THE MODERN GRISELDA. A TALE.

BY MISS EDGEWORTH,

AUTHOR OF PRACTICAL EDUCATION, BELINDA, CASTLE RACKRENT, HISTORY OF IRISH BULLS, LETTERS FOR LITERARY LADIES, POPULAR TALES, &c.

THE THIRD EDITION, CORRECTED.

"And since in man right reason bears the sway,

Let that frail thing, weak woman, have her way." Pope.

LONDON:

PRINTED FOR J. JOHNSON AND CO.,

ST. PAUL'S CHURCHYARD.

1813

CHAPTER I.

"Blest as th' immortal gods is he,

The youth who fondly sits by thee,

Who sees, and hears thee all the while,

Softly speak and sweetly smile."

Is not this ode set to music, my dear Griselda? said the happy bridegroom to his bride.

Yes, surely, my dear; did you never hear it?

Never, and I am glad of it, for I shall have the pleasure of hearing it for the first time, from you, my love—Will you be so kind as to play it for me?

Most willingly, said Griselda, with an enchanting smile; but I am afraid that I shall not be able to do it justice, added she, as she sat down to her harp and threw her white arm across the chords.

Charming! Thank you, my love, said the bridegroom, who had listened with enthusiastic devotion—Will you let me hear it once more?

The complaisant bride repeated the strain.

Thank you, my dear love, repeated her husband. This time he omitted the word "charming"—She missed it, and pouting prettily, said,

I never can play any thing so well the second time as the first—She paused: but as no compliment ensued, she continued, in a more pettish tone—"And for that reason, I do hate to be made to play any thing twice over."

I did not know that, my dearest love, or I would not have asked you to do it, but I am the more obliged to you for your ready compliance.

Obliged!—Oh my dear, I am sure you could not be the least obliged to me, for I know I played it horridly, I hate flattery.

I am convinced of that, my dear, and therefore I never flatter: you know I did not say that you played as well the last time as the first, did I?

No, I did not say you did, cried Griselda, and her colour rose as she spoke; she tuned her harp with some precipitation——"This harp is terribly out of tune."

Is it? I did not perceive it.

Did not you indeed? I am sorry for that.

Why so, my dear?

Because, my dear, I own that I would rather have had the blame thrown on my harp than upon myself.

Blame! my love!—But I threw no blame either on you or your harp. I cannot recollect saying even a syllable that implied blame.

No, my dear, you did not say a syllable; but in some cases the silence of those we love is the worst, the most mortifying species of blame.

The tears came into Griselda's beautiful eyes.

My sweet love, said he, how can you let such a trifle affect you so much?

Nothing is a trifle to me, which concerns those I love, said Griselda.——Her husband kissed away the pearly drops which rolled over her vermeil-tinctured cheeks. My love, said he, this is having too much sensibility.

Yes, I own I have too much sensibility, said she, too much, a great deal too much, for my own happiness—Nothing ever can be a trifle to me, which marks the decline of the affection of those who are most dear to me.

The tenderest protestations of undiminished and unalterable affection, could not for some time reassure this timid sensibility: but at length the lady suffered herself to be comforted, and with a languid smile, said, that she hoped she was mistaken, that her fears were perhaps unreasonable—that she prayed to Heaven they might in future prove groundless.——[. . . .]

.

Whoever has had the felicity to be beloved by such a wife as our Griselda, must have felt how much the charms of beauty are heightened by the anguish of sensibility—Even in the moment when a husband is most tormented by her caprices, he feels that there is something so amiable, so flattering to his vanity in their source, that he cannot complain of the killing pleasure. On the contrary, he grows fonder of his dear tormentor; he folds closer to him this pleasing bosom ill.

Griselda perceived the effects, and felt the whole extent of the power of sensibility; she had too much prudence, however, at once to wear out the excitability of a husband's heart; she knew that the influence of tears, potent as it is, might in time cease to be irresistible, unless aided by the magic of smiles; she knew the power of contrast even in charms; she believed the poets, who certainly understand these things, and who assure us that the very existence of Love depends on this blest vicissitude. Convinced, or seemingly convinced, of the folly of that fond melancholy in which she persisted for a week, she next appeared all radiant with joy; and she had reason to be delighted by the effect which this produced. Her husband, who had not yet been long enough her husband to cease to be her lover, had suffered much from the obstinacy of her sorrow, his spirits had sunk, he had become silent, he had been even seen to stand motionless with his arms folded; he was in this attitude when she approached and smiled upon him in all her glory. He breathed, he lived, he moved, he spoke—Not the influence of the sun on the statue of Memnon was ever more exhilarating.

Let any candid female say, or, if she will not say, imagine, what she should have felt at this moment in Griselda's place—How intoxicating to human vanity to be possessed of such powers of enchantment!—How difficult to refrain from their exercise!—How impossible to believe in their finite duration!

. . . .

CHAPTER III.

[Griselda learns that Mr. Granby, a neighbor, has recently married Emma Cooke. Griselda and her husband discuss this news, and she wonders if the new Mrs. Granby is someone she knows.]

[The husband:] This lady seems to me to be cut out for a good wife——

[Griselda:] May be so—I am sure I'll never go to see her—Pray, my dear, how came you to see so much of her?

I have seen very little of her, my dear—I only saw her two or three times before she was married.

Then, my dear, how could you decide that she is cut out for a good wife?—I am sure you could not judge of her by seeing her only two or three times, and before she was married.

