This is a modern-English version of Evelina, Or, the History of a Young Lady's Entrance into the World, originally written by Burney, Fanny.
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EVELINA
or
THE HISTORY OF A YOUNG LADY’S ENTRANCE INTO THE WORLD
1778
By Fanny Burney
ORIGINAL INSCRIPTION: TO DR. BURNEY
Oh, Author of my being!-far more dear
To me than light, than nourishment, or rest,
Hygeia’s blessings, Rapture’s burning tear,
Or the life-blood that mantles in my breast!
If in my heart the love of Virtue glows,
’T was planted there by an unerring rule;
From thy example the pure flame arose,
Thy life, my precept,-thy good works, my school.
Could my weak pow’rs thy num’rous virtues trace,
By filial love each fear should be repress’d,
The blush of Incapacity I’d chace,
And stand, Recorder of thy worth, confess’d:
But since my niggard stars that gift refuse,
Concealment is the only boon I claim;
Obscure be still the unsuccessful Muse,
Who cannot raise, but would not sink, thy fame.
Oh! of my life at once the source and joy!
If e’er thy eyes these feeble lines survey,
Let not their folly their intent destroy;
Accept the tribute-but forget the lay.
Oh, Author of my existence! You're more important to me
than light, nourishment, or rest,
than Hygeia's blessings, Rapture's burning tear,
or the life-blood that flows in my veins!
If the love of Virtue shines in my heart,
it was planted there by a sure guide;
From your example, the pure flame was ignited,
your life, my lesson—your good deeds, my school.
If my weak abilities could capture your many virtues,
I would suppress every fear with a child’s love,
I’d chase away the blush of inadequacy,
and stand here, proudly acknowledging your worth.
But since my poor stars deny me that gift,
secrecy is the only favor I ask;
Let the unsuccessful Muse remain unknown,
who can't elevate but wouldn't lower your fame.
Oh! the source and joy of my life!
If you ever read these feeble lines,
don't let their foolishness ruin their purpose;
Accept the tribute—but forget the poem.
CONTENTS
TABLE OF CONTENTS
ORIGINAL DEDICATION.
TO THE AUTHORS OF THE MONTHLY AND CRITICAL REVIEWS.
GENTLEMEN, The liberty which I take in addressing to you the trifling production of a few idle hours, will doubtless move your wonder, and probably your contempt. I will not, however, with the futility of apologies, intrude upon your time, but briefly acknowledge the motives of my temerity; lest, by a premature exercise of that patience which I hope will befriend me, I should lessen its benevolence, and be accessary to my own condemnation.
GENTLEMEN, I understand that taking your time to present this small work from a few idle hours might surprise you and perhaps even annoy you. However, instead of wasting your time with needless excuses, I’ll simply acknowledge why I’m doing this. I hope that by being upfront, I don’t wear out your patience too soon and end up contributing to my own downfall.
Without name, without recommendation, and unknown alike to success and disgrace, to whom can I so properly apply for patronage, as to those who publicly profess themselves Inspectors of all literary performances?
Without a name, without a recommendation, and unknown to both success and failure, to whom can I turn for support better than to those who publicly declare themselves as Inspectors of all literary works?
The extensive plan of your critical observations,-which, not confined to works of utility or ingenuity, is equally open to those of frivolous amusement,-and, yet worse than frivolous, dullness,-encourages me to seek for your protection, since,-perhaps for my sins!-it intitles me to your annotations. To resent, therefore, this offering, however insignificant, would ill become the universality of your undertaking; though not to despise it may, alas! be out of your power.
The broad scope of your insightful comments— which, not limited to practical or clever works, also includes those that are purely for fun and, even worse, those that are boring—makes me want to seek your guidance since, maybe because of my faults, I feel entitled to your feedback. It would be inappropriate for you to reject this gift, no matter how small, given the all-encompassing nature of your mission; although it might be, unfortunately, beyond your ability not to overlook it.
The language of adulation, and the incense of flattery, though the natural inheritance, and constant resource, from time immemorial, of the Dedicator, to me offer nothing but the wistful regret that I dare not invoke their aid. Sinister views would be imputed to all I could say; since, thus situated, to extol your judgment, would seem the effect of art, and to celebrate your impartiality, be attributing to suspecting it.
The language of praise and the sweet smell of flattery, while a natural part of the Dedicator's role for ages, only leave me with a longing regret that I can't rely on them. Any words I say would be viewed with suspicion; in this position, praising your judgment would seem insincere, and celebrating your fairness would imply that I'm doubting it.
As magistrates of the press, and Censors for the public,-to which you are bound by the sacred ties of integrity to exert the most spirited impartiality, and to which your suffrages should carry the marks of pure, dauntless, irrefragable truth-to appeal to your MERCY, were to solicit your dishonour; and therefore,-though ’tis sweeter than frankincense,-more grateful to the senses than all the odorous perfumes of Arabia,-and though
As the judges of the press and overseers for the public, you have a sacred obligation to maintain the highest level of integrity and to act with true impartiality. Your opinions should reflect pure, fearless, and undeniable truth. To appeal to your compassion would be to undermine your honor; therefore, even though it is sweeter than frankincense and more pleasing to the senses than all the fragrant scents of Arabia, and although
It droppeth like the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place
beneath,-
It falls like gentle rain from heaven Upon the place below,-
I court it not! to your justice alone I am intitled, and by that I must abide. Your engagements are not to the supplicating authors; but to the candid public, which will not fail to crave
I don't seek it! I'm only entitled to your justice, and that's what I have to accept. Your obligations aren't to those who are begging; they're to the honest public, which will surely demand
The penalty and forfeit of your bond.
The penalty and forfeiture of your bond.
No hackneyed writer, inured to abuse, and callous to criticism, here braves your severity;-neither does a half-starved garretteer,
No tired writer, used to insults and indifferent to criticism, stands before you now; nor does a struggling artist living in a cramped space,
Oblig’d by hunger-and request of friends,-
Obliged by hunger and the request of friends,-
implore your lenity: your examination will be alike unbiassed by partiality and prejudice;-no refractory murmuring will follow your censure, no private interest will be gratified by your praise.
I ask for your kindness: your review will be free from bias and prejudice; no rebellious complaints will come after your criticism, and no personal interest will be served by your praise.
Let not the anxious solicitude with which I recommend myself to your notice, expose me to your derision. Remember, Gentlemen, you were all young writers once, and the most experienced veteran of your corps may, by recollecting his first publication, renovate his first terrors, and learn to allow for mine. For though Courage is one of the noblest virtues of this nether sphere; and though scarcely more requisite in the field of battle, to guard the fighting hero from disgrace, than in the private commerce of the world, to ward off that littleness of soul which leads, by steps imperceptible, to all the base train of the inferior passions, and by which the too timid mind is betrayed into a servility derogatory to the dignity of human nature! yet is it a virtue of no necessity in a situation such as mine; a situation which removes, even from cowardice itself, the sting of ignominy;-for surely that courage may easily be dispensed with, which would rather excite disgust than admiration! Indeed, it is the peculiar privilege of an author, to rob terror of contempt, and pusillanimity of reproach.
Don’t let the anxious way I’m putting myself forward make you laugh at me. Remember, gentlemen, you were all young writers once, and even the most experienced member of your group can recall their first publication and feel those first fears all over again, which can help them empathize with mine. While courage is one of the greatest virtues in this world, and just as important on the battlefield to protect the hero from disgrace as in daily life to fend off the small-mindedness that leads to all kinds of negative emotions, making the timid fall into a submission that undermines human dignity—it’s not a necessity in a situation like mine. This scenario even takes away the humiliation that comes with cowardice—because that kind of courage, which would inspire more disgust than admiration, can easily be ignored! In fact, it’s a special privilege of an author to take away the contempt from fear and the blame from timidity.
Here let me rest- and snatch myself, while I yet am able, from the fascination of EGOTISM:-a monster who has more votaries than ever did homage to the most popular deity of antiquity; and whose singular quality is, that while he excites a blind and involuntary adoration in almost every individual, his influence is universally disallowed, his power universally contemned, and his worship, even by his followers, never mentioned but with abhorence.
