answer to this simple
question: Would you have made the promise that was required from
Griselda?”
“No,” answered Emma; “distinctly no; for I could never have loved or
esteemed the man who required such a promise.”
Disconcerted by this answer, which was the very reverse of what she
expected; amazed at the modest self-possession with which the timid
Emma spoke, and vexed by the symptoms of approbation which Emma’s
words and voice excited, our heroine called upon her husband, in a
more than usually authoritative tone, and bid him--read on.
He obeyed. Emma became again absorbed in the story, and her
countenance showed how much she felt all its beauties, and all its
pathos. Emma did all she could to repress her feelings; and our
heroine all she could to make her and them ridiculous. But in this
attempt she was unsuccessful; for many of the spectators, who at her
instigation began by watching Emma’s countenance to find subject for
ridicule, ended by sympathizing with her unaffected sensibility.
When the tale was ended, the modern Griselda, who was determined
to oppose as strongly as possible the charms of spirit to those of
sensibility, burst furiously forth into an invective against the
meanness of her namesake, and the tyranny of the odious Gualtherus.
“_Could_ you have forgiven him, Mrs. Granby? could you have forgiven
the monster?”
“He repented,” said Emma; “and does not a penitent cease to be a
monster?”
“Oh, I never, never would have forgiven him, penitent or not penitent;
I would not have forgiven him such sins.”
“I would not have put it into his power to commit them,” said Emma.
“I confess the story never touched me in the least,” cried our
heroine.
“Perhaps for the same reason that Petrarch’s friend said that he read
it unmoved,” replied Mrs. Granby: “because he could not believe that
such a woman as Griselda ever existed.”
“No, no, not for that reason: I believe many such poor, meek,
mean-spirited creatures exist.”
Emma was at length wakened to the perception of her friend’s envy and
jealousy; but--
“She mild forgave the failing of her sex.”
“I cannot admire the original Griselda, or any of her imitators,”
continued our heroine.
“There is no great danger of her finding imitators in these days,”
said Mr. Granby. “Had Chaucer lived in our enlightened times, he would
doubtless have drawn a very different character.”
The modern Griselda looked “fierce as ten furies.” Emma softened her
husband’s observation by adding, “that allowance should certainly be
made for poor Chaucer, if we consider the times in which he wrote.
The situation and understandings of women have been so much improved
since his days. Women were then slaves, now they are free. My dear,”
whispered she to her husband, “your mother is not well; shall we go
home?”
Emma left the room; and even Mrs. Nettleby, after she was gone, said,
“Really she is not ugly when she blushes.”
“No woman is ugly when she blushes,” replied our heroine; “but,
unluckily, a woman cannot _always_ blush.”
Finding that her attempt to make Emma ridiculous had failed, and that
it had really placed Mrs. Granby’s understanding, manners, and temper
in a most advantageous and amiable light, Griselda was mortified
beyond measure. She could scarcely bear to hear Emma’s name mentioned.