Indeed, my love, that is a very just observation.

I understand that compliment perfectly, and thank you for it, my dear—I must own I can bear any thing better than irony.

Irony! my dear, I was perfectly in earnest.

Yes, yes; in earnest—so I perceive—I may naturally be dull of apprehension, but my feelings are quick enough; I comprehend you too well; Yes—it is impossible to judge of a woman before marriage, or to guess what sort of a wife she will make. I presume you speak from experience; you have been disappointed yourself, and repent your choice.

My dear, what did I say that was like this! Upon my word I meant no such thing; I really was not thinking of you in the least.

No—you never think of me now: I can easily believe that you were not thinking of me in the least.

But I said that only to prove to you that I could not be thinking ill of you, my dear.

But I would rather that you thought ill of me, than that you did not think of me at all.

Well, my dear, said her husband, laughing, I will even think ill of you, if that will please you.

Do you laugh at me? cried she, bursting into tears. When it comes to this, I am wretched indeed! Never man laughed at the woman he loved! As long as you had the slightest remains of love for me, you could not make me an object of derision: ridicule and love are incompatible; absolutely incompatible. Well, I have done my best, my very best to make you happy, but in vain. I see I am not cut out to be a good wife. Happy, happy Mrs. Granby!

Happy, I hope sincerely, that she will be with my friend; but my happiness must depend on you, my love: so for my sake, if not for your own, be composed, and do not torment yourself with such fancies.

I do wonder, cried our heroine, starting from her seat, whether this Mrs. Granby is really that Miss Emma Cooke. I'll go and see her directly; see her I must.

I am heartily glad of it, my dear; for I am sure a visit to his wife, will give my friend Granby real pleasure.

I promise you, my dear, I do not go to give him pleasure, or you either; but to satisfy my own— curiosity.

The rudeness of this speech would have been intolerable to her husband, if it had not been for a certain hesitation in the emphasis with which she pronounced the word curiosity, which left him in doubt as to her real motive.

Jealousy is sometimes thought to be a proof of love; and in this point of view, must not all its caprices, absurdities, and extravagancies be graceful, amiable, and gratifying?

A few days after Griselda had satisfied her curiosity, she thus, in the presence of her husband, began to vent her spleen:

For heaven's sake, dear Mrs. Nettleby, cried she, addressing herself to the new-married widow, who came to return her wedding visit;—for pity's sake, dear Mrs. Nettleby, can you or any body else tell me, what possessed Mr. Granby to marry Emma Cooke?

I am sure I cannot tell, for I have not seen her yet.

You will be less able to tell after you have seen her, and less still after you have heard her.

What then, she is neither a wit nor a beauty! I'm quite surprised at that; for I thought to be sure, Mr. Granby, who is such a judge and such a critic, and so nice about female manners, would not have been content without something very extraordinary.

Nothing can be more ordinary.

Astonishing! but I am quite tired of being astonished at marriages! One sees such strange matches every day, I am resolved never to be surprised at any thing: who can, that lives in the world? But really now I am surprised at Mr. Granby. What! is she nothing?

Nothing: absolutely nothing: a cypher: a nonentity.

Now really? you do not tell me so, said Mrs. Nettleby: Well, I am so disappointed: for I always resolved to take example by Mr. Granby's wife.

I would rather that she should take warning by me, said Griselda, laughing: But to be candid, I must tell you that to some people's taste, she is a pattern wife; a perfect Grizzle. She and I should have changed names—or characters. Which, my dear? cried she, appealing to her husband.

Not names, my dear, answered he.

The conversation might here have ended happily, but unluckily our heroine could not be easily satisfied before Mrs. Nettleby, to whom she was proud of shewing her conjugal ascendancy.

My dear, said she to her husband, a-propos to pattern wives; you have read Chaucer's Tales. Do you seriously like or dislike the real, original, old Griselda?

It is so long since I have seen her, that I cannot tell: replied he.

Then, my dear, you must read the story over again, and tell me without evasion.

And if he could read it before Mrs. Granby and me, what a compliment that would be to one bride, added the malicious Mrs. Nettleby; and what a lesson for another!

O it must be so! it must be so! cried Griselda. I will ask her here on purpose to a reading party; and you, my dear Mrs. Nettleby, will come for your lesson. You, my love, who read so well; and who, I am sure, will be delighted to pay a compliment to your favourite, Mrs. Granby,—you will read, and I will—weep. On what day shall it be? Let me see: Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday, I'm engaged: but Sunday is only a card-party at home, I can put that off: Then Sunday let it be.

Sunday, I am unluckily engaged, my dear, said her husband.

Engaged? O nonsense! You have no engagements of any consequence; and when I put off a card-party on purpose to have the pleasure of hearing you read, oblige me, my love, for once.

My love, to oblige you, I will do any thing.

Griselda cast a triumphant glance at Mrs. Nettleby, which said as plainly as a look could say, "You see how I rule him!"

CHAPTER IV.

"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 aukwardness 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. . . .

Our heroine . . . 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 meantime, 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 furious 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?

O, 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 Mrs. Bolingbroke.

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.

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Title: The Modern Griselda. A Tale.

Author: Edgeworth, Maria (1767-1849)

Date of first publication: 1804

Edition used as base for this ebook: London: J. Johnson, 1813 ["The third edition, corrected"]

Date first posted: 15 October 2010

Date last updated: 15 October 2010

Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #638