The History of Sir Charles Grandison, Volume 4 (of 7)
Like merits, my dear, as person is not the principal motive, may produce like attachments. My Lord D– will be, in your hands, another Sir Charles Grandison.
How good you are, my dear Lady D–! But allow me to repeat, as the strongest expression I can use, because I mean it to carry in it all the force that can be given it, that my heart is already a wedded heart.
You have spoken with great force: God bless you, my dear, as I love you! The matter shall take its course. If my lord should happen to be a single man some time hence (and, I can tell you, that your excellencies will make our choice difficult): and if your mind, from any accident, or from persuasion of friends, should then have received alteration; you may still be happy in each other. I will therefore only thank you for that openness of heart, which must set free the heart of my son—Had you had the least lurking inclination to coquetry, and could have taken pride in conquests, he might have been an undone man.—We will return to the company—But spare him, my dear: you must not talk much. He will love you, if you do, too fervently for his own peace. Try to be a little awkward—I am afraid for him: indeed I am. O that you had never seen Sir Charles Grandison!
I could not answer one word. She took my hand; and led me into the company.
Had I been silent, when my lord directed his discourse to me, or answered only No, or Yes, the Countess would have thought me very vain; and that I ascribed to myself the consequence she so generously gave me, with respect to my lord. I therefore behaved and answered unaffectedly; but avoided such a promptness of speech, as would have looked like making pretensions to knowledge and opinion, though some of my lord's questions were apparently designed to engage me into freedom of discourse. The countess observed me narrowly. She whispered to me, that she did; and made me a very high compliment on my behaviour. How much, Lucy, do I love and reverence her!
My lord was spoken too slightly of, by Miss Grandison, in a former conversation. He is really a fine gentleman. Any woman who is not engaged in her affections, may think herself very happy with him. His conversation was easy and polite, and he said nothing that was low or trifling. Indeed, Lucy, I think Mr. Greville and Mr. Fenwick are as greatly inferior to Lord D–, as Lord D– is to Sir Charles Grandison.
At parting, he requested of me, to be allowed to repeat his visits.
My lord, said the countess, before I could answer, you must not expect a mere stiff maiden answer from Miss Byron: she is above all vulgar forms. She and her cousins have too much politeness, and, I will venture to say, discernment, not to be glad of your acquaintance, as an acquaintance— But, for the rest, you must look to your heart.
I shall be afraid, said he, turning to the countess, to ask your ladyship for an explanation. Miss Byron, I hope, sir, addressing himself to Mr. Reeves, will not refuse me her company, when I pay you my compliments. Then turning to me, I hope, madam, I shall not be punished for admiring you.
My Lord D–, replied I, will be entitled to every civility. I had said more, had he not snatched my hand a little too eagerly, and kissed it.
And thus much for the visit of the Countess of D– and the earl.
***Did I tell you in my former letter, that Emily is with me half her time? She is a most engaging young creature. Her manners are so pure! Her heart is so sincere and open!—O, Lucy! you would dearly love her. I wish I may be asked to carry her down with me. Yet she adores her guardian: but her reverence for him will not allow of the innocent familiarity in thinking of him, that—I don't know what I would say. But to love with an ardor, that would be dangerous to one's peace, one must have more tenderness than reverence for the object: Don't you think so, Lucy?
Miss Grandison made me one of her flying visits, as she calls them, soon after the countess and my lord went away.
Mr. and Mrs. Reeves told her all that had been said before them by the earl and countess, as well before I went down to them, as after. They could not tell her what passed between that lady and me, when she took me aside. I had not had time to tell them. They referred to me for that: but besides that I was not in spirits, and cared not to say much, I was not willing to be thought by my refusal of so great an offer, to seem to fasten myself upon her brother.
She pitied (who but must?) Lady Clementina. She pitied her brother also: and, seeing me dejected, she clasped her arms about me, and wet my cheek with a sisterly tear.
Is it not very strange, Lucy, that his father should keep him so long abroad? These free-living men! of what absurdities are they not guilty! What misfortunes to others do they not occasion? One might, with the excellent Clementina, ask, What had Mr. Grandison to do in Italy! Or why, if he must go abroad, did he stay so long?
