Mad. de Coulanges insisted upon it, that the French have humour; and Moliere furnished her with many admirable ill.u.s.trations.

Emilie, in support of her mother, read a pa.s.sage from that elegant writer, M. Suard[1], who has lately attacked, with much ability, the pretensions of the English to the exclusive possession of humour.

[Footnote 1: "Il est tres-difficile de se faire une idee nette de ce que les Anglais entendent par ce mot; on a tente plusieurs fois sans succes d'en donner une definition precise. Congreve, qui a.s.surement a mis beaucoup d'_humour_ dans ses comedies, dit, que c'est _une maniere singuliere et inevitable de faire ou de dire quelque chose, qui est naturelle et propre a un homme seul, et qui distingue ses discours et ses actions des discours et des actions de tout autre._

"Cette definition, que nous traduisons litteralement, n'est pas lumineuse; elle conviendrait egalement a la maniere dont Alexandre parle et agit dans Plutarque, et a celle dont Sancho parle et agit dans Cervantes. II y a apparence que l'_humour_ est comme l'esprit, et que ceux qui en ont le plus ne savent pas trop bien ce que c'est.

"Nous croyons que ce genre de plaisanterie consiste surtout dans des idees ou des tournures originales, qui tiennent plus au caractere qu'a l'esprit, et qui semblent echapper a celui qui les produit.

"L'homme d'_humour_ est un plaisant serieux, qui dit des choses plaisantes sans avoir l'air de vouloir etre plaisant. Au reste, une scene de Vanbrugh ou une satire de Swift, feront mieux sentir ce que c'est, que toutes les definitions du monde. Quant a la pretention de quelques Anglais sur la possession exclusive de l'_humour_, nous pensons que si ce qu'ils entendent par ce mot est un genre de plaisanterie qu'on ne trouve ni dans Aristophane, dans Plaute, et dans Lucien, chez lea anciens; ni dans l'Arioste, le Berni, le Pulci, et tant d'autres, chez les Italiens; ni dans Cervantes, chez les Espagnols; ni dans Rabener, chez les Allemands; ni dans le Pantagruel, la satire Menippee, le Roman comique, les comedies de Moliere, de Dufreny, de Regnard etc., nous ne savons pas ce que c'est, et nous ne prendrons pas la peine de la chercher."--_Suard, Melanges de Litterature_, vol. iv. p. 366.]

Mrs. Somers then changed her ground, and inveighed against French tragedy, and the unnatural tones and att.i.tudes of the French tragic actors.

"Your heroes on the French stage," said she, "always look over their right shoulders, to express magnanimous disdain; and a lover, whether he be Grecian or Roman, Turk, Israelite, or American, must regularly show his pa.s.sion by the pompous emphasis with which he p.r.o.nounces the word MADAME!--a word which must certainly have, for a French audience, some magical charm, incomprehensible to other nations."

What was yet more incomprehensible to Mad. de Coulanges, was the enthusiasm of the English for that b.l.o.o.d.y-minded barbarian Shakspeare, who is never satisfied till he has strewn the stage with dead bodies; who treats his audience like children, that are to be frightened out of their wits by ghosts of all sorts and sizes in their winding sheets; or by a set of old beggarmen, dressed in women's clothes, armed with broomsticks, and dancing and howling out their nonsensical song round a black kettle.

Mrs. Somers, smiling as in scorn, would only reply, "Madame la comtesse, yours is Voltaire's Shakspeare, not ours.--Have you read Mrs. Montagu's essay upon Shakspeare?"

"No."

"Then positively you must read it before we say one word more upon the subject."

Mad. de Coulanges, though unwilling to give up the pleasure of talking, took the book, which Mrs. Somers pressed upon her, with a promise to read it through some morning; but, unluckily, she chanced to open it towards the end, and happened to see some animadversions upon Racine, by which she was so astonished and disgusted that she could read no more. She threw down the book, defying _any good critic to point out a single bad line in Racine_. "This is a defiance I have heard made by men of letters of the highest reputation in Paris,"

added la comtesse: "have not you, Mons. l'Abbe?"

