“Playzir ne l’est qu’autant qu’on le partage.”
We pass over the infinite variety of petty torments, which our heroine
contrived to inflict upon her fellow-travellers during her journey
down to Devonshire. Inns, food, beds, carriage, horses, baggage,
roads, prospect, hill, dale, sun, wind, dust, rain, earth, air, fire,
and water, all afforded her matter of complaint. It was astonishing
that Emma discovered none of these inconveniences; but, as fast as
they were complained of, she amused herself in trying to obviate them.
Lord Kames has observed, that a power to recall at will pleasing
objects would be a more valuable gift to any mortal than ever was
bestowed in a fairy tale. With this power Emma was endowed in the
highest perfection; and as fast as our heroine recollected some evil
that had happened, or was likely to happen, Emma raised the opposite
idea of some good, past, present, or future; so that it was scarcely
possible even for the spirit of contradiction personified to resist
the magic of her good-humour.
No sooner did she arrive at her own house, than she contrived a
variety of ways of showing attention and kindness to her guest; and
when all this was received with sullen indifference, or merely
as tributes due to superiority, Emma was not discouraged in her
benevolence, but, instead of being offended, seemed to pity her friend
for “having had her temper so unhappily spoiled.”
“Griselda is so handsome,” said Mrs. Granby one day, in her defence,
“she has such talents--she has been so much admired, worshipped, and
indulged--that it would be wonderful if she were not a little spoiled.
I dare say that, if I had been in her place, my brain would never
have stood the intoxication. Who can measure their strength, or their
weakness, till they are tried? Another thing should be considered;
Griselda excites envy, and though she may not have more faults than
her neighbours, they are more noticed, because they are in the full
light of prosperity. What a number of motes swarm in a single ray of
light, coming through the shutter of a darkened room! There are not
more motes in that spot than in any other part of the room, but the
sun-beams show them more distinctly. The dust that lives in snug
obscurity should consider this, and have mercy upon its fellow dust.”
In Emma’s kindness there was none of the parade of goodness; she
seemed to follow her natural disposition; and, as Griselda once said
of her, to be good because she could not help it. She required neither
praise nor thanks for any thing that she did; and, provided her
friends were happy, she was satisfied, without ever wishing to be
admired as the cause of that happiness. Her powers of pleasing were
chiefly remarkable for lasting longer than others, and the secret of
their permanence was not easily guessed, because it was so simple.
It depended merely on the equability of her humour. It is said, that
there is nothing marvellous in the colours of those Egyptian monuments
which have been the admiration of ages; the secret of their duration
is supposed to depend simply on the fineness of the climate and
invariability of the temperature.--But
“Griselda will admit no wandering muse.”
Mrs. Bolingbroke was by this time tired of continuing in one mood,
even though it was the sullen; and her genius was cramped by the
constraint of affected submission. She recovered her charming spirits
soon after she came into the country, and for a short time no mortal
mixture of earth’s mould could be more agreeable. She called forth
every charm; she was all gaiety, wit, and smiles; she poured light and
life upon conversation.
As the Marquis de Chastellux said of some fascinating fair one--“She
had no expression without grace, and no grace without expression.”
It was delightful to our heroine to hear it said, “How charming Mrs.
Bolingbroke can be when she pleases; when she wishes to captivate, how
irresistible!--Who can equal Mrs. Bolingbroke when she is in one of
her _good days_?”
The triumph of eclipsing Mrs. Granby would have been delightful, but
that Emma seemed to feel no mortification from being thrown into the
shade; she seemed to enjoy her friend’s success so sincerely, that
it was impossible to consider her as a rival. She had so carefully
avoided noticing any little disagreement or coolness between Mr. and
Mrs. Bolingbroke, that it might have been doubted whether she attended
to their mutual conduct; but the obvious delight she took in seeing
them again on good terms with each other proved that she was not
deficient in penetration. She appeared to see only what others desired
that she should see, upon these delicate occasions, where voluntary
blindness is not artifice, but prudence. Mr. Bolingbroke was now
enchanted with Griselda, and ready to exclaim every instant, “Be ever
thus!”
Her husband thought he had found a mine of happiness; he began
to breathe, and to bless his kind stars. He had indeed lighted
unexpectedly upon a rich vein, but it was soon exhausted, and all
his farther progress was impeded by certain vapours, dangerous to
approach. Fatal sweets! which lure the ignorant to destruction, but
from which the more experienced fly with precipitation.--Our heroine
was now fully prepared to kill her husband with kindness; she was
afraid, if he rode, that his horse would throw him; if he walked, that
he would tire himself; if he sat still, that he must want exercise; if
he went out, that he would catch cold; if he stayed at home, that he
was kept a prisoner; if he did not eat, that he was sick; if he did
eat, that he would be sick;--&c. &c. &c. &c. There was no end to these
fond fears: he felt that there was something ridiculous in submitting
to them; and yet to resist in the least was deemed the height
of unkindness and ingratitude. One night she fell into a fit of
melancholy, upon his laughing at her fears, that he should kill
himself, by standing for an instant at an open window, on a fine
night, to look at a beautiful rising moon. When he endeavoured to
recover her from her melancholy, it was suddenly converted into
anger, and, after tears, came a storm of reproaches. Her husband,
in consideration of the kindness of her original intention, passed
over her anger, and even for some days refrained from objecting to
any regimen she prescribed for his health and happiness. But his
forbearance failed him at length, and he presumed to eat some salad,
which his wife “knew would disagree with him.” She was provoked
afterwards, because she could not make him allow that it had made him
ill. She termed this extreme obstinacy; he pleaded that it was simple
truth. Truth upon some occasions is the most offensive thing that
can be spoken: the lady was enraged, and, after saying every thing
provoking that matrimonial spleen could suggest, when he in his turn
grew warm, she cooled, and said, “You must be sensible, my dear, that
all I say and do arises from affection.”
“Oh! my love,” said he, recovering his good-humour, “this
never-failing opiate soothes my vanity, and lulls my anger; then you
may govern me as you please. Torment me to death,--I cannot oppose
you.”
“I suppose,” said she, “you think me like the vampire-bat, who fans
his victim to sleep with its wings, whilst she sucks its life-blood.”
“Yes, exactly,” said he, smiling: “thank you for the apt allusion.”
“Very apt, indeed,” said she; and a thick gloom overspread her
countenance. She persisted in taking his assent in sober earnest.
“Yes,” said she, “I find you think all my kindness is treacherous. I
will show you no more, and then you cannot accuse me of treachery.”
It was in vain that he protested he had been only in jest; she was
convinced that he was in earnest; she was suddenly afflicted with an
absolute incapacity of distinguishing jest from earnest. She recurred
to the idea of the vampire-bat, whenever it was convenient to her to
suppose that her husband thought strange things of her, which never
entered his brain. This bat proved to him a bird of ill omen, which
preceded a train of misfortunes, that no mortal foresight could reach,
and no human prudence avert. His goddess was not to be appeased by any
propitiatory or expiatory sacrifice.