Travelling! Young men travelling! I cannot, my dear, but think it a very nonsensical thing! What can they see, but the ruins of the gay, once busy world, of which they have read?
To see a parcel of giddy boys under the direction of tutors or governors hunting after—What?—Nothing: or, at best, but ruins of ruins; for the imagination, aided by reflection, must be left, after all, to make out the greater glories, which the grave-digger Time has buried too deep for discovery.
And when this grand tour is completed, the travelled youth returns: And, what is his boast? Why to be able to tell, perhaps his better taught friend, who has never been out of his native country, that he has seen in ruins, what the other has a juster idea of from reading; and of which, it is more than probable, he can give a much better account than the traveller.
And are these, petulant Harriet, (methinks, Lucy, you demand,) all the benefits that you will suppose Sir Charles Grandison has reaped from his travelling?
Why, no. But then, in turn, I ask, Is every traveller a Sir Charles Grandison?—And does not even he confess to Dr. Bartlett, that he wished he had never seen Italy? And may not the poor Clementina, and all her family, for her sake, wish he never had?
If an opportunity offers, I don't know, but I may ask Sir Charles, whether, in his conscience, he thinks, that, taking in every consideration, relating to time, expense, risques of life, health, morals, this part of the fashionable education of youth of condition is such an indispensable one, as some seem to suppose it? If Sir Charles Grandison give it not in favour of travelling, I believe it will be concluded, that six parts out of eight of the little masters who are sent abroad for improvement, might as well be kept at home; if, especially, they would be orderly, and let their fathers and mothers know what to do with them.
O, my uncle! I am afraid of you: but spare the poor girl: she acknowledges her petulance, her presumption. The occasion you know, and will pity her for it! However, neither petulance nor presumption shall make her declare as her sentiments what really are not so, in her unprejudiced hours; and she hopes to have her heart always open to conviction.
For the present, Adieu, my Lucy.
P.S. Dr. Bartlett tells me, that Mr. Beauchamp is at Calais, waiting the pleasure of his father; and that Sir Harry has sent express for him, as at his lady's motion.
LETTER X
MISS BYRON.—IN CONTINUATION TUESDAY, APRIL 4
Sir Charles Grandison came to town last night. He was so polite as to send to inquire after my health; and to let Mr. Reeves know, that he would do himself the honour, as he called it, of breakfasting with him this morning. Very ceremonious either for his own sake or for mine— Perhaps for both.
So I am in expectation of seeing within this half-hour, the noble Clementina's future—Ah Lucy!
The compliment, you see, is to Mr. Reeves—Shall I stay above, and see if he will ask for me? He owes me something for the emotion he gave me in Lord L–'s library. Very little of him since have I seen.
'Honour forbids me,' said he, then: 'Yet honour bids me.—But I cannot be ungenerous, selfish.'—These words are still in my ear.—What could he mean by them?—Honour forbids me—What! to explain himself? He had been telling me a tender tale: he had ended it. What did honour forbid him to do?—Yet honour bids me! Why then did he not follow the dictates of honour?
But I cannot be unjust:—To Clementina he means. Who wished him to be so?—Unjust! I hope not. It is a diminution to your glory, Sir Charles Grandison, to have the word unjust, in this way of speaking, in your thoughts! As if a good man had lain under a temptation to be unjust; and had but just recollected himself.
'I cannot be ungenerous.' To the noble lady, I suppose? He must take compassion on her. And did he think himself under an obligation to my forwardness to make this declaration to me, as to one who wished him to be ungenerous to such a lady for my sake!—I cannot bear the thought of this. Is it not as if he had said, 'Fond Harriet, I see what you expect from me—But I must have compassion for, I cannot be ungenerous to, Clementina!'—But, what a poor word is compassion! Noble Clementina! I grieve for you, though the man be indeed a generous man!—O defend me, my better genius, from wanting the compassion even of a Sir Charles Grandison!
But what means he by the word selfish! He cannot be selfish!—I comprehend not the meaning of this word—Clementina has a very high fortune—Harriet but a very middling one. He cannot be unjust, ungenerous to Clementina—Nor yet selfish—This word confounds me, from a man that says nothing at random!
Well, but breakfast-time is come, while I am busy in self-debatings. I will go down, that I may not seem to affect parade. I will endeavour to see with indifference, him that we have all been admiring and studying for this last fortnight, in such a variety of lights. The christian: the hero: the friend:—Ah, Lucy! the lover of Clementina: the generous kinsman of Lord W–: the modest and delicate benefactor of the Mansfields: the free, gay, raillier of Lady Beauchamp; and, in her, of all our sex's foibles!
But he is come! While I am prating to you with my pen, he is come—Why, Lucy, would you detain me?—Now must the fool go down in a kind of hurry:
Yet stay till she is sent for.—And that is now.
LETTER XI
MISS BYRON.—IN CONTINUATION
O Lucy, I have such a conversation to relate to you!—But let me lead to it.
Sir Charles met me at the opening of the door. He was all himself. Such an unaffected modesty and politeness; yet such an ease and freedom!
I thought, by his address, that he would have taken my hand; and both hands were so emulatively passive—How does he manage it to be so free in a first address, yet so respectful, that a princess could not blame him!
After breakfast, my cousins being sent for out to attend Sir John Allestree and his Niece, Sir Charles and I were left alone: and then, with an air equally solemn and free, he addressed himself to me.
The last time I had the honour of being alone with my good Miss Byron, I told her a very tender tale. I was sure it would raise in such a heart as hers generous compassion for the noblest lady on the continent; and I presumed, as my difficulties were not owing either to rashness or indiscretion, that she would also pity the relater.
The story did indeed affect you; yet, for my own sake, as well as yours, I referred you to Dr. Bartlett, for the particulars of some parts of it, upon which I could not expatiate.
The doctor, madam, has let me know the particulars which he communicated to you. I remember with pain the pain I gave to your generous heart in Lord L–'s study. I am sure you must have suffered still more from the same compassionate goodness on the communications he made you. May I, madam, however, add a few particulars to the same subject, which he then could not give you? Now you have been let into so considerable a part of my story, I am desirous to acquaint you, and that rather than any woman in the world, with all that I know myself of this arduous affair.
He ceased speaking. I was in tremors. Sir, sir—The story, I must own, is a most affecting one. How much is the unhappy lady to be pitied! You will do me honour in acquainting me with further particulars of it.
Dr. Bartlett has told you, madam, that the Bishop of Nocera, second brother to Lady Clementina, has very lately written to me, requesting that I will make one more visit to Bologna—I have the letter. You read Italian, madam. Shall I—Or will you—He held it to me.
I took it. These, Lucy, are the contents.
'The bishop acquaints him with the very melancholy way they are in. The father and mother declining in their healths. Signor Jeronymo worse than when Sir Charles left them. His sister also declining in her health: yet earnest still to see him.
'He says, that she is at present at Urbino; but is soon to go to Naples to the general's. He urges him to make them one visit more; yet owns, that his family are not unanimous in the request: but that he and Father Marescotti, and the marchioness, are extremely earnest that this indulgence should be granted to the wishes of his dear sister.
'He offers to meet him, at his own appointment, and conduct him to Bologna; where, he tells him, his presence will rejoice every heart, and procure an unanimous consent to the interview so much desired: and says, that if this measure, which he is sorry he has so long withstood, answers not his hopes, he will advise the shutting up of their Clementina in a nunnery, or to consign her to private hands, where she shall be treated kindly, but as persons in her unhappy circumstances are accustomed to be treated.'
Sir Charles then shewed me a letter from Signor Jeronymo; in which he acquaints him with the dangerous way he is in. He tells him, 'That his life is a burden to him. He wishes it was brought to its period. He does not think himself in skilful hands. He complains most of the wound which is in his hip-joint; and which has hitherto baffled the art both of the Italian and French surgeons who have been consulted. He wishes, that himself and Sir Charles had been of one country, he says, since the greatest felicity he now has to wish for, is to yield up his life to the Giver of it, in the arms of his Grandison.'
He mentions not one word in this melancholy letter of his unhappy sister: which Sir Charles accounted for, by supposing, that she not being at Bologna, they kept from him, in his deplorable way, everything relating to her, that was likely to disturb him. He then read part of a letter written in English, by the admired Mrs. Beaumont; some of the contents of which were, as you shall hear, extremely affecting.
