The Diary and Letters of Madame D'Arblay Volume Ii Part 11

Upon returning to Kew, I had a scene for which I was little enough, indeed, prepared, though willing, and indeed, earnest to satisfy Mr. Turbulent, I wished him to make an alteration of behaviour. After hastily changing my dress, I went, as usual, to the parlour, to be ready for dinner; but found there no Mrs.

Schwellenberg; she was again unwell; Miss Planta was not ready, and Mr. Turbulent was reading by himself.

Away he flung his book in a moment, and hastening to shut the door lest I should retreat, he rather charged than desired me to explain my late "chilling demeanour."

Almost startled by his apparent entire ignorance of deserving it, I found an awkwardness I had not foreseen in making myself understood. I wished him rather to feel than be told the improprieties I meant to obviate - and I did what was possible by half evasive, half expressive answers, to call back his own recollection and consciousness. In vain, however, was the attempt; he protested himself wholly innocent, and that he would rather make an end of his existence than give me offence.

He saw not these very protestations were again doing it, and he grew so vehement in his defence, and so reproachful in his accusation of unjust usage, that I was soon totally in a perplexity how to extricate myself from a difficulty I had regarded simply as his own. The moment he saw I grew embarra.s.sed, he redoubled his challenges to know the cause of my "ill-treatment." I a.s.sured him, then, I could never reckon silence ill-treatment.

"Yes," he cried, "yes, from you it is ill-treatment, and it has given me the most serious uneasiness."

"I am sorry," I said, "for that, and did not mean it."

"Not mean it?" cried be. "Could you imagine I should miss your conversation, your ease, your pleasantness, your gaiety, and take no notice of the loss?"

Then followed a most violent flow of compliments, ending with a fresh demand for an explanation, made with an energy

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that, to own the truth, once more quite frightened me. I endeavoured to appease him, by general promises of becoming more voluble - and I quite languished to say to him the truth at once; that his sport, his spirit, and his society would all be acceptable to me, would he but divest them of that redundance of -gallantry which rendered them offensive : but I could only think how to say this--I could not bring it out.

This promised volubility, though it softened him, he seemed to receive as a sort of acknowledgment that I owed him some reparation for the disturbance I had caused him. I stared enough at such an interpretation, which I could by no means allow; but no sooner did I disclaim it than all his violence was resumed, and he urged me to give in my charge against him with an impetuosity that almost made me tremble.

I made as little answer as possible, finding everything I said seemed but the more to inflame his violent spirit; but his emotion was such, and the cause so inadequate, and my uncertainty so unpleasant what to think of him altogether, that I was seized with sensations so nervous, I Could almost have cried. In the full torrent of his offended justification against my displeasure towards him, he perceived my increasing distress how to proceed, and, suddenly stopping, exclaimed in quite another tone, "Now, then, ma'am, I see your justice returning; you feel that you have used me very ill!"

To my great relief entered Miss Planta. He contrived to say, "Remember, you promise to explain all this."

I made him no sort of answer, and though he frequently, in the course of the evening, repeated, "I depend upon your promise! I build upon a conference," I sent his dependence and his building to Coventry, by not seeming to hear him.

I determined, however, to avoid all tete-a-tetes with him whatsoever, as much as was in my power. How very few people are fit for them, n.o.body living in trios and quartettos can imagine!

A CONCEITED PARSON.

Windsor.-Who should find me out now but Dr. Shepherd.(243) He is here as canon, and was in residence. He told me he had long wished to come, but had never been able to find the

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way of entrance before. He made me an immense length of visit, and related to me all the exploits of his life,-so far as they were prosperous. In no farce did a man ever more floridly open upon his own perfections. He a.s.sured me I should be delighted to know the whole of his life; it was equal to anything; and everything he had was got by his own address and ingenuity.

"I could tell the king," cried he, "more than all the chapter. I want to talk to him, but he always gets out of my way; he does not know me; he takes me for a mere common person, like the rest of the canons here, and thinks of me no more than if I were only fit for the ca.s.sock;--a mere Scotch priest! Bless 'em!--they know nothing about me. You have no conception what things I have done! And I want to tell 'em all this;--It's fitter for them to hear than what comes to their ears. What I want is for somebody to tell them what I am."

They know it already, thought I.

Then, when he had exhausted this general panegyric, he descended to some few particulars; especially dilating upon his preaching, and applying to me for attesting its excellence.

"I shall make one sermon every year, precisely for you!" he cried; "I think I know what will please you. That on the creation last Sunday was just to your taste. You shall have such another next residence. I think I preach in the right tone--not too slow, like that poor wretch Grape, nor too fast like Davis and the rest of 'em; but yet fast enough never to tire them.

That's just my idea of good preaching."

Then he told me what excellent apartments he had here and how much he should like my opinion in fitting them up.

MR. TURBULENT BECOMES A NUISANCE.

Aug.30.-Mrs. Schwellenberg invited Mr. Turbulent to dinner, for she said he had a large correspondence, and might amuse her. He came early; and finding n.o.body in the eating-parlour, begged to wait in mine till Mrs. Schwellenberg came downstairs. This was the last thing I wished; but he required no answer, and instantly resumed the Kew discussion, entreating me to tell him what he had done. I desired him to desist--in vain, he affirmed I had promised him an explanation, and he had therefore a right to it.

"You fully mistook me, then," cried I, "for I meant no Page 57

such thing then; I mean no such thing now; and I never shall mean any such thing in future. Is this explicit? I think it best to tell you so at once, that you may expect nothing more, but give over the subject, and talk of something else. What is the news?"

"I'll talk of nothing else!--it distracts me;--pray No, no, tell Me!--I call upon your good-nature!"

"I have none--about this! "

"Upon your goodness of heart!"

"'Tis all hardness here!"

"I will cast myself at your feet,--I will kneel to you!" And he was preparing his immense person for prostration, when Goter(244) opened the door. Such an interruption to his heroics made me laugh heartily; nor could he help joining himself; though the moment she was gone he renewed his importunity with unabated earnestness.

"I remember," he cried, "it was upon the Terrace you first shewed me this disdain; and there, too, you have shown it me repeatedly since, with public superciliousness. . . . You well know you have treated me ill,--you know and have acknowledged it!"

"And when?" cried I, amazed and provoked; "when did I do what could never be done?"

"At Kew, ma'am, you were full of concern--full of remorse for the treatment you had given me!--and you owned it!"

"Good heaven, Mr. Turbulent, what can induce you to say this?"

"Is it not true?"

"Not a word of it! You know it is not!"

"Indeed," cried he, "I really and truly thought so--hoped so;--I believed you looked as if you felt your own ill-usage,- and it gave to me a delight inexpressible!"

This was almost enough to bring back the very same supercilious Distance of which he complained; but, in dread of fresh explanations, I forbore to notice this flight, and only told him he might be perfectly satisfied, since I no longer Persevered in the taciturnity to which he objected.

"But how," cried he, "do you give up, without deigning to a.s.sign one reason for It"?

"The greater the compliment!" cried I, laughing; "I give up to your request."

"Yes, ma'am, upon my speaking,-but why did you keep Me so long in that painful suspense?"

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"Nay," cried I, "could I well be quicker? Till you spoke could I know if you heeded it?"

"Ah, ma'am--is there no language but of words? Do you pretend to think there is no other?'--Must I teach it you,,--teach it to Miss Burney who speaks, who understands it so well?--who is never silent, and never can b silent?"

And then came his heroic old homage to the poor eyebrows vehemently finis.h.i.+ng with, "Do you, can you affect to know no language but speech?"

" Not," cried I, coolly, " without the trouble of more investigation than I had taken here."