The abbe, who was madame's common voucher, acceded, with this slight emendation--that he had heard numbers defy any critic of good taste to point out a flat line in _Phaedre_.

Mrs. Somers would, perhaps, have acknowledged the beauties of Phaedre, if she had not been piqued by this defiance; but exaggeration on one side produced injustice on the other: and these disputes about Racine and Shakspeare were continually renewed, and never ended to the satisfaction of either party. Those who will not make allowances for national prejudice, and who do not consider how much all our tastes are influenced by early education, example, and the accidental a.s.sociation of ideas, may dispute for ever without coming to any conclusion; especially, if they avoid stating any distinct proposition; if each of the combatants sets up a standard of his own, as the universal standard of taste; and if, instead of arguments, both parties have recourse to wit and ridicule. In these skirmishes, however, Mad. de Coulanges, though apparently the most eager for victory, never seriously lost her temper--her eagerness was more of manner than of mind; after pleading the cause of Racine, as if it were a matter of life and death, as if the fate of Europe or the universe depended upon it, she would turn to discuss the merits of a riband with equal vehemence, or coolly observe that she was hoa.r.s.e, and that she would quit Racine for a better thing--_de l'eau sucre_. Mrs.

Somers, on the contrary, took the cause of Shakspeare, or any other cause that she defended, seriously to heart. The wit or raillery of her adversary, if she affected not to be hurt by it at the moment, left a sting in her mind which rankled long and sorely. Though she often failed to refute the arguments brought against her, yet she always rose from the debate precisely of her first opinion; and even her silence, which Mad. de Coulanges sometimes mistook for a.s.sent or conviction, was only the symptom of contemptuous pity--the proof that she deemed the understanding of her opponent beneath all fair compet.i.tion with her own. The understanding of Mad. de Coulanges had, indeed, in the s.p.a.ce of a few months, sunk far below the point of mediocrity, in Mrs. Somers' estimation--she had begun by overvaluing, and she ended by underrating it. She at first had taken it for granted that Mad. de Coulanges possessed a "very superior understanding and great strength of mind;" then she discovered that la comtesse was "uncommonly superficial, even for a Frenchwoman;" and at last she decided, that "really Mad. de Coulanges was a very silly woman."

Mrs. Somers now began to be seriously angry with Emilie for always being of her mother's opinion: "It is really, Mlle. de Coulanges, carrying your filial affection too far. We cold-hearted English can scarcely conceive this sort of fervid pa.s.sion, which French children express about every thing, the merest trifle, that relates to _mamma!_--Well! it is an amiable national prejudice; and one cannot help wishing that it may never, like other amiable enthusiasms, fail in the moment of serious trial."

Emilie, touched to the quick upon a subject nearest her heart, replied with a degree of dignity and spirit which surprised Mrs. Somers, who had never seen in her any thing but the most submissive gentleness.

"The affection, whether enthusiastic or not, which we French children profess for our parents, has been of late years put to some strong trials, and has not been found to fail. In many instances it has proved superior to all earthly terrors--to imprisonment--to torture--to death--to Robespierre. Daughters have sacrificed themselves for their parents.--Oh! if _my_ life could have saved my father's!"

Emilie clasped her hands, and looked up to heaven with the unaffected expression of filial piety in her countenance. Every body was silent.

Mrs. Somers was struck with regret--with remorse--for the taunting manner in which she had spoken.

"My dearest Emilie, forgive me!" cried she; "I am shocked at what I said."

Emilie took Mrs. Somers' hand between hers, and endeavoured to smile.

Mrs. Somers resolved that she would keep, henceforward, the strictest guard upon her own temper; and that she would never more be so ungenerous, so barbarous, as to insult one who was so gentle, so grateful, so much in her power, and so deserving of her affection.

These good resolutions, formed in the moment of contrition, were, however, soon forgotten: strong emotions of the heart are transient in their power; habits of the temper permanent in their influence.--Like a child who promises to be always _good_, and forgets its promise in an hour, Mrs. Somers soon grew tired of keeping her temper in subjection. It did not, indeed, break out immediately towards Emilie; but, in her conversations with Mad. de Coulanges, the same feelings of irritation and contempt recurred; and Emilie, who was a clear-sighted bystander, suffered continual uneasiness upon these occasions--uneasiness, which appeared to Mad. de Coulanges perfectly causeless, and at which she frequently expressed her astonishment.

Emilie's prescient kindness often, indeed, "felt the coming storm;"

while her mother's careless eye saw not, even when the dark cloud was just ready to burst over her head. With all the innocent address of which she was mistress, Emilie tried to turn the course of the conversation whenever it tended towards _dangerous_ subjects of discussion; but her mother, far from shunning, would often dare and provoke the war; and she would combat long after both parties were in the dark, even till her adversary quitted the field of battle, exclaiming, "_Let us have peace on any terms, my dear countess!--I give up the point to you, Mad. de Coulanges._"

This last phrase Emilie particularly dreaded, as the precursor of ill-humour for some succeeding hours. Mrs. Somers at length became so conscious of her own inability to conceal her contempt or to command her temper, that she was almost as desirous as Emilie could be to avoid these arguments; and, the moment the countess prepared for the attack, she would recede, with, "Excuse me, Mad. de Coulanges: we had better not talk upon these subjects--it is of no use--really of no manner of use: let us converse upon other topics--there are subjects enough, I hope, upon which we shall always agree."

Emilie was at first rejoiced at this arrangement, but the constraint was insupportable to her mother: indeed, the circle of proper subjects for conversation contracted daily; for not only the declared offensive topics were to be avoided, but innumerable others, bordering on or allied to them, were to be shunned with equal care--a degree of caution of which the volatile countess was utterly incapable. One day, at dinner, she asked the gentleman opposite to her, "How long this intolerable rule--of talking only upon subjects where people are of the same opinion--had been the fashion, and what time it would probably last in England?--If it continue much longer, I must fly the country," said she. "I would almost as soon, at this rate, be a prisoner in Paris, as in your land of freedom. You value, above all things, your liberty of the press--now, to me, liberty of the tongue, which is evidently a part, if not the best part, of personal liberty, is infinitely more dear. Bon Dieu!--even in l'Abbaye one might talk of Racine!"

Mad. de Coulanges spoke this half in jest, half in earnest; but Mrs.

Somers took it wholly in earnest, and was most seriously offended.

Her feelings upon the occasion were strongly expressed in a letter to a friend, to whom she had, from her infancy, been in the habit of confiding all her joys and sorrows--all the histories of her loves and hates--of her quarrels and reconciliations. This friend was an elderly lady, who, besides possessing superior mental endowments which inspired admiration, and a character which commanded high respect, was blessed with an uncommonly placid, benevolent temper. This enabled her to do what no other human being had ever accomplished--to continue in peace and amity, for upwards of thirty years, with Mrs. Somers.

The following is one of many hundreds of epistolary complaints or invectives, which, during the course of that time, this "much enduring lady" was doomed to read and answer.

"TO LADY LITTLETON.

"For once, my dear friend, I am secure of your sympathizing in my indignation--my long suppressed, just, virtuous indignation--yes, virtuous; for I do hold indignation to be a part of virtue: it is the natural, proper expression of a warm heart and a strong character against the cold-blooded vices of meanness and ingrat.i.tude. Would that those to whom I allude could feel it as a punishment!--but no, this is not the sort of punishment they are formed to feel. Nothing but what comes home to their interests--their paltry interests!--their pleasures--their selfish pleasures!--their amus.e.m.e.nts--their frivolous amus.e.m.e.nts!

can touch souls of such a sort. To this half-formed race of _worldlings_, who are scarce endued with a moral sense, the generous expression of indignation always appears something incomprehensible--ridiculous; or, in their language, _outre!

inou_! With such beings, therefore, I always am--as much as my nature will allow me to be--upon my guard; I keep within what they call the bounds of politeness--their dear politeness! What a system of _simagree_ it is, after all! and how can honest human nature bear to be penned up all its days by the Chinese paling of ceremony, or that French filigree work, _politesse_? English human nature cannot endure this, as _yet_; and I am glad of it--heartily glad of it--Now to the point.

"You guess that I am going to speak of the Coulanges. Yes, my dear friend, you were quite right in advising me, when I first became acquainted with them, not to give way blindly to my enthusiasm--not to be too generous, or to expect too much grat.i.tude. Grat.i.tude! why should I ever expect to meet with any?--Where I have most deserved, most hoped for it, I have been always most disappointed. My life has been a life of sacrifices!--thankless and fruitless sacrifices! There is not any possible species of sacrifice of interest, pleasure, happiness, which I have not been willing to make--which I have not made--for my friends--for my enemies. Early in life, I gave up a lover I adored to a friend, who afterwards deserted me. I married a man I detested to oblige a mother, who at last refused to see me on her death-bed. What exertions I made for years to win the affection of the husband to whom I was only bound in duty! My generosity was thrown away upon him--he died--I became ambitious--I had means of gratifying my ambition--a splendid alliance was in my power.

Ambition is a strong pa.s.sion as well as love--but I sacrificed it without hesitation to my children--I devoted myself to the education of my two sons, one of whom has never, in any instance, since he became his own master, shown his mother tenderness or affection; and who, on some occasions, has scarcely behaved towards her with the common forms of respect and duty. Despairing, utterly despairing of grat.i.tude from my own family and natural friends, I looked abroad, and endeavoured to form friendships with strangers, in hopes of finding more congenial tempers. I spared nothing to earn attachment--my time, my health, my money. I lavished money so, as even, notwithstanding my large income, to reduce myself frequently to the most straitened and embarra.s.sing circ.u.mstances. And by all I have done, by all I have suffered, what have I gained?--not a single friend--except yourself. You, on whom I have never conferred the slightest favour, you are at this instant the only friend upon earth by whom I am really beloved. To you, who know my whole history, I may speak of myself as I have done, Heaven knows! not with vanity, but with deep humiliation and bitterness of heart. The experience of my whole life leaves me only the deplorable conviction that it is impossible to do good, that it is vain to hope even for friendship from those whom we oblige.

"My last disappointment has been cruel, in proportion to the fond hopes I had formed. I cannot cure myself of this credulous folly.

I did form high expectations of happiness from the society and grat.i.tude of this Mad. and Mlle. de Coulanges; but the mother turns out to be a mere frivolous French comtesse, ignorant, vain, and positive--as all ignorant people are; full of national prejudices, which she supports in the most absurd and petulant manner. Possessed with the insanity, common to all Parisians, of thinking that Paris is the whole world, and that nothing can be good taste, or good sense, or good manners, but what is _a-la-mode de Paris_; through all her boasted politeness, you see, even by her mode of praising, that she has a most illiberal contempt for all who are not Parisians--she considers the rest of the world as barbarians. I could give you a thousand instances; but her conversation is really so frivolous, that it is not worth reciting. I bore with it day after day for several months with a patience for which, I am sure, you would have given me credit; and I let her go on eternally with absurd observations upon Shakspeare, and extravagant nonsense about Racine. To avoid disputing with her, I gave up every point--I acquiesced in all she said--and only begged to have peace. Still she was not satisfied.

You know there are tempers which never can be contented, do what you will to please them. Mad. de Coulanges actually quarrelled with me for begging that we might have peace; and that we might talk upon subjects where we should not be likely to disagree.

This will seem to you incredible; but it is the nature of French caprice: and for this I ought to have been prepared. But, indeed, I never could have prepared myself for the strange manner in which this lady thought proper to manifest her anger this day at dinner, before a large company. She spoke absolutely, notwithstanding all her good-breeding, in the most brutally ungrateful manner; and, after all I have done for her, she represented me as being as great a tyrant as Robespierre, and spoke of my house as a more intolerable prison than any in Paris!!! I only state the fact to you, without making any comments--I never yet saw so thoroughly selfish and unfeeling a human being.

"The daughter has as far too much as the mother has too little sensibility. Emilie plagues me to death with her fine feelings and her sentimentality, and all her French parade of affection, and superfluity of endearing expressions, which mean nothing, and disgust English ears. She is always fancying that I am angry or displeased with her or with her mother; and then I am to have tears, and explanations, and apologies: she has not a mind large enough to understand my character: and if I were to explain to eternity, she would be as much in the dark as ever. Yet, after all, there is something so ingenuous and affectionate about this girl that I cannot help loving her, and that is what provokes me; for she does not, and never can, feel for me the affection that I have for her. My little hastiness of temper she has not strength of mind sufficient to bear--I see she is dreadfully afraid of me, and more constrained in my company than in that of any other person. Not a visitor comes, however insignificant, but Mlle. de Coulanges seems more at her ease, and converses more with them than with me--she talks to me only of grat.i.tude, and such stuff.

She is one of those feeble persons who, wanting confidence in themselves, are continually afraid that they shall not be grateful enough; and so they reproach and torment themselves, and refine and _sentimentalize_, till grat.i.tude becomes burdensome (as it always does to weak minds), and the very idea of a benefactor odious. Mlle. de Coulanges was originally unwilling to accept of any obligation from me: she knew her own character better than I did. I do not deny that she has a heart; but she has no soul: I hope you understand and feel the difference. I rejoice, my dear Lady Littleton, that you are coming to town immediately. I am hara.s.sed almost to death between want of feeling and fine feeling.

I really long to see you and to talk over all these things. n.o.body but you, my dear friend, ever understood me.--Farewell!

"Yours affectionately,

"A. SOMERS."

To this long letter, Lady Littleton replied by the following short note.

"I hope to see you the day after to-morrow, my dear friend; in the mean time, do not decide, irrevocably, that Mlle. de Coulanges has no soul.

"Yours affectionately,

"L. LITTLETON."

Mrs. Somers was rather disappointed by the calmness of this note; and she was most impatient to see Lady Littleton, that she might work up her mind to the proper pitch of indignation. She stationed a servant at her ladyship's house to give her notice the moment of her arrival in town. The instant that she was informed of it she ordered her carriage; and the whole of her conversation during this visit was an invective against Emilie and Mad. de Coulanges. The next day, Emilie, who had heard the most enthusiastic eulogiums upon Lady Littleton, expressed much satisfaction on finding that she was come to town; and requested Mrs. Somers' permission to accompany her on her next visit.

The request was rather embarra.s.sing; but Mrs. Somers granted it with a sort of constrained civility. It was fortunate for Emilie that she was so unsuspicious; for her manner was consequently frank, natural, and affectionate; and she appeared to the greatest advantage to Lady Littleton. Mrs. Somers threw herself back in the chair and sat silent, whilst Emilie, in hopes of pleasing her, conversed with the utmost freedom with her friend. The conversation, at last, was interrupted by an exclamation from Mrs. Somers, "Good Heavens! my dear Lady Littleton, how can you endure this smell of paint? It has made my head ache terribly--where does it come from?"

"From my bedchamber," said Lady Littleton. "They have, unluckily, misunderstood my orders; and they have freshly painted every one in my house."

"Then it is impossible that you should sleep here--I will not allow you--it will poison you--it will give you the palsy immediately--it is destruction--it is death. You must come home with me directly--I insist upon it--But, no," said she, checking herself, with a look of sudden disappointment, "no, my dearest friend! I cannot invite you; for I have not a bed to offer you."

"Yes, mine--you forget mine--dear Mrs. Somers," cried Emilie; "you know I can sleep with mamma."

"By no means, Mlle. de Coulanges; you cannot possibly imagine--"

"I only imagine the truth," said Emilie, "that this arrangement would be infinitely more convenient to mamma; I know she likes to have me in the room with her. Pray, dear Mrs. Somers, let it be so."