'Mrs. Beaumont gives him in it an account of the situation of the unhappy young lady; and excuses herself for not having done it before, in answer to his request, by reason of an indisposition under which she had for some time laboured, which had hindered her from making the necessary inquiries.
'She mentions, that the lady had received no benefit from her journeyings from place to place; and from her voyage from Leghorn to Naples, and back again; and blames her attendants, who, to quiet her, unknown to their principals, for some time, kept her in expectation of seeing her Chevalier, at the end of each; for her more prudent Camilla, she says, had been hindered by illness from attending her, in several of the excursions.
'They had a second time, at her own request, put her into a nunnery. She at first was so sedate in it as gave them hopes: but the novelty going off, and one of the sisters, to try her, having officiously asked her to go with her into the parlour, where she said, she would be allowed to converse through the grate with a certain English gentleman, her impatience, on her disappointment, made her more ungovernable than they had ever known her; for she had been for two hours before meditating what she would say to him.
'For a week together, she was vehemently intent upon being allowed to visit England; and had engaged her cousins, Sebastiano and Juliano, to promise to escort her thither, if she could obtain leave.
'Her mother brought her off this when nobody else could, only by entreating her, for her sake, never to think of it more.
'The marchioness then, encouraged by this instance of her obedience, took her under her own care: but the young lady going on from flight to slight; and the way she was in visibly affecting the health of her indulgent mother; a doctor was found, who was absolutely of opinion, that nothing but harsh methods would avail: and in this advice Lady Sforza, and her daughter Laurana, and the general, concurring, she was told, that she must prepare to go to Milan. She was so earnest to be excused from going thither, and to be permitted to go to Florence to Mrs. Beaumont, that they gave way to her entreaties; and the marquis himself, accompanying her to Florence, prevailed on Mrs. Beaumont to take her under her care.
'With her she staid three weeks: she was tolerably sedate in that space of time; but most so, when she was talking of England, and of the Chevalier Grandison, and his sisters, with whom she wished to be acquainted. She delighted to speak English, and to talk of the tenderness and goodness of her tutor; and of what he said to her, upon such and such a subject.
'At the three weeks end, the general made her a visit, in company of Lady Sforza; and her talk being all on this subject, they were both highly displeased; and hinted, that she was too much indulged in it; and, unhappily, she repeating some tender passages that passed in the interview her mother had permitted her to hold with the Chevalier, the general would have it, that Mr. Grandison had designedly, from the first, sought to give himself consequence with her; and expressed himself, on the occasion, with great violence against him.
'He carried his displeasure to extremity, and obliged her to go away with his aunt and him that very day, to her great regret; and as much to the regret of Mrs. Beaumont, and of the ladies her friends; who tenderly loved the innocent visionary, as sometimes they called her. And Mrs. Beaumont is sure, that the gentle treatment she met with from them, would in time, though perhaps slowly, have greatly helped her.'
Mrs. Beaumont then gives an account of the harsh treatment the poor young lady met with.
Sir Charles Grandison would have stopt reading here. He said, he could not read it to me, without such a change of voice, as would add to my pain, as well as to his own.
Tears often stole down my cheeks, when I read the letters of the bishop and Signor Jeronymo, and as Sir Charles read a part of Mrs. Beaumont's letter: and I doubted not but what was to follow would make them flow. Yet, I said, Be pleased, sir, to let me read on. I am not a stranger to distress. I can pity others, or I should not deserve pity myself.
He pointed to the place; and withdrew to the window.
Mrs. Beaumont says, 'That the poor mother was prevailed upon to resign her child wholly to the management of Lady Sforza, and her daughter Laurana, who took her with them to their palace in Milan.
'The tender parent, however, besought them to spare all unnecessary severity; which they promised: but Laurana objected to Camilla's attendance. She was thought too indulgent; and her servant Laura, as a more manageable person, was taken in her place.' And O how cruelly, as you shall hear, did they treat her!
