"And then," continued Mad. de Coulanges, "like all these rich English, she can afford to be generous. I am persuaded that this Mrs. Somers is as rich as a Russian princess; yes, as rich as the Russian princess with the superb diadem of diamonds. You remember her at Paris?"

"No, mamma, I forget her," answered Emilie, with a look of absence of mind.

"Bon Dieu! what can you be thinking of?" exclaimed Mad. de Coulanges.

"You forget the Russian princess, with the diamond diadem, that was valued at 200,000 livres! She wore it at her presentation--it was the conversation of Paris for a week: you must recollect it, Emilie?"

"Oh, yes: I recollect something about its cutting her forehead."

"Not at all, my dear; how you exaggerate! The princess only complained, by way of something to say, that the weight of the diamonds made her head ache.

"Was that all?"

"That was all. But I will tell you what you are thinking of, Emilie--quite another thing--quite another person--broad Mad.

Vanderbenbruggen: her diamonds were not worth looking at; and they were so horribly set, that she deserved all manner of misfortunes, and to be disgraced in public, as she was. For you know the bandeau slipt over her great forehead; and instead of turning to the gentlemen, and ordering some man of sense to arrange her head-dress, she kept holding her stiff neck stock still, like an idiot; she actually sat, with the patience of a martyr, two immense hours, till somebody cried, 'Ah!

madame, here is the blood coming!' I see her before me this instant.

Is it possible, my dear Emilie, that you do not remember the difference between this _buche_ of a Mad. Vanderbenbruggen, and our charming princess? but you are as dull as Mad. Vanderbenbruggen herself, this morning."

The vivacious countess having once seized upon the ideas of Mad.

Vanderbenbruggen, the charming princess, and the fine diamonds, it was some time before Emilie could recall her to the order of the day--to the recollection of her banker's failure, and of the necessity of giving an answer to generous Mrs. Somers. The decision of Mad. de Coulanges was probably at last influenced materially by the gay ideas of "stars and dukes, and all their sweeping train," a.s.sociated with Mad. Vanderbenbruggen's image. The countess observed, that, after the style in which she had been used to live in the first company at Paris, it would be worse than death to be buried alive in some obscure country town in England; and that she would rather see Emilie guillotined at once, than condemned, with all her grace and talents, to work, like a galley slave, at a tambour frame for her bread all the days of her life.

Emilie a.s.sured her mother that she should cheerfully submit to much greater evils than that of working at a tambour frame; and that, as far as her own feelings were concerned, she should infinitely prefer living by labour to becoming dependent. She therefore intreated that her mother might not, from any false tenderness for her Emilie, decide contrary to her own principles or wishes.

Mad. de Coulanges, after looking in the gla.s.s, at length determined that it would be best to accept of Mrs. Somers' generous offer; and Emilie, who usually contrived to find something agreeable in all her mother's decisions, rejoiced that by this determination, Mrs. Somers at least would be pleased. Mrs. Somers, indeed, was highly gratified; and her expressions of satisfaction were so warm, that any body would have thought she was the person receiving, instead of conferring, a great favour. She thanked Emilie, in particular, for having vanquished her mother's false delicacy. Emilie blushed at hearing this undeserved praise; and a.s.sured Mrs. Somers that all the merit was her mother's.

"What!" cried Mrs. Somers hastily, "was it contrary to your opinion?--Were you treacherous--were you my enemy--Mlle. de Coulanges?"

Emilie replied that she had left the decision to her mother; that she confessed she had felt some reluctance to receive a pecuniary obligation, even from Mrs. Somers; but that she had rather be obliged to her than to any body in the world, except to her mamma.

This explanation was not perfectly satisfactory to Mrs. Somers, and there was a marked coldness in her manner towards Emilie during the remainder of the day. Her affectionate and grateful disposition made her extremely sensible to this change; and, when she retired to her own room at night, she sat down beside her bed, and shed tears for the first time since she had been in England. Mrs. Somers happened to go into Emilie's room to leave some message for Mad. de Coulanges--she found Emilie in tears--inquired the cause--was touched and flattered by her sensibility--kissed her--blamed herself--confessed she had been extremely unreasonable--acknowledged that her temper was naturally too hasty and susceptible, especially with those she loved--but a.s.sured Emilie that this, which had been their first, should be their last quarrel;--a rash promise, considering the circ.u.mstances in which they were both placed. Those who receive and those who confer great favours are both in difficult situations; but the part of the benefactor is the most difficult to support with propriety. What a combination of rare qualities is essential for this purpose! Amongst others, sense, delicacy and temper. Mrs. Somers possessed all but the last; and, unluckily, she was not sensible of the importance of this deficiency.

Confident and proud, that, upon all the grand occasions where the human heart is put to the trial, she could display superior generosity, she disdained attention to the minutiae of kindness.

This was inconvenient to her friends; because occasion for a great sacrifice of the heart occurs, perhaps, but once in a life, whilst small sacrifices of temper are requisite every day, and every hour[1].

[Footnote 1: Since this was written, the author has seen the same thoughts so much better expressed in the following lines that she cannot forbear to quote them:

"Since trifles make the sum of human things, And half our mis'ry from our foibles springs; Since life's best joys consist in peace and ease, And few can save or serve, but all may please: Oh! let th'ungentle spirit learn from hence, A small unkindness is a great offence.

Large bounties to bestow we wish in vain; But all may shun the guilt of giving pain."

SENSIBILITY. _By Mrs. H. More._]

Mrs. Somers had concealed from Mad. de Coulanges and from Emilie the full extent of their obligation: she told them, that the sum of money which she offered had become useless to her, because it had been destined to the purchase of some superfluities, which were now in the possession of another person. The fact was, that she had been in treaty for two fine pictures, a Guido and a Correggio; these pictures might have been hers, but that on the morning, when she heard of the failure of the banker of Mad. de Coulanges, she had hastened to prevent the money from being paid for them. She was extremely fond of paintings, and had long and earnestly desired to possess these celebrated pictures; so that she had really made a great sacrifice of her taste and of her vanity. For some time she was satisfied with her own self-complacent reflections: but presently she began to be displeased that Mad. de Coulanges and Emilie did not see the full extent of her sacrifice. She became provoked by their want of penetration in not discovering all that she studiously concealed; and her mind, going on rapidly from one step to another, decided that this want of penetration arose from a deficiency of sensibility.

One day, some of her visitors, who were admiring the taste with which she had newly furnished a room, inquired for what those two compartments were intended, looking at the compartments which had been prepared for the famous pictures. Mrs. Somers replied that she had not yet determined what she should put there: she glanced her eye upon Mad. de Coulanges and upon Emilie, to observe whether they _felt as they ought to do_. Mad. de Coulanges, imagining that an appeal was made to her taste, decidedly answered, that nothing would have so fine an effect as handsome looking-gla.s.ses: "Such," added she, "as we have at Paris. No house is furnished without them--they are absolute necessaries of life. And, no doubt, these places were originally intended for mirrors."

"No," said Mrs. Somers, dryly, and with a look of great displeasure: "No, madame la comtesse, those places were not originally intended for looking-gla.s.ses."

The countess secretly despised Mrs. Somers for her want of taste; but, being too well bred to dispute the point, she confessed that she was no judge--that she knew nothing of the matter; and then immediately turned to her abbe, and asked him if he remembered the superb mirrors in Mad. de V----'s charming house on the Boulevards. "It is," said she, "in my opinion one of the very best houses in Paris. There you enter the princ.i.p.al apartments by an antechamber, such as you ought to see in a great house, with real ottomanes, covered with buff trimmed with black velvet; and then you pa.s.s through the s.p.a.cious salle a manger and the delightful saloon, hung with blue silk, to the _bijou_ of a boudoir, that looks out upon the garden, with the windows shaded by the most beautiful flowering shrubs in summer, and in winter adorned with exotics. Then you see, through the plate-gla.s.s door of the boudoir, into the gallery of paintings--I call it a gallery, but it is, in fact, a delightful room, not a gallery--where you are not to perish in cold, whilst you admire the magnificence of the place. Not at all: it is warmed by a large stove, and you may examine the fine pictures at your ease, or, as you English would say, in comfort. This gallery must have cost M. de V---- an immense sum. The connoisseurs say that it is really the best collection of Flemish pictures in the possession of any individual in France. By-the-bye, Mrs. Somers, there is, amongst others, an excellent Van Dyck, a portrait of your Charles the First, when a boy, which I wonder that none of you rich English have purchased."