Here, let me take a break and pull myself away, while I still can, from the allure of Egotism—a beast with more followers than any ancient god ever had; its unique trait is that while it inspires blind and involuntary admiration in nearly everyone, its influence is widely rejected, its power is universally scorned, and even its devotees speak of it only with disgust.
In addressing you jointly, I mean but to mark the generous sentiments by which liberal criticism, to the utter annihilation of envy, jealousy, and all selfish views, ought to be distinguished.
In speaking to you together, I intend to highlight the kind-hearted feelings that open-minded criticism should embody, completely eliminating envy, jealousy, and all selfish perspectives.
I have the honour to be,
GENTLEMEN,
Your most obedient
Humble Servant,
*** ****
I am honored to be,
GENTLEMEN,
Your most respectful
Servant,
*** ****
ORIGINAL PREFACE.
IN the republic of letters, there is no member of such inferior rank, or who is so much disdained by his brethren of the quill, as the humble Novelist; nor is his fate less hard in the world at large, since, among the whole class of writers, perhaps not one can be named of which the votaries are more numerous but less respectable.
In the world of literature, there's no one of such low status, or who is looked down upon more by their fellow writers, as the humble Novelist. Their situation is just as tough in the wider world, since among all types of writers, maybe none has more followers but carries less respect.
Yet, while in the annals of those few of our predecessors, to whom this species of writing is indebted for being saved from contempt, and rescued from depravity, we can trace such names as Rousseau, Johnson,(1)Marivaux, Fielding, Richardson, and Smollett, no man need blush at starting from the same post, though many, nay, most men, may sigh at finding themselves distanced.
Yet, while in the records of the few who came before us, to whom this type of writing owes its preservation from neglect and decline, we can see names like Rousseau, Johnson, Marivaux, Fielding, Richardson, and Smollett, no one should feel embarrassed to start from the same place, even though many, if not most, might feel disheartened to find themselves left behind.
The following letters are presented to the Public-for such, by novel writers, novel readers will be called,-with a very singular mixture of timidity and confidence, resulting from the peculiar situation of the editor; who, though trembling for their success from a consciousness of their imperfections, yet fears not being involved in their disgrace, while happily wrapped up in a mantle of impenetrable obscurity.
The following letters are presented to the public—who, by novel writers, will be referred to as novel readers—with a unique blend of fear and confidence, stemming from the editor's unusual circumstances. Though worried about their success due to their flaws, the editor isn’t afraid of being associated with their failure, happily concealed in a layer of complete anonymity.
To draw characters from nature, though not from life, and to mark the manners of the times, is the attempted plan of the following letters. For this purpose, a young female, educated in the most secluded retirement, makes, at the age of seventeen, her first appearance upon the great and busy stage of life; with a virtuous mind, a cultivated understanding, and a feeling heart, her ignorance of the forms, and inexperience in the manners of the world, occasion all the little incidents which these volumes record, and which form the natural progression of the life of a young woman of obscure birth, but conspicuous beauty, for the first six months after her Entrance into the world.
To portray characters based on nature, though not directly from life, and to capture the trends of the times is the goal of the following letters. For this purpose, a young woman, raised in complete seclusion, makes her first appearance at the age of seventeen on the vast and bustling stage of life. With a virtuous mind, a developed understanding, and a compassionate heart, her lack of knowledge about societal norms and her inexperience in the ways of the world lead to all the little incidents that these volumes recount, showcasing the natural journey of a young woman of humble origin but striking beauty during the first six months after she enters society.
Perhaps, were it possible to effect the total extirpation of novels, our young ladies in general, and boarding-school damsels in particular, might profit from their annihilation; but since the distemper they have spread seems incurable, since their contagion bids defiance to the medicine of advice or reprehension, and since they are found to baffle all the mental art of physic, save what is prescribed by the slow regimen of Time, and bitter diet of Experience; surely all attempts to contribute to the number of those which may be read, if not with advantage, at least without injury, ought rather to be encouraged than contemned.
Maybe if it were possible to completely eliminate novels, our young ladies in general, and boarding-school girls in particular, could benefit from their removal; but since the harm they’ve caused seems impossible to cure, since their influence ignores the cure of advice or criticism, and since they manage to evade all forms of mental treatment, except for what is offered by the slow process of time and the tough lessons of experience, surely all efforts to add to the selection of novels that can be read, if not with benefit, at least without harm, should be encouraged rather than dismissed.
Let me, therefore, prepare for disappointment those who, in the perusal of these sheets, entertain the gentle expectation of being transported to the fantastic regions of Romance, where Fiction is coloured by all the gay tints of luxurious Imagination, where Reason is an outcast, and where the sublimity of the Marvellous rejects all aid from sober Probability. The heroine of these memoirs, young, artless, and inexperienced, is
Let me, therefore, prepare those who read these pages for disappointment if they expect to be taken to the enchanting worlds of Romance, where Fiction is brightened by all the vibrant colors of imagination, where Reason is cast aside, and where the greatness of the Extraordinary doesn’t rely on practical likelihood. The heroine of these memoirs, young, naive, and inexperienced, is
No faultless Monster that the world ne’er saw;
No perfect monster that the world has ever seen;
but the offspring of Nature, and of Nature in her simplest attire.
but the children of Nature, and of Nature in her most basic form.
In all the Arts, the value of copies can only be proportioned to the scarcity of originals: among sculptors and painters, a fine statue, or a beautiful picture, of some great master, may deservedly employ the imitative talents of young and inferior artists, that their appropriation to one spot may not wholly prevent the more general expansion of their excellence; but, among authors, the reverse is the case, since the noblest productions of literature are almost equally attainable with the meanest. In books, therefore, imitation cannot be shunned too sedulously; for the very perfection of a model which is frequently seen, serves but more forcibly to mark the inferiority of a copy.
In all the arts, the value of copies depends on how rare the originals are. For sculptors and painters, a fine statue or a beautiful painting by a great master can rightly inspire up-and-coming and lesser artists, allowing their talent to flourish despite the concentration of excellence in one place. However, for writers, it's the opposite, because the greatest literary works are almost as accessible as the simplest ones. Therefore, in books, we can't avoid imitation too strictly; for the very perfection of a well-known model highlights the inferiority of a copy even more.
To avoid what is common, without adopting what is unnatural, must limit the ambition of the vulgar herd of authors: however zealous, therefore, my veneration of the great writers I have mentioned, however I may feel myself enlightened by the knowledge of Johnson, charmed with the eloquence of Rousseau, softened by the pathetic powers of Richardson, and exhiliarated by the wit of Fielding and humour of Smollett, I yet presume not to attempt pursuing the same ground which they have tracked; whence, though they may have cleared the weeds, they have also culled the flowers; and, though they have rendered the path plain, they have left it barren.
To avoid what's typical while not embracing what's unnatural, I have to limit the ambition that comes from following the crowd of ordinary writers. No matter how much I admire the great authors I’ve mentioned, how enlightened I feel by Johnson’s insights, charmed by Rousseau’s eloquence, moved by Richardson’s emotional depth, and entertained by Fielding’s wit and Smollett’s humor, I still don’t dare to follow the same path they've taken. Even though they may have cleared away the weeds, they’ve also picked the flowers; and while they’ve made the path easier to navigate, they’ve left it barren.
The candour of my readers I have not the impertinence to doubt, and to their indulgence I am sensible I have no claim; I have, therefore, only to intreat, that my own words may not pronounce my condemnation; and that what I have here ventured to say in regard to imitation, may be understood as it is meant, in a general sense, and not be imputed to an opinion of my own originality, which I have not the vanity, the folly, or the blindness, to entertain.
I don't doubt the honesty of my readers, and I know I have no right to expect their understanding. So, I just hope that my own words don’t lead to my downfall; and that what I've said here about imitation is taken as it's intended, in a broad sense, and not as an assertion of my own originality, which I don't have the arrogance, foolishness, or ignorance to believe.
Whatever may be the fate of these letters, the editor is satisfied they will meet with justice; and commits them to the press, though hopeless of fame, yet not regardless of censure.
No matter what happens to these letters, the editor believes they will get a fair evaluation; and he submits them to publication, even though he doesn't expect to become famous, yet is not oblivious to criticism.
1)However superior the capacities in which these great writers deserve to be considered, they must pardon me that, for the dignity of my subject, I here rank the authors of Rasselas and Eloise as Novelists.
1) However impressive the talents of these great writers may be, they must forgive me for categorizing the authors of Rasselas and Eloise as Novelists for the sake of my subject's dignity.
LETTER I - LADY HOWARD TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS Howard Grove, Kent.
CAN any thing, my good Sir, be more painful to a friendly mind, than a necessity of communicating disagreeable intelligence? Indeed it is sometimes difficult to determine, whether the relator or the receiver of evil tidings is most to be pitied.
CAN anything, my good Sir, be more painful for a friendly person than having to share bad news? It can be quite hard to decide whether the one delivering the bad news or the one receiving it deserves more sympathy.
I have just had a letter from Madame Duval; she is totally at a loss in what manner to behave; she seems desirous to repair the wrongs she has done, yet wishes the world to believe her blameless. She would fain cast upon another the odium of those misfortunes for which she alone is answerable. Her letter is violent, sometimes abusive, and that of you!-you, to whom she is under obligations which are greater even than her faults, but to whose advice she wickedly imputes all the sufferings of her much injured daughter, the late Lady Belmont. The chief purport of her writing I will acquaint you with; the letter itself is not worthy your notice.
I just received a letter from Madame Duval; she’s completely confused about how to act. She seems eager to make up for the wrongs she’s caused, but also wants everyone to believe she’s innocent. She’d rather blame someone else for the troubles that she alone is responsible for. Her letter is aggressive and at times insulting, especially towards you! You, who she owes more than her own faults, yet she unfairly blames you for all the pain of her very wronged daughter, the late Lady Belmont. I’ll let you know the main point of her letter; the letter itself isn’t worth your attention.
She tells me that she has, for many years past, been in continual expectation of making a journey to England, which prevented her writing for information concerning this melancholy subject, by giving her hopes of making personal inquiries; but family occurrences have still detained her in France, which country she now sees no prospect of quitting. She has, therefore, lately used her utmost endeavors to obtain a faithful account of whatever related to her ill-advised daughter; the result of which giving her some reason to apprehend, that, upon her death-bed, she bequeathed an infant orphan to the world, she most graciously says, that if you, with whom she understands the child is placed, will procure authentic proofs of its relationship to her, you may sent it to Paris, where she will properly provide for it.
She tells me that she has been hoping for many years to travel to England, which has stopped her from writing for information about this sad situation, as she held onto the hope of making personal inquiries. However, family matters have kept her in France, and now she sees no chance of leaving. Recently, she has made every effort to get a reliable account of anything related to her misguided daughter. The outcome has made her worry that, on her deathbed, she left behind an orphaned infant in the world. She kindly says that if you, with whom she understands the child is now living, can provide proof of its connection to her, you may send it to Paris, where she will take care of it properly.
This woman is, undoubtedly, at length, self-convicted of her most unnatural behaviour; it is evident, from her writing, that she is still as vulgar and illiterate as when her first husband, Mr. Evelyn, had the weakness to marry her; nor does she at all apologize for addressing herself to me, though I was only once in her company.
This woman is clearly, after some time, guilty of her totally unnatural behavior; it's obvious from her writing that she's just as crass and uneducated as when her first husband, Mr. Evelyn, foolishly married her. She doesn’t even apologize for reaching out to me, even though I was only with her once.
Her letter has excited in my daughter Mirvan, a strong desire to be informed of the motives which induced Madame Duval to abandon the unfortunate Lady Belmont, at a time when a mother’s protection was peculiarly necessary for her peace and her reputation. Notwithstanding I was personally acquainted with all the parties concerned in that affair, the subject always appeared of too delicate a nature to be spoken of with the principals; I cannot, therefore, satisfy Mrs. Mirvan otherwise than by applying to you.
Her letter has sparked in my daughter Mirvan a strong desire to know the reasons why Madame Duval abandoned the unfortunate Lady Belmont at a time when a mother’s protection was especially needed for her peace and reputation. Even though I personally knew everyone involved in that situation, the topic always seemed too sensitive to discuss with the main parties; I cannot, therefore, respond to Mrs. Mirvan in any way other than by reaching out to you.
By saying that you may send the child, Madame Duval aims at conferring, where she most owes obligation. I pretend not to give you advice; you, to whose generous protection this helpless orphan is indebted for every thing, are the best and only judge of what she ought to do; but I am much concerned at the trouble and uneasiness which this unworthy woman may occasion you.
By saying that you can send the child, Madame Duval wants to show appreciation where it’s most deserved. I'm not trying to give you advice; you, who have generously supported this helpless orphan in every way, are the best and only judge of what she should do. However, I am really worried about the trouble and stress this unworthy woman might cause you.
My daughter and my grandchild join with me in desiring to be most kindly remembered to the amiable girl; and they bid me remind you, that the annual visit to Howard Grove, which we were formerly promised, has been discontinued for more than four years. I am, dear Sir, with great regard, Your most obedient friend and servant, M. HOWARD.
My daughter and my grandchild want me to send their warm regards to the lovely girl. They also wanted me to remind you that the annual visit to Howard Grove, which we were promised in the past, has not happened for over four years. I am, dear Sir, with great respect, your most obedient friend and servant, M. HOWARD.
LETTER II - MR. VILLARS TO LADY HOWARD Berry Hill, Dorsetshire.
YOUR Ladyship did but too well foresee the perplexity and uneasiness of which Madame Duval’s letter has been productive. However, I ought rather to be thankful that I have so many years remained unmolested, than repine at my present embarrassment; since it proves, at least, that this wretched woman is at length awakened to remorse.
YOUR Ladyship saw the confusion and discomfort that Madame Duval’s letter has caused all too clearly. However, I should be grateful that I’ve been left alone for so many years, rather than complain about my current trouble; it shows, at least, that this miserable woman has finally been stirred to feel remorse.
In regard to my answer, I must humbly request your Ladyship to write to this effect: “That I would not, upon any account, intentionally offend Madame Duval; but that I have weighty, nay unanswerable reasons for detaining her grand-daughter at present in England; the principal of which is, that it was the earnest desire of one to whose will she owes implicit duty. Madame Duval may be assured, that she meets with the utmost attention and tenderness; that her education, however short of my wishes, almost exceeds my abilities; and I flatter myself, when the time arrives that she shall pay her duty to her grand-mother, Madame Duval will find no reason to be dissatisfied with what has been done for her.”
Regarding my response, I must respectfully ask your Ladyship to write the following: “I have no intention of intentionally offending Madame Duval; however, I have significant, even unarguable reasons for keeping her granddaughter in England for now. The main reason is that it was the sincere wish of someone whose will she must strictly follow. Madame Duval can be assured that she is receiving the utmost care and attention; that her education, although not as comprehensive as I would like, nearly exceeds my capabilities; and I hope that when the time comes for her to show her respect to her grandmother, Madame Duval will find no reason to be unhappy with what has been accomplished for her.”
Your Ladyship will not, I am sure, be surprised at this answer. Madame Duval is by no means a proper companion or guardian for a young woman: she is at once uneducated and unprincipled; ungentle in temper, and unamiable in her manners. I have long known that she has persuaded herself to harbour an aversion for me-Unhappy woman! I can only regard her as an object of pity!
Your Ladyship, I'm sure you won’t be surprised by this answer. Madame Duval is definitely not a suitable companion or guardian for a young woman: she is both uneducated and lacking in morals; harsh in temperament and unpleasant in her manners. I've known for a while that she has convinced herself to dislike me—poor woman! I can only see her as someone to be pitied!
I dare not hesitate at a request from Mrs. Mirvan; yet, in complying with it, I shall, for her own sake, be as concise as I possibly can; since the cruel transactions which preceded the birth of my ward can afford no entertainment to a mind so humane as her’s.
I can't hesitate to fulfill a request from Mrs. Mirvan; however, in doing so, I'll be as brief as I can for her sake, since the harsh events that happened before the birth of my ward won’t provide any entertainment for someone as kind-hearted as she is.