Father Marescotti, being obliged to visit a dying relation at Milan, was desired by the marchioness to inform himself of the way her beloved daughter was in, and of the methods taken with her, Lady Laurana having, in her letters, boasted of both. The good Father acquainted Mrs. Beaumont with the following particulars:
'He was surprised to find a difficulty made of his seeing the lady: but, insisting on it, he found her to be wholly spiritless, and in terror; afraid to speak, afraid to look, before her cousin Laurana; yet seeming to want to complain to him. He took notice of this to Laurana—O Father, said she, we are in the right way, I assure you: when we had her first, her chevalier, and an interview with him, were ever in her mouth; but now she is in such order, that she never speaks a word of him. But what, asked the compassionate Father, must she have suffered, to be brought to this?—Don't you, Father, trouble yourself about that, replied the cruel Laurana: the doctors have given their opinion, that some severity was necessary. It is all for her good.
'The poor lady expressed herself to him, with earnestness, after the veil; a subject on which, it seems, they indulged her; urging, that the only way to secure her health of mind, if it could be restored, was to yield to her wishes. Lady Sforza said, that it was not a point that she herself would press; but it was her opinion, that her family sinned in opposing a divine dedication; and, perhaps, their daughter's malady might be a judgment upon them for it.'
The father, in his letter to Mrs. Beaumont, ascribes to Lady Sforza self-interested motives for her conduct; to Laurana, envy, on account of Lady Clementina's superior qualities: but nobody, he says, till now, doubted Laurana's love of her.'
Father Marescotti then gives a shocking instance of the barbarous Laurana's treatment of the noble sufferer—All for her good—Wretch! how my heart rises against her! Her servant Laura, under pretence of confessing to her Bologna father, in tears, acquainted him with it. It was perpetrated but the day before.
'When any severity was to be exercised upon the unhappy lady, Laura was always shut out of her apartment. Her lady had said something that she was to be chidden for. Lady Sforza, who was not altogether so severe as her daughter, was not at home. Laura listened in tears: she heard Laurana in great wrath with Lady Clementina, and threaten her—and her young lady break out to this effect—What have I done to you, Laurana, to be so used?—You are not the cousin Laurana you used to be! You know I am not able to help myself: why do you call me crazy, and frantic, Laurana? [Vile upbraider, Lucy!] If the Almighty has laid his hand upon me, should I not be pitied?—
'It is all for your good! It is all for your good, Clementina! You could not always have spoken so sensibly, cousin.
'Cruel Laurana! You loved me once! I have no mother, as you have. My mother was a good mother: but she is gone! Or I am gone, I know not which!
'She threatened her then with the strait waistcoat, a punishment which the unhappy lady was always greatly terrified at. Laura heard her beg and pray; but, Laurana coming out, she was forced to retire.
'The poor young lady apprehending her cruel cousin's return with the threatened waistcoat, and with the woman that used to be brought in when they were disposed to terrify her, went down and hid herself under a stair-case, where she was soon discovered by her clothes, which she had not been careful to draw in after her.'
O, Lucy! how I wept! How insupportable to me, said Sir Charles, would have been my reflections, had my conscience told me, that I had been the wilful cause of the noble Clementina's calamity!
After I had a little recovered, I read to myself the next paragraph, which related, 'that the cruel Laurana dragged the sweet sufferer by her gown, from her hiding-place, inveighing against her, threatening her: she, all patient, resigned, her hands crossed on her bosom, praying for ercy, not by speech, but by her eyes, which, however, wept not: and causing her to be carried up to her chamber, there punished her with the strait waistcoat, as she had threatened.
'Father Marescotti was greatly affected with Laura's relation, as well as with what he had himself observed: but on his return to Bologna, dreading to acquaint her mother, for her own sake, with the treatment her Clementina met with, he only said, he did not quite approve of it, and advised her not to oppose the young lady's being brought home, if the bishop and the general came into it: but he laid the whole matter before the bishop, who wrote to the general to join with him out of hand, to release their sister from her present bondage: and the general meeting the bishop on a set day at Milan, for that purpose, the lady was accordingly released.
'A breach ensued upon it, with Lady Sforza and her daughter; who would have it, that Clementina was much better for their management. They had by terror broke her spirit, and her passiveness was reckoned upon as an indication of amendment.