The countenance of Mrs. Somers had clouded over more and more during this speech; but the heedless countess went on, with her usual volubility.

"Yet, no doubt, M. de V---- would not sell this Van Dyck: but he would, I am told, part with his superb collection of prints, which cost him 30,000 of your pounds. He must look for a purchaser amongst those Polish and Russian princes who have nothing to do with their riches--for instance, my friend Lewenhof, who complained that he was not able to spend half his income in Paris; that he could not contrive to give an entertainment that cost him money enough. What can he do better than commence amateur?--then he might throw away money as fast as his heart could wish. M. l'abbe, why do not you, or some man of letters, write directly, and advise him to this, for the good of his country? What a figure those prints would make in Petersburgh!--and how they would polish the Russians! But, as a good Frenchwoman, I ought to wish them to remain at Paris: they certainly cannot be better than where they are."

"True," cried Emilie, "they cannot be better than where they are, in the possession of those generous friends. I used to love to see Mad.

de V---- in the midst of all her fine things, of which she thought so little. Her very looks are enough to make one happy--all radiant with good-humoured benevolence. I am sure one might always salute Mad.

de V---- with the Chinese compliment, 'Felicity is painted in your countenance.'"

This was a compliment which could not be paid to Mrs. Somers at the present instant; for her countenance was as little expressive of felicity as could well be imagined. Emilie, who suddenly turned and saw it, was so much struck that she became immediately silent. There was a dead pause in the conversation. Mad. de Coulanges was the only unembarra.s.sed person in company; she was very contentedly arranging her hair upon her forehead opposite to a looking-gla.s.s. Mrs. Somers broke the silence by observing, that, in her opinion, there was no occasion for more mirrors in this room; and she added, in a voice of suppressed anger, "I did originally intend to have filled those unfortunate blanks with something more to my taste."

Mad. de Coulanges was too much occupied with her ringlets to hear or heed this speech. Mrs. Somers fixed her indignant eyes upon Emilie, who, perceiving that she was offended, yet not knowing by what, looked embarra.s.sed, and simply answered, "Did you?"

This reply, which seemed as neutral as words could make it, and which was uttered not only with a pacific, but with an intimidated tone, incensed Mrs. Somers beyond measure. It put the finishing stroke to the whole conversation. All that had been said about elegant houses--antechambers--mirrors--pictures--amateurs--throwing away money; and the generous Mad. de V----, _who was always good-humoured_, Mrs. Somers fancied was meant _for her_. She decided that it was absolutely impossible that Emilie could be so stupid as not to have perfectly understood that the compartments had been prepared for the Guido and Correggio, which she had so generously sacrificed; and the total want of feeling--of common civility--evinced by Emilie's reply, was astonishing, was incomprehensible.

The more she reflected upon the words, the more of artifice, of duplicity, of ingrat.i.tude, of insult, of meanness she discovered in them. In her cold fits of ill-humour, this lady was p.r.o.ne to degrade, as monsters below the standard of humanity, those whom, in the warmth of her enthusiasm, she had exalted to the state of angelic perfection.

Emilie, though aware that she had unwittingly offended, was not aware how low she had sunk in her friend's opinion: she endeavoured, by playful wit and caresses, to atone for her fault, and to reinstate herself in her favour. But playful wit and caresses were aggravating crimes; they were proofs of obstinacy in deceit, of a callous conscience, and of a heart that was not to be touched by the marked displeasure of a benefactress. Three days and three nights did the displeasure of Mrs. Somers continue in full force, and manifest itself by a variety of signs, which were lost upon Mad. de Coulanges, but which were all intelligible to poor Emilie. She made several attempts to bring on an explanation, by saying, "Are you not well?--Is any thing the matter, dear Mrs. Somers?" But these questions were always coldly answered by, "I am perfectly well, I thank you, Mlle. de Coulanges--why should you imagine that any thing is the matter with me?"