Your Ladyship may probably have heard, that I had the honour to accompany Mr. Evelyn, the grandfather of my young charge, when upon his travels, in the capacity of a tutor. His unhappy marriage, immediately upon his return to England, with Madame Duval, then a waiting-girl at a tavern, contrary to the advice and entreaties of all his friends, among whom I was myself the most urgent, induced him to abandon his native land, and fix his abode in France. Thither he was followed by shame and repentance; feelings which his heart was not framed to support; for, notwithstanding he had been too weak to resist the allurements of beauty, which nature, though a niggard to her of every other boon, had with a lavish hand bestowed on his wife; yet he was a young man of excellent character, and, till thus unaccountably infatuated, of unblemished conduct. He survived this ill-judged marriage but two years. Upon his death-bed, with an unsteady hand, he wrote me the following note:
Your Ladyship may have heard that I had the honor of accompanying Mr. Evelyn, the grandfather of my young charge, as his tutor during his travels. His unfortunate marriage, right after returning to England, to Madame Duval, who was then a tavern waitress, went against the advice and pleas of all his friends, including myself, who was the most insistent. This led him to leave his homeland and settle in France. There, he was haunted by shame and regret—feelings his heart couldn’t bear. Even though he was too weak to resist the charms of beauty that nature, though stingy in other ways, had generously given his wife, he was a young man of good character, and until this unexplainable obsession, he had always behaved well. He lived just two years after this poorly thought-out marriage. On his deathbed, with a shaky hand, he wrote me the following note:
“My friend, forget your resentment, in favour of your humanity;-a father, trembling for the welfare of his child, bequeaths her to your care. O Villars! hear! pity! And relieve me!”
“My friend, let go of your anger for the sake of your humanity; a father, worried about his child's well-being, entrusts her to your care. Oh Villars! Listen! Have compassion! And help me!”
Had my circumstances permitted me, I should have answered these words by an immediate journey to Paris; but I was obliged to act by the agency of a friend, who was upon the spot, and present at the opening of the will.
If my situation had allowed, I would have immediately gone to Paris; but I had to rely on a friend who was there and present at the reading of the will.
Mr. Evelyn left to me a legacy of a thousand pounds, and the sole guardianship of his daughter’s person till her eighteenth year; conjuring me, in the most affecting terms, to take the charge of her education till she was able to act with propriety for herself; but, in regard to fortune, he left her wholly dependent on her mother, to whose tenderness he earnestly recommended her.
Mr. Evelyn left me a legacy of a thousand pounds and the full guardianship of his daughter until she turns eighteen, urging me in the most heartfelt way to take care of her education until she is able to manage on her own. However, regarding her fortune, he made her completely reliant on her mother, whom he sincerely recommended to take care of her.
Thus, though he would not, to a woman low-bred and illiberal as Mrs. Evelyn, trust the conduct and morals of his daughter, he nevertheless thought proper to secure to her the respect and duty to which, from her own child, were certainly her due; but unhappily, it never occurred to him that the mother, on her part, could fail in affection or justice.
So, even though he wouldn't trust the behavior and morals of his daughter to someone as unrefined and narrow-minded as Mrs. Evelyn, he still thought it was right to ensure that his daughter received the respect and duty that were definitely owed to her by her own child; unfortunately, it never crossed his mind that the mother could lack in love or fairness.
Miss Evelyn, Madam, from the second to the eighteenth year of her life, was brought up under my care, and, except when at school under my roof. I need not speak to your Ladyship of the virtues of that excellent young creature. She loved me as her father; nor was Mrs. Villars less valued by her; while to me she became so dear, that her loss was little less afflicting than that which I have since sustained of Mrs. Villars herself.
Miss Evelyn, ma'am, was raised under my care from the age of two to eighteen, except when she was at school. I don't need to explain to you, my lady, how wonderful that young woman was. She loved me like a father, and she valued Mrs. Villars just as much. I became so attached to her that losing her was almost as painful as losing Mrs. Villars herself.
At that period of her life we parted; her mother, then married to Monsieur Duval, sent for her to Paris. How often have I since regretted that I did not accompany her thither! Protected and supported by me, the misery and disgrace which awaited her might perhaps have been avoided. But, to be brief-Madame Duval, at the instigation of her husband, earnestly, or rather tyrannically, endeavoured to effect a union between Miss Evelyn and one of his nephews. And, when she found her power inadequate to her attempt, enraged at her non-compliance, she treated her with the grossest unkindness, and threatened her with poverty and ruin.
At that time in her life, we said our goodbyes; her mother, now married to Monsieur Duval, called her to Paris. How often have I wished I had gone with her! If I had supported her, maybe the hardship and shame that awaited her could have been avoided. But to keep it short—Madame Duval, pushed by her husband, aggressively tried to arrange a marriage between Miss Evelyn and one of his nephews. When she realized her influence wasn’t enough to make it happen, she became furious at her refusal, treated her cruelly, and threatened her with poverty and ruin.
Miss Evelyn, to whom wrath and violence had hitherto been strangers, soon grew weary of such usage; and rashly, and without a witness, consented to a private marriage with Sir John Belmont, a very profligate young man, who had but too successfully found means to insinuate himself into her favour. He promised to conduct her to England-he did.-O, Madam, you know the rest!-Disappointed of the fortune he expected, by the inexorable rancour of the Duvals, he infamously burnt the certificate of their marriage, and denied that they had ever been united.
Miss Evelyn, who had never experienced anger and violence before, quickly became tired of such treatment; and rashly, without anyone witnessing it, agreed to a private marriage with Sir John Belmont, a very reckless young man who had managed to win her over. He promised to take her to England—he did. Oh, Madam, you know the rest! Disappointed by the fortune he hoped for, due to the unforgiving resentment of the Duvals, he shamefully burned their marriage certificate and claimed they had never been married.
She flew to me for protection. With what mixed transports of joy and anguish did I again see her! By my advice, she endeavoured to procure proofs of her marriage-but in vain; her credulity had been no match for his art.
She came to me for protection. With such a mix of joy and pain did I see her again! Following my advice, she tried to find proof of her marriage—but it was pointless; her belief had been no match for his tricks.
Every body believed her innocent, from the guiltless tenor of her unspotted youth, and from the known libertinism of her barbarous betrayer. Yet her sufferings were too acute for her slender frame; and the same moment that gave birth to her infant, put an end at once to the sorrows and the life of its mother.
Everybody believed she was innocent, given the pure nature of her untouched youth and the known debauchery of her cruel betrayer. Yet her pain was too intense for her slight frame; and the very moment that brought her baby into the world, also ended both her suffering and her life.
The rage of Madame Duval at her elopement, abated not while this injured victim of cruelty yet drew breath. She probably intended, in time, to have pardoned her; but time was not allowed. When she was informed of her death, I have been told, that the agonies of grief and remorse, with which she was seized, occasioned her a severe fit of illness. But, from the time of her recovery to the date of her letter to your Ladyship, I had never heard that she manifested any desire to be made acquainted with the circumstances which attended the death of Lady Belmont, and the birth of her helpless child.
Madame Duval's anger over her elopement didn't fade while this wronged victim of cruelty was still alive. She probably meant to forgive her eventually, but that chance never came. When she found out about her death, I was told that the intense grief and guilt she felt led to a serious illness. However, from the time she recovered until she wrote to you, my Lady, I never heard of her showing any interest in knowing the details surrounding Lady Belmont's death and the birth of her helpless child.
That child, Madam, shall never, while life is lent me, know the loss she has sustained. I have cherished, succoured, and supported her, from her earliest infancy to her sixteenth year; and so amply has she repaid my care and affection, that my fondest wish is now circumscribed by the desire of bestowing her on one who may be sensible of her worth, and then sinking to eternal rest in her arms.
That child, ma'am, will never, as long as I live, know the loss she has experienced. I have loved, nurtured, and taken care of her from her earliest childhood to her sixteenth year; and she has repaid my care and love so generously that my greatest wish now is to find someone who appreciates her value, and then to peacefully rest in her embrace.
Thus it has happened, that the education of the father, daughter, and grand-daughter, has devolved on me. What infinite misery have the two first caused me! Should the fate of the dear survivor be equally adverse, how wretched will be the end of my cares-the end of my days!
