Читать книгу Memoirs of Emma Courtney - Mary Hays - Страница 11

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The following Monday I prepared to attend Mr Courtney. On arriving at his house, and announcing my name, a servant conducted me into his master's dressing-room. I appeared before him with trembling steps, downcast eyes, and an averted face.

'Look up, child!' said my father, in an imperious tone. 'If you are conscious of no crime, why all this ridiculous confusion?'

I struggled with my feelings: the tone and manner in which I was addressed gave me an indignant sensation:—a deeper suffusion than that of modesty, the glow of wounded pride, burnt in my cheeks:—I turned quick, gazed in the face of Mr Courtney with a steady eye, and spoke a few words, in a firm voice, importing—that I attended by his desire, and waited his direction.

He regarded me with somewhat less hauteur, and, while he finished dressing, interrogated me respecting the books I had read, and the impression they had left on my mind. I replied with simplicity, and without evasion. He soon discovered that my imagination had been left to wander unrestrained in the fairy fields of fiction; but that, of historical facts, and the science of the world, I was entirely ignorant.

'It is as I apprehended,' said he:—'your fancy requires a rein rather than a spur. Your studies, for the future, must be of a soberer nature, or I shall have you mistake my valet for a prince in disguise, my house for a haunted castle, and my rational care for your future welfare for barbarous tyranny.'

I felt a poignant and suffocating sensation, too complicated to bear analyzing, and followed Mr Courtney in silence to the library. My heart bounded when, on entering a spacious room, I perceived on either side a large and elegant assortment of books, regularly arranged in glass cases, and I longed to be left alone, to expatiate freely in these treasures of entertainment. But I soon discovered, to my inexpressible mortification, that the cases were locked, and that in this intellectual feast I was not to be my own purveyor. My father, after putting into my hands the lives of Plutarch, left me to my meditations; informing me, that he should probably dine at home with a few friends, at five o'clock, when he should expect my attendance at the table.

I opened my book languidly, after having examined through the glass doors the titles of those which were with-held from me. I felt a kind of disgust to what I considered as a task imposed, and read a few pages carelessly, gazing at intervals through the windows into the square.—But my attention, as I proceeded, was soon forcibly arrested, my curiosity excited, and my enthusiasm awakened. The hours passed rapidly—I perceived not their flight—and at five o'clock, when summoned to dinner, I went down into the dining-room, my mind pervaded with republican ardour, my sentiments elevated by a high-toned philosophy, and my bosom glowing with the virtues of patriotism.

I found with Mr Courtney company of both sexes, to whom he presented me on my entrance. Their easy compliments disconcerted me, and I shrunk, abashed, from the bold and curious eyes of the gentlemen. During the repast I ate little, but listened in silence to every thing that passed.

The theatres were the first topic of conversation, Venice Preserved had been acted the preceding evening, and from discussing the play, the conversation took a political turn. A gentleman that happened to be seated next me, who spoke fluently, looking around him every moment for approbation, with apparent self-applause, gave the discourse a tone of gallantry, declaring—'Pierre to be a noble fellow, and that the loss of a mistress was a sufficient excuse for treason and conspiracy, even though the country had been deluged in blood and involved in conflagration.'

'And the mistresses of all his fellow citizens destroyed of course;'—said a gentleman coolly, on the opposite side of the table.

Oh! that was not a consideration, every thing must give place when put in competition with certain feelings. 'What, young lady,' (suddenly turning to me) 'do you think a lover would not risque, who was in fear of losing you?'

Good God! what a question to an admirer of the grecian heroes! I started, and absolutely shuddered. I would have replied, but my words died away upon my lips in inarticulate murmurs. My father observed and enjoyed my distress.

'The worthies of whom you have been reading, Emma, lived in ancient times. Aristides the just, would have made but a poor figure among our modern men of fashion!'

'This lady reads, then,'—said our accomplished coxcomb—'Heavens, Mr Courtney! you will spoil all her feminine graces; knowledge and learning, are unsufferably masculine in a woman—born only for the soft solace of man! The mind of a young lady should be clear and unsullied, like a sheet of white paper, or her own fairer face: lines of thinking destroy the dimples of beauty; aping the reason of man, they lose the exquisite, fascinating charm, in which consists their true empire;—Then strongest, when most weak—

"Loveliest in their fears—

And by this silent adulation, soft,

To their protection more engaging man."

'Pshaw!' replied Mr Courtney, a little peevishly—'you will persuade Emma, that the age of chivalry is not yet over; and that giants and ravishers are as common now, as in the time of Charlemagne: a young woman of sense and spirit needs no other protection; do not flatter the girl into affectation and imbecility. If blank paper be your passion, you can be at no loss; the town will supply quires and reams.'

'There I differ from you,' said the gentleman on the opposite side of the table; 'to preserve the mind a blank, we must be both deaf and blind, for, while any inlet to perception remains, your paper will infallibly contract characters of some kind, or be blotted and scrawled!'

'For God's sake! do not let us begin to philosophise,' retorted his antagonist, who was not to be easily silenced.

'I agree with you,'—rejoined the other—'thinking is undoubtedly very laborious, and principle equally troublesome and impertinent.'

I looked at him as he finished speaking, and caught his eye for a moment; its expression methought was doubtful. The man of fashion continued to expatiate in rhetorical periods—He informed us, that he had fine feelings, but they never extended beyond selfish gratification. For his part, he had as much humanity as any man, for which reason he carefully avoided the scene or the tale of distress. He, likewise, had his opinions, but their pliability rendered them convenient to himself, and accommodating to his friends. He had courage to sustain fatigue and hardship, when, not his country, but vanity demanded the exertion. It was glorious to boast of having travelled two hundred miles in eight and forty hours, and sat up three nights, to be present, on two succeeding evenings, at a ball in distant counties.

'This man,' I said to myself, while I regarded him with a look of ineffable scorn—'takes a great deal of pains to render himself ridiculous, he surely must have a vile heart, or a contemptible opinion of mankind: if he be really the character he describes, he is a compound of atrocity and folly, and a pest to the world; if he slanders himself, what must be that state of society, the applause of which he persuades himself is to be thus acquired?' I sighed deeply;—in either case the reflection was melancholy;—my eyes enquired—'Am I to hate or to despise you?' I know not whether he understood their language, but he troubled me no more with his attentions.

I reflected a little too seriously:—I have since seen many a prating, superficial coxcomb, who talks to display his oratory—mere words—repeated by rote, to which few ideas are affixed, and which are uttered and received with equal apathy.