“Ella biasmandol sempre, e dispregiando
Se gli venia piu sempre inimicando.”
By her judicious and kind interposition, Emma often prevented the
disagreeable consequences that threatened to ensue from Griselda’s
disputatious habits; but one night it was past her utmost skill to
avert a violent storm, which arose about the pronunciation of a word.
It began about eleven o’clock. Just as the family were sitting down
to supper, seemingly in perfect harmony of spirits, Mr. Bolingbroke
chanced to say, “I think the wind is rising.” (He pronounced the word
_wi*nd, short_.)
[Transcriber’s note: What is printed in the original text as an “i”
with a breve is rendered here as “i*”.]
“_Wi*nd_! my dear,” cried his wife, echoing his pronunciation; “do,
for heaven’s sake, call it wi*nd.”
The lady sounded this word long.
“Wind! my love,” repeated he after her: “I doubt whether that be the
right pronunciation.”
“I am surprised you can doubt it,” said she, “for I never heard any
body call it _wi*nd_ but yourself.”
“Did not you, my love? that is very extraordinary: many people, I
believe, call it _wi*nd_.”
“Vulgarians, perhaps!”
“Vulgarians! No, indeed, my dear; very polite, well-informed people.”
Griselda, with a look of unutterable contempt, reiterated the word
_polite_.
“Yes, my dear, _polite_,” persisted Mr. Bolingbroke, who was now come
to such a pass, that he would defend his opinion in opposition to
hers, stoutly and warmly. “Yes, _polite_, my dear, I maintain it; the
most _polite_ people pronounce it as I do.”
“You may maintain what you please, my dear,” said the lady, coolly;
“but I maintain the contrary.”
“Assertion is no proof on either side, I acknowledge,” said Mr.
Bolingbroke, recollecting himself.
“No, in truth,” said Mrs. Bolingbroke, “especially such an absurd
assertion as yours, my dear. Now I will go no farther than Mrs.
Granby:--Mrs. Granby, did you ever hear any person, who knew how to
speak, pronounce wi*nd--_wi*nd_?”
“Mrs. Granby, have not you heard it called _wi*nd_ in good company?”
The disputants eagerly approached her at the same instant, and looked
as if their fortunes or lives depended upon the decision.
“I think I have heard the word pronounced both ways, by well-bred and
well-informed people,” said Mrs. Granby.
“That is saying nothing, my dear,” said Mrs. Bolingbroke, pettishly.
“This is saying all I want,” said Mr. Bolingbroke, satisfied.
“I would lay any wager, however, that Mr. ----, if he were here,
would give it in my favour; and I suppose you will not dispute his
authority.”
“I will not dispute the authority of Sheridan’s Dictionary,” cried Mr.
Bolingbroke, taking it down from the book-case, and turning over the
leaves hastily.--“Sheridan gives it for me, my dear,” said he, with
exultation.
“You need not speak with such triumph, my dear, for I do not submit to
Sheridan.”
“No! Will you submit to Kenrick, then?”
“Let us see what he says, and I will then tell you,” said the lady.
“No--Kenrick was not of her opinion, and he was no authority.” Walker
was produced; and this battle of the pronouncing dictionaries seemed
likely to have no end. Mrs. Granby, when she could be heard, remarked
that it was difficult to settle any dispute about pronunciation,
because in fact no reasons could be produced, and no standard appealed
to but custom, which is perpetually changing; and, as Johnson says,
“whilst our language is variable with the caprice of all who use it,
words can no more be ascertained in a dictionary, than a grove in the
agitation of a storm can be accurately delineated from its picture in
the water.”
The combatants would scarcely allow Emma time to finish this allusion,
and certainly did not give themselves time to understand it; but
continued to fight about the word custom, the only word that they had
heard.
“Yes, custom! custom!” cried they at once, “custom must decide, to
be sure.” Then came _my_ custom and _your_ custom; the custom of the
stage, the custom of the best company, the custom of the best poets;
and all these were opposed to one another with increasing rapidity.
“Good heavens, my dear! did you ever hear Kemble say, ‘Rage on, ye
_wi*nds_!’--Ridiculous!”
“I grant you on the stage it may be winds; but in common conversation
it is allowable to pronounce it as I do, my dear.”
“I appeal to the best poets, Mr. Bolingbroke: nothing can be more
absurd than your way of--”
“Listen, lively lordlings all!” interrupted Emma, pressing with
playful vehemence between the disputants; “I must be heard, for I have
not spoken this half hour, and thus I pronounce--You both are right,
and both are wrong.
“And now, my good friends, had not we better go to rest?” said she;
“for it is past midnight.”
As they took their candles, and went up stairs, the parties continued
the battle: Mrs. Bolingbroke brought quotations innumerable to her
aid, and in a shrill tone repeated,
“‘He might not let even the winds of heaven
Visit her face too roughly.’
----“‘pass by me as the idle wind,
Which I respect not.’
“‘And let her down the wind to prey at fortune.’
“‘Blow, thou winter’s wind,
Thou art not so unkind.’
“‘Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks; rage, blow.’”
Her voice was raised to the highest pitch: it was in vain that her
husband repeated that he acknowledged the word should be called as
she pronounced it in poetry; she reiterated her quotations and her
assertions till at last she knew not what she said; her sense failed
the more her anger increased. At length Mr. Bolingbroke yielded. Noise
conquers sometimes where art fails.
“Thus,” said he, “the hawk that could not be hoodwinked, was at last
tamed, by being exposed to the din of a blacksmith’s hammer.”
Griselda was incensed by this remark, and still more by the allusion,
which she called the second edition of the vampire-bat. Both husband
and wife went to sleep mutually displeased, and more disgusted with
each other than they had ever been since their marriage: and all this
for the pronunciation of a word!
Early in the morning they were wakened by a messenger, who brought an
express, informing Mr. Bolingbroke that his uncle was not expected to
live, and that he wished to see him immediately. Mr. Bolingbroke rose
instantly; all the time that he was dressing, and preparing in the
greatest hurry for his journey, Griselda tormented him by disputing
about the propriety of his going, and ended with, “Promise me to write
every post, my dear; positively you must.”