Thus it has happened that the education of the father, daughter, and granddaughter has fallen on me. What endless misery the first two have caused me! If the fate of the dear survivor is just as unfortunate, how miserable will be the conclusion of my efforts—the end of my days!
Even had Madame Duval merited the charge she claims, I fear my fortitude would have been unequal to such a parting; but being such as she is, not only my affection, but my humanity, recoils, at the barbarous idea of deserting the sacred trust reposed in me. Indeed, I could but ill support her former yearly visits to the respectable mansion at Howard Grove: pardon me, dear Madam, and do not think me insensible of the honour which your Ladyship’s condescension confers upon us both; but so deep is the impression which the misfortunes of her mother have made on my heart, that she does not, even for a moment, quit my sight without exciting apprehensions and terrors which almost overpower me. Such, Madam, is my tenderness, and such my weakness!-But she is the only tie I have upon earth, and I trust to your Ladyship’s goodness not to judge of my feelings with severity.
Even if Madame Duval deserved the accusation she makes, I doubt my strength would be up to such a separation; but given who she is, not only my love but my compassion recoils at the cruel idea of abandoning the sacred trust placed in me. Honestly, I could barely endure her previous annual visits to the respectable home at Howard Grove: forgive me, dear Madam, and don't think I'm ungrateful for the honor your Ladyship's kindness grants us both; but the impact of her mother's misfortunes weighs so heavily on my heart that even a moment without her in my sight fills me with fears and anxieties that nearly overwhelm me. Such, Madam, is my tenderness, and such my vulnerability! But she is my only connection in this world, and I hope for your Ladyship’s understanding not to judge my feelings harshly.
I beg leave to present my humble respects to Mrs. and Miss Mirvan; and have the honour to be, Madam, your Ladyship’s most obedient and most humble servant, ARTHUR VILLARS.
I would like to express my respectful regards to Mrs. and Miss Mirvan; and I am honored to be, Madam, your ladyship's most obedient and humble servant, ARTHUR VILLARS.
LETTER III [Written some months after the last]
LADY HOWARD TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS Howard Grove, March 8.
Dear and Rev. Sir,
Dear Reverend Sir,
YOUR last letter gave me infinite pleasure: after so long and tedious an illness, how grateful to yourself and to your friends must be your returning health! You have the hearty wishes of every individual of this place for its continuance and increase.
YOUR last letter brought me so much joy: after such a long and exhausting illness, how thankful you must be to yourself and your friends for your recovering health! Everyone here sincerely wishes for its continued improvement and growth.
Will you not think I take advantage of your acknowledged recovery, if I once more venture to mention your pupil and Howard Grove together? Yet you must remember the patience with which we submitted to your desire of not parting with her during the bad state of your health, tho’ it was with much reluctance we forbore to solicit her company. My grand-daughter in particular, has scarce been able to repress her eagerness to again meet the friend of her infancy; and for my own part, it is very strongly my wish to manifest the regard I had for the unfortunate Lady Belmont, by proving serviceable to her child; which seems to me the best respect that can be paid to her memory. Permit me, therefore, to lay before you a plan which Mrs. Mirvan and I have formed, in consequence of your restoration to health.
Will you not think I’m taking advantage of your well-known recovery if I once again bring up your student and Howard Grove together? However, you must remember the patience we showed in not wanting to part with her while you were unwell, even though it was hard for us to refrain from asking for her company. My granddaughter, especially, has hardly been able to hide her excitement to see her childhood friend again; and for my part, I really want to show the respect I had for the unfortunate Lady Belmont by helping her child, which I believe is the best way to honor her memory. So, please allow me to present a plan that Mrs. Mirvan and I have come up with in light of your recovery.
I would not frighten you;-but do you think you could bear to part with your young companion for two or three months? Mrs. Mirvan proposes to spend the ensuing spring in London, whither for the first time, my grandchild will accompany her: Now, my good friend, it is very earnestly their wish to enlarge and enliven their party by the addition of your amiable ward, who would share, equally with her own daughter, the care and attention of Mrs. Mirvan. Do not start at this proposal; it is time that she should see something of the world. When young people are too rigidly sequestered from it, their lively and romantic imaginations paint it to them as a paradise of which they have been beguiled; but when they are shown it properly, and in due time, they see it such as it really is, equally shared by pain and pleasure, hope and disappointment.
I wouldn't want to scare you, but do you think you could handle being separated from your young companion for two or three months? Mrs. Mirvan plans to spend the upcoming spring in London, where for the first time my grandchild will join her. Now, my dear friend, they are very eager to make their group bigger and more lively by adding your lovely ward, who would share the care and attention of Mrs. Mirvan equally with her own daughter. Don't be alarmed by this suggestion; it's time for her to see a bit of the world. When young people are kept too sheltered from it, their vivid and romantic imaginations idealize it as a paradise from which they've been kept away. However, when they are shown the world appropriately and at the right time, they see it for what it really is, a mix of both pain and pleasure, hope and disappointment.
You have nothing to apprehend from her meeting with Sir John Belmont, as that abandoned man is now abroad, and not expected home this year.
You have nothing to worry about from her meeting with Sir John Belmont, as that reckless guy is currently overseas and isn’t expected back this year.
Well, my good Sir, what say you to our scheme? I hope it will meet with your approbation; but if it should not, be assured I can never object to any decision of one who is so much respected and esteemed as Mr. Villars, by His most faithful, humble servant, M. HOWARD.
Well, my good Sir, what do you think of our plan? I hope it meets with your approval; but if it doesn’t, please know that I could never disagree with a decision made by someone as respected and valued as Mr. Villars, from his most faithful and humble servant, M. HOWARD.
LETTER IV - MR. VILLARS TO LADY HOWARD Berry Hill, March 12.
I AM grieved, Madam, to appear obstinate, and I blush to incur the imputation of selfishness. In detaining my young charge thus long with myself in the country, I consulted not solely my own inclination. Destined, in all probability, to possess a very moderate fortune, I wished to contract her views to something within it. The mind is but too naturally prone to pleasure, but too easily yielded to dissipation: it has been my study to guard her against their delusions, by preparing her to expect-and to despise them. But the time draws on for experience and observation to take the place of instruction: if I have in some measure, rendered her capable of using one with discretion, and making the other with improvement, I shall rejoice myself with the assurance of having largely contributed to her welfare. She is now of an age that happiness is eager to attend,-let her then enjoy it! I commit her to the protection of your Ladyship, and only hope she may be found worthy half the goodness I am satisfied she will meet with at your hospitable mansion.
I’m sorry, Madam, for seeming stubborn, and I feel embarrassed to be seen as selfish. By keeping my young charge here with me in the countryside for this long, I didn’t just consider my own preferences. Knowing that she will likely have a modest fortune, I wanted to help narrow her expectations to something realistic. The mind naturally leans towards pleasure but can easily fall into indulgence: I’ve focused on protecting her from those distractions by preparing her to expect—and to reject—them. But the time is coming for her to learn from experience and observation instead of just instruction: if I’ve helped her become capable of using her judgment wisely and learning from her experiences, I’ll take joy in knowing I’ve significantly contributed to her well-being. She’s now at an age where happiness eagerly awaits her—so let her enjoy it! I leave her in your care and hope she proves herself deserving of at least half the kindness I know she will receive at your welcoming home.
Thus far, Madam, I cheerfully submit to your desire. In confiding my ward to the care of Lady Howard, I can feel no uneasiness from her absence, but what will arise from the loss of her company, since I shall be as well convinced of her safety as if she were under my own roof.-But can your Ladyship be serious in proposing to introduce her to the gaieties of a London life? Permit me to ask, for what end, or for what purpose? A youthful mind is seldom totally free from ambition; to curb that, is the first step to contentment, since to diminish expectation is to increase enjoyment. I apprehend nothing more than too much raising her hopes and her views, which the natural vivacity of her disposition would render but too easy to effect. The town-acquaintance of Mrs. Mirvan are all in the circle of high life; this artless young creature, with too much beauty to escape notice, has too much sensibility to be indifferent to it; but she has too little wealth to be sought with propriety by men of the fashionable world.