At the end of the third day of reprobation, Emilie, who could no longer endure this state, resolved to take courage and to ask pardon for her unknown offence. That night she went, trembling like a real criminal, into Mrs. Somers' dressing-room, kissed her forehead, and said, "I hope you have not such a headache as I have?"

"Have you the headache?--I am sorry for it," said Mrs. Somers; "but you should take something for it--what will you take?"

"I will take nothing, except--your forgiveness."

"My forgiveness!--you astonish me, Mlle. de Coulanges! I am sure that I ought to ask yours, if I have said a word that could possibly give you reason to imagine I am angry--I really am not conscious of any such thing; but if you will point it out to me--"

"You cannot imagine that I come to accuse you, dear Mrs. Somers; I do not attempt even to justify myself: I am convinced that, if you are displeased, it cannot be without reason."

"But still you do not tell me how I have shown this violent displeasure: I have not, to the best of my recollection, said an angry or a hasty word."

"No; but when we love people, we know when they are offended, without their saying a hasty word--your manner has been so different towards me these three days past."

"My manner is very unfortunate. It is impossible always to keep a guard over our manners: it is sufficient, I think, to guard our words."

"Pray do not guard either with me," said Emilie; "for I would a thousand times rather that a friend should say or look the most angry things, than that she should conceal from me what she thought; for then, you know, I might displease her continually without knowing it, and perhaps lose her esteem and affection irretrievably, before I was aware of my danger--and with _you_--with you, to whom we owe so much!"

Touched by the feeling manner in which Emilie spoke, and by the artless expression of her countenance, Mrs. Somers' anger vanished, and she exclaimed, "I have been to blame--I ask your pardon, Emilie--I have been much to blame--I have been very unjust--very ill-humoured--I see I was quite wrong--I see that I was quite mistaken in what I imagined."

"And what did you imagine?" said Emilie.

"_That_ you must excuse me from telling," said Mrs. Somers; "I am too much ashamed of it--too much ashamed of myself. Besides, it was a sort of thing that I could not well explain, if I were to set about it; in short, it was the silliest trifle in the world: but I a.s.sure you that if I had not loved you very much, I should not have been so foolishly angry. You must forgive these little infirmities of temper--you know my heart is as it should be."

Emilie embraced Mrs. Somers affectionately; and, in her joy at this reconciliation, and in the delight she felt at being relieved from the uneasiness which she had suffered for three days, loved her friend the better for this quarrel: she quite forgot the pain in the pleasure of the reconciliation; and thought that, even if Mrs. Somers had been in the wrong, the candour with which she acknowledged it more than made amends for the error.

"You must forgive these little infirmities of temper--you know my heart is as it should be."

Emilie repeated these words, and said to herself, "Forgive them! yes, surely; I should be the most ungrateful of human beings if I did otherwise."

Without being the most ungrateful of human beings, Emilie, however, found it very difficult to keep her resolution.

Almost every day she felt the apprehension or the certainty of having offended her benefactress: and the causes by which she gave offence were sometimes so trifling as to elude her notice; so mysterious, that they could not be discovered; or so various and anomalous, that, even when she was told in what manner she had displeased, she could not form any rule, or draw any inference, for her future conduct.

Sometimes she offended by differing, sometimes by agreeing, in taste or opinion with Mrs. Somers. Sometimes she perceived that she was thought positive; at other times, too complying. A word, a look, or even silence--pa.s.sive silence--was sufficient to affront this susceptible lady. Then she would go on with a string of deductions, or rather of imaginations, to prove that there must be something wrong in Emilie's disposition; and she would insist upon it, that she knew better what was pa.s.sing, or what would pa.s.s, in her mind, than Emilie could know herself. Nothing provoked Mrs. Somers more than the want of success in any of her active attempts to make others happy. She was continually angry with Emilie for not being sufficiently pleased or grateful for things which she had not the vanity to suspect were intended for her gratification, or which were not calculated to contribute to her amus.e.m.e.nt: this humility, or this difference of taste, was always considered as affectation or perversity. One day, Mrs. Somers was angry with Emilie because she did not thank her for inviting a celebrated singer to her concert; but Emilie had no idea that the singer was invited on her account: of this nothing could convince Mrs. Somers. Another day, she was excessively displeased because Emilie was not so much entertained as she had expected her to be at the installation of a knight of the garter.