So far, Madam, I'm happy to go along with your wishes. I’m not worried about my ward being in Lady Howard's care; I’ll miss her company but I trust she’ll be safe, just as if she were at home with me. But can you really be serious about introducing her to the excitement of London life? May I ask, what’s the purpose of that? Young minds are rarely free from ambition; keeping that in check is the first step to being content, since lowering expectations leads to greater enjoyment. My only concern is that raising her hopes too high could happen too easily, given her naturally lively personality. Mrs. Mirvan’s friends are all from high society, and this innocent young lady, with her beauty that’s hard to ignore, is too sensitive not to care about it. However, she doesn’t have enough money to attract the right kind of attention from fashionable men.
Consider Madam, the peculiar cruelty of her situation. Only child of a wealthy Baronet, whose person she has never seen, whose character she has reason to abhor, and whose name she is forbidden to claim; entitled as she is to lawfully inherit his fortune and estate, is there any probability that he will properly own her? And while he continues to persevere in disavowing his marriage with Miss Evelyn, she shall never, at the expense of her mother’s honour, receive a part of her right as the donation of his bounty.
Consider, ma'am, the strange cruelty of her situation. As the only child of a wealthy baronet, whom she has never met, whose character she has every reason to dislike, and whose name she is not allowed to use; even though she has a lawful right to inherit his fortune and estate, is there any chance that he will acknowledge her? And as long as he continues to deny his marriage to Miss Evelyn, she will never, at the cost of her mother’s honor, receive any of her rightful inheritance as a gift from his generosity.
And as to Mr. Evelyn’s estate, I have no doubt but that Madame Duval and her relations will dispose of it among themselves.
And regarding Mr. Evelyn's estate, I'm sure that Madame Duval and her family will divide it among themselves.
It seems, therefore, as if this deserted child, though legally heiress to two large fortunes, must owe all her rational expectations to adoption and friendship. Yet her income will be such as may make her happy, if she is disposed to be so in private life; though it will by no means allow her to enjoy the luxury of a London fine lady.
It seems that this abandoned child, even though she is the legal heiress to two huge fortunes, will owe all her realistic hopes to being adopted and making friends. Still, her income could provide her with happiness if she chooses to find it in her personal life; although it definitely won't be enough for her to indulge in the luxuries of a high-class lady in London.
Let Miss Mirvan, then, Madam, shine in all the splendour of high life; but suffer my child still to enjoy the pleasures of humble retirement, with a mind to which greater views are unknown.
Let Miss Mirvan, then, Madam, shine in all the splendor of high society; but allow my child to continue enjoying the simple pleasures of a quiet life, with a mindset that doesn’t know any grander ambitions.
I hope this reasoning will be honoured with your approbation; and I have yet another motive which has some weight with me: I would not willingly give offence to any human being; and surely Madame Duval might accuse me of injustice, if, while I refuse to let her grand-daughter wait upon her, I consent that she should join a party of pleasure to London.
I hope this reasoning will earn your approval; and I have another reason that matters to me: I would never want to upset anyone; and surely Madame Duval could claim I’m being unfair if I won’t let her granddaughter take care of her, but I allow her to go enjoy herself in London.
In sending her to Howard Grove, not one of these scruples arise; and therefore Mrs. Clinton, a most worthy woman, formerly her nurse, and now my housekeeper, shall attend her thither next week.
In sending her to Howard Grove, none of these concerns come up; and so Mrs. Clinton, a truly admirable woman, who was once her nurse and is now my housekeeper, will accompany her there next week.
Though I have always called her by the name of Anville, and reported in this neighbourhood that her father, my intimate friend, left her to my guardianship; yet I have thought it necessary she should herself be acquainted with the melancholy circumstances attending her birth: for though I am very desirous of guarding her from curiosity and impertinence, by concealing her name, family, and story, yet I would not leave it in the power of chance to shock her gentle nature with a tale of so much sorrow.
Though I’ve always called her Anville and told people around here that her father, my close friend, left her in my care, I felt it was important for her to know the sad circumstances surrounding her birth. Even though I really want to protect her from curiosity and nosiness by keeping her name, family, and story a secret, I don’t want to leave it up to chance to hurt her sensitive nature with a story full of grief.
You must not, Madam, expect too much from my pupil; she is quite a little rustic, and knows nothing of the world; and though her education has been the best I could bestow in this retired place, to which Dorchester, the nearest town, is seven miles distant, yet I shall not be surprised if you should discover in her a thousand deficiencies of which I have never dreamt. She must be very much altered since she was last at Howard Grove. But I will say nothing of her; I leave her to your Ladyship’s own observations, of which I beg a faithful relation; and am, Dear Madam, with great respect, Your obedient and most humble Servant, ARTHUR VILLARS.
You shouldn't expect too much from my student, Madam; she’s quite the country girl and doesn’t know much about the world. Although I've done my best to educate her in this remote place, seven miles away from the nearest town of Dorchester, I wouldn't be surprised if you find many shortcomings in her that I haven't even considered. She must have changed a lot since her last visit to Howard Grove. But I won't say any more about her; I’ll leave her to your own observations, and I kindly request a thorough account of them. Respectfully, I remain your obedient and humble servant, ARTHUR VILLARS.
LETTER V - MR. VILLARS TO LADY HOWARD March 18. Dear Madam,
THIS letter will be delivered to you by my child-the child of my adoption-my affection! Unblest with one natural friend, she merits a thousand. I send her to you innocent as an angel, and artless as purity itself; and I send you with her the heart of your friend, the only hope he has on earth, the subject of his tenderest thoughts, and the object of his latest cares. She is one, Madam, for whom alone I have lately wished to live; and she is one whom to serve I would with transport die! Restore her but to me all innocence as you receive her, and the fondest hope of my heart will be amply gratified. A. VILLARS.
THIS letter will be delivered to you by my child—the child I adopted—my dear! Without a single natural friend, she deserves a thousand. I send her to you, innocent as an angel and pure as can be; and I send you with her the heart of your friend, the only hope he has on earth, the subject of his most tender thoughts, and the focus of his latest cares. She is the one, Madam, for whom I have recently wanted to live; and she is someone I would gladly die for. Just return her to me as innocent as you receive her, and the deepest hope of my heart will be fulfilled. A. VILLARS.
LETTER VI - LADY HOWARD TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS Howard Grove.
Dear Rev. Sir,
Dear Reverend,
THE solemn manner in which you have committed your child to my care, has in some measure damped the pleasure which I receive from the trust, as it makes me fear that you suffer from your compliance, in which case I shall very sincerely blame myself for the earnestness with which I have requested this favour: but remember, my good Sir, she is within a few days summons; and be assured, I will not detain her a moment longer than you wish.
THE serious way you've entrusted your child to my care has somewhat diminished the joy I feel in this responsibility, as it makes me worry that you might be feeling regret about your decision. If so, I will genuinely blame myself for how earnestly I asked for this favor. But remember, my good Sir, she will be with me for only a few days; and rest assured, I won't keep her a moment longer than you desire.
You desire my opinion of her.
You want to know what I think of her.
She is a little angel! I cannot wonder that you sought to monopolize her: neither ought you, at finding it impossible.
She is such a sweetheart! I can’t believe you tried to keep her all to yourself: you shouldn’t be surprised when it didn’t work out.
Her face and person answer my most refined ideas of complete beauty: and this, though a subject of praise less important to you, or, to me than any other, is yet so striking, it is not possible to pass it unnoticed. Had I not known from whom she received her education, I should at first sight of so perfect a face, have been in pain for her understanding; since it has been long and justly remarked, that folly has ever sought alliance with beauty.
Her face and figure match my highest standards of true beauty: and while this may not be as important to you or me as other topics, it's so striking that it can't be overlooked. If I hadn't known who taught her, I would have been worried about her intellect at first glance of such a perfect face; it has long been observed that foolishness often seeks to pair with beauty.
She has the same gentleness in her manners, the same natural graces in her motions, that I formerly so much admired in her mother. Her character seems truly ingenuous and simple; and at the same time that nature has blessed her with an excellent understanding and great quickness of parts, she has a certain air of inexperience and innocency that is extremely interesting.
She has the same kindness in her behavior and the same natural elegance in how she moves that I used to admire so much in her mother. Her personality seems genuinely honest and straightforward; while nature has gifted her with sharp intelligence and quick thinking, she also has a certain vibe of naivety and innocence that is really captivating.
You have not reason to regret the retirement in which she has lived; since that politeness which is acquired by an acquaintance with high life, is in her so well supplied by a natural desire of obliging, joined to a deportment infinitely engaging.
You have no reason to regret the retirement in which she has lived; the politeness that comes from being around high society is in her beautifully complemented by a genuine desire to please, combined with a charm that is incredibly engaging.
I observe, with great satisfaction, a growing affection between this amiable girl and my grand-daughter, whose heart is as free from selfishness or conceit, as that of her young friend is from all guile. Their regard may be mutually useful, since much is to be expected from emulation where nothing is to be feared from envy. I would have them love each other as sisters, and reciprocally supply the place of that tender and happy relationship to which neither of them has a natural claim.
I see, with great pleasure, a growing bond between this lovely girl and my granddaughter, whose heart is as free from selfishness or arrogance as her young friend's is from any deceit. Their relationship could be really beneficial, since a lot can come from healthy competition when there's no fear of jealousy. I want them to love each other like sisters and to fill the role of that caring and joyful relationship that neither of them has a natural claim to.
Be satisfied, my good Sir, that your child shall meet with the same attention as our own. We all join in most hearty wishes for your health and happiness, and in returning our sincere thanks for the favour you have conferred on us. I am, dear Sir, Your most faithful servant, M. HOWARD.
Be assured, my good Sir, that your child will receive the same care as our own. We all send our best wishes for your health and happiness, and we sincerely thank you for the favor you've shown us. I am, dear Sir, Your most faithful servant, M. HOWARD.
LETTER VII - LADY HOWARD TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS Howard Grove, March 26.
BE not alarmed, my worthy friend, at my so speedily troubling you again; I seldom use the ceremony of waiting for answers, or writing with any regularity, and I have at present immediate occasion for begging your patience.
Don't be alarmed, my esteemed friend, that I’m bothering you again so soon; I rarely take the time to wait for responses or write regularly, and right now I urgently need to ask for your patience.
Mrs. Mirvan has just received a letter from her long absent husband, containing the welcome news of his hoping to reach London by the beginning of next week. My daughter and the Captain have been separated almost seven years, and it would therefore be needless to say what joy, surprise, and consequently confusion, his at present unexpected return has caused at Howard Grove. Mrs. Mirvan, you cannot doubt, will go instantly to town to meet him; her daughter is under a thousand obligations to attend her; I grieve that her mother cannot.
Mrs. Mirvan just got a letter from her husband, who has been away for a long time, sharing the great news that he hopes to get to London by the start of next week. My daughter and the Captain have been apart for almost seven years, so it's no surprise that his sudden return has brought immense joy, shock, and a bit of confusion to Howard Grove. You can be sure that Mrs. Mirvan will rush to the city to meet him; her daughter has countless reasons to go with her; I regret that her mother cannot join them.
And now, my good Sir, I almost blush to proceed;-but, tell me, may I ask-will you permit-that your child may accompany them? Do not think us unreasonable, but consider the many inducements which conspire to make London the happiest place at present she can be in. The joyful occasion of the journey; the gaiety of the whole party, opposed to the dull life she must lead, if left here with a solitary old woman for her sole companion, while she so well knows the cheerfulness and felicity enjoyed by the rest of the family,-are circumstances that seem to merit your consideration. Mrs. Mirvan desires me to assure you that one week is all she asks, as she is certain that the Captain, who hates London, will be eager to revisit Howard Grove; and Maria is so very earnest in wishing to have the company of her friend, that, if you are inexorable, she will be deprived of half the pleasure she otherwise hopes to receive.
And now, my good Sir, I almost feel embarrassed to continue; but may I ask, will you allow your child to join them? Please don’t think we’re being unreasonable, but consider the many reasons why London is currently the happiest place for her. The excitement of the trip, the joy of the entire group, contrasts sharply with the dull life she would have here with just an old woman for company, while she knows so well the happiness and joy the rest of the family is enjoying—these are factors worth your thought. Mrs. Mirvan wants me to assure you that she only requests one week, as she’s sure the Captain, who dislikes London, will be eager to return to Howard Grove. Maria is very keen to spend time with her friend, and if you’re unyielding, she will miss out on half the fun she hopes to have.
However, I will not, my good Sir, deceive you into an opinion that they intend to live in a retired manner, as that cannot be fairly expected. But you have no reason to be uneasy concerning Madame Duval; she has not any correspondent in England, and obtains no intelligence but by common report. She must be a stranger to the name your child bears; and, even should she hear of this excursion, so short a time as a week or less spent in town upon so particular an occasion, though previous to their meeting, cannot be construed into disrespect to herself.
However, I won't mislead you, my good Sir, into thinking that they plan to live quietly, as that isn't realistic. But you don't need to worry about Madame Duval; she doesn't have any contacts in England and only hears news through word of mouth. She is likely unfamiliar with the name your child has, and even if she finds out about this trip, which is just a week or less spent in town for such a specific occasion, it can't be seen as a slight against her.
Mrs. Mirvan desires me to assure you, that if you will oblige her, her two children shall equally share her time and her attention. She has sent a commission to a friend in town to take a house for her; and while she waits for an answer concerning it, I shall for one from you to our petition. However, your child is writing herself; and that, I doubt not, will more avail than all we can possible urge.
Mrs. Mirvan wants me to assure you that if you agree to her request, her two children will receive equal amounts of her time and attention. She has asked a friend in the city to find a house for her, and while she waits for a response about that, I will also wait for one from you regarding our petition. However, your child is writing herself, and I believe that will be more effective than anything we could possibly say.
My daughter desires her best compliments to you if, she says, you will grant her request but not else.
My daughter sends her best wishes to you if you agree to her request, but otherwise, she won't.
Adieu, my dear Sir, we all hope every thing from your goodness. M. HOWARD.
Goodbye, my dear Sir, we all hope for everything because of your kindness. M. HOWARD.
LETTER VIII - EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS Howard Grove, March 26.
THIS house seems to be the house of joy; every face wears a smile, and a laugh is at every body’s service. It is quite amusing to walk about and see the general confusion; a room leading to the garden is fitting up for Captain Mirvan’s study. Lady Howard does not sit a moment in a place; Miss Mirvan is making caps; every body so busy!-such flying from room to room!-so many orders given, and retracted, and given again! nothing but hurry and perturbation.
THIS house feels like a joyful place; everyone has a smile on their face, and laughter is everywhere. It's quite amusing to wander around and see the general chaos; a room leading to the garden is being set up for Captain Mirvan’s study. Lady Howard can't sit still for a moment; Miss Mirvan is busy making caps; everyone is so busy! There’s so much running around from room to room—so many orders being given, changed, and given again! It's nothing but hurry and confusion.
Well but, my dear Sir, I am desired to make a request to you. I hope you will not think me an encroacher; Lady Howard insists upon my writing!-yet I hardly know how to go on; a petition implies a want and have you left me one? No, indeed.
Well, my dear Sir, I’m asked to make a request of you. I hope you won’t see me as an intruder; Lady Howard insists that I write! Yet, I hardly know how to proceed; a request suggests a need, but have you left me with one? No, not at all.
I am half ashamed of myself for beginning this letter. But these dear ladies are so pressing-I cannot, for my life, resist wishing for the pleasures they offer me,-provided you do not disapprove them.
I’m a bit ashamed of myself for starting this letter. But these lovely ladies are so insistent—I can’t help but want to enjoy the pleasures they’re offering me, as long as you’re okay with it.
They are to make a very short stay in town. The Captain will meet them in a day or two. Mrs. Mirvan and her sweet daughter both go; what a happy party! Yet, I am not very eager to accompany them: at least I shall be contented to remain where I am, if you desire that I should.
They'll be in town for just a little while. The Captain will meet them in a day or two. Mrs. Mirvan and her lovely daughter are going too; it's going to be a joyful group! Still, I'm not too excited about going with them: I'm fine staying here if that's what you want.
Assured, my dearest Sir, of your goodness, your bounty, and your indulgent kindness, ought I to form a wish that has not your sanction? Decide for me, therefore, without the least apprehension that I shall be uneasy or discontented. While I am yet in suspense, perhaps I may hope; but I am most certain that when you have once determined I shall not repine.
Assured, my dear Sir, of your kindness, generosity, and understanding, should I wish for anything without your approval? So please decide for me, without worrying that I will feel unhappy or dissatisfied. While I'm still uncertain, I might hold onto some hope, but I'm sure that once you've made a decision, I won’t complain.
They tell me that London is now in full splendour. Two playhouses are open,-the Opera-house,-Ranelagh,-and the Pantheon.-You see I have learned all their names. However, pray don’t suppose that I make any point of going, for I shall hardly sigh, to see them depart without me, though I shall probably never meet with such another opportunity. And, indeed, their domestic happiness will be so great,-it is natural to wish to partake of it.
They say that London is now in full glory. Two theaters are open—the Opera House, Ranelagh, and the Pantheon. You see, I've learned all their names. However, please don't think that I'm eager to go; I won’t really mind seeing them leave without me, although I probably won't get another chance like this. And honestly, their happiness at home will be so immense; it's natural to want to share in that.
I believe I am bewitched! I made a resolution, when I began, that I would not be urgent; but my pen-or rather my thoughts, will not suffer me to keep it-for I acknowledge, I must acknowledge, I cannot help wishing for your permission.
I think I'm under a spell! I promised myself that I wouldn't be pushy when I started, but my pen—or actually my thoughts—won't let me stick to that promise. I admit, I must admit, I can't help but hope for your permission.
I almost repent already that I have made this confession; pray forget that you have read it, if this journey is displeasing to you. But I will not write any longer; for the more I think of this affair, the less indifferent to it I find myself.
I almost regret confessing this; please forget you read it if this journey bothers you. But I won’t write any more; the more I think about this, the less indifferent I become.
Adieu, my most honoured, most reverenced, most beloved father! for by what other name can I call you? I have no happiness or sorrow, no hope or fear, but what your kindness bestows, or your displeasure may cause. You will not, I am sure, send a refusal without reasons unanswerable, and therefore I shall cheerfully acquiesce. Yet I hope-I hope you will be able to permit me to go! I am, with the utmost affection, gratitude, and duty, your EVELINA -
Goodbye, my dearest, most respected, most beloved father! What other name can I use for you? I have no happiness or sadness, no hope or fear, apart from what your kindness provides or your displeasure might bring. I’m certain you won't refuse without giving me valid reasons, so I will accept your decision willingly. Still, I hope—I hope you can allow me to go! With all my love, gratitude, and respect, your EVELINA -
I cannot to you sign ANVILLE, and what other name may I claim?
I can’t sign ANVILLE for you, so what other name can I use?
LETTER IX - MR. VILLARS TO EVELINA Berry Hill, March 28.
TO resist the urgency of intreaty, is a power which I have not yet acquired: I aim not at an authority which deprives you of liberty, yet I would fain guide myself by a prudence which should save me the pangs of repentance. Your impatience to fly to a place which your imagination has painted to you in colors so attractive, surprises me not; I have only to hope, that the liveliness of your fancy may not deceive you: to refuse, would be raising it still higher. To see my Evelina happy, is to see myself without a wish: go, then my child; and may that Heaven, which alone can direct, preserve and strengthen you! To that, my love, will I daily offer prayers for your felicity. O may it guard, watch over you, defend you from danger, save you from distress, and keep vice as distant from your person as from your heart! And to me, may it grant, the ultimate blessing of closing these aged eyes in the arms of one so dear-so deservedly beloved! ARTHUR VILLARS.
Resisting the urge to plead is a strength I haven’t mastered yet. I don’t want to have authority over you that takes away your freedom, but I wish to be guided by a wisdom that protects me from regret. It doesn’t surprise me that you’re eager to escape to a place your imagination has painted in such vibrant colors; I can only hope that the vividness of your dreams doesn’t mislead you. To refuse would only heighten that desire. Seeing my Evelina happy brings me complete satisfaction; so go, my child, and may that Heaven, which alone can guide, protect, and empower you! For that, my love, I will pray daily for your happiness. Oh, may it watch over you, shield you from danger, save you from hardship, and keep wrongdoing as far from you as it is from your heart! And for me, may it grant the ultimate blessing of closing these aged eyes in the embrace of someone so dear—so thoroughly beloved! ARTHUR VILLARS.
LETTER X - EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS Queen Ann Street, London, Saturday,
April 2.
April 2nd.
THIS moment arrived. Just going to Drury Lane Theatre. The celebrated Mr. Garrick performs Ranger. I am quite in ecstasy. So is Miss Mirvan. How fortunate that he should happen to play! We would not let Mrs. Mirvan rest till she consented to go. Her chief objection was to our dress, for we have had no time to Londonize ourselves; but we teased her into compliance, and so we are to sit in some obscure place that she may not be seen. As to me, I should be alike unknown in the most conspicuous or most private part of the house.
THIS moment has arrived. We’re going to Drury Lane Theatre. The famous Mr. Garrick is performing Ranger. I’m absolutely thrilled. So is Miss Mirvan. How lucky that he’s performing! We wouldn’t let Mrs. Mirvan rest until she agreed to come with us. Her main concern was our outfits, since we haven’t had time to dress like Londoners; but we convinced her to go along, and now we’ll be sitting in some hidden spot so she won’t be recognized. As for me, I wouldn’t stand out whether I was in the most noticeable or the most secluded part of the theater.
I can write no more now. I have hardly time to breathe-only just this, the houses and streets are not quite so superb as I expected. However, I have seen nothing yet, so I ought not to judge.
I can't write anymore right now. I barely have time to catch my breath—just this: the houses and streets aren't as amazing as I thought they'd be. But I haven't seen everything yet, so I shouldn't judge.
Well; adieu, my dearest Sir, for the present; I could not forbear writing a few words instantly on my arrival, though I suppose my letter of thanks for your consent is still on the road. Saturday Night.
Well, goodbye for now, my dearest Sir; I couldn't help but write a few words immediately upon my arrival, even though I guess my thank-you letter for your consent is still on the way. Saturday Night.
O, my dear Sir, in what raptures am I returned? Well may Mr. Garrick be so celebrated, so universally admired-I had not any idea of so great a performer.
Oh, my dear Sir, what excitement I feel upon my return! It’s no wonder Mr. Garrick is so celebrated and universally admired—I had no idea he was such a remarkable performer.
Such ease! such vivacity in his manner! such grace in his motions! such fire and meaning in his eyes!-I could hardly believe he had studied a written part, for every word seemed to be uttered from the impulse of the moment.
What ease! What energy in his demeanor! What grace in his movements! What passion and depth in his eyes! I could barely believe he was reciting a scripted role, as every word seemed to come straight from the moment's inspiration.
His action-at once so graceful and so free!-his voice-so clear, so melodious, yet so wonderfully various in its tones!-Such animation!-every look speaks!
His movement—both graceful and effortless!—his voice—so clear, so melodious, yet so incredibly varied in its tones! Such energy! Every glance speaks!
I would have given the world to have had the whole play acted over again. And when he danced-O, how I envied Clarinda! I almost wished to have jumped on the stage and joined them.
I would have given anything to see the whole play performed again. And when he danced—oh, how I envied Clarinda! I almost wanted to jump on stage and join them.
I am afraid you will think me mad, so I won’t say any more; yet, I really believe Mr. Garrick would make you mad too if you could see him. I intend to ask Mrs. Mirvan to go to the play every night while we stay in town. She is extremely kind to me; and Maria, her charming daughter, is the sweetest girl in the world.
I’m worried you’ll think I’m crazy, so I won’t say anything more; but I truly believe Mr. Garrick would drive you crazy too if you saw him. I plan to ask Mrs. Mirvan to go to the theater every night while we’re in town. She’s really kind to me, and Maria, her lovely daughter, is the sweetest girl ever.
I shall write to you every evening all that passes in the day, and that in the same manner as, if I could see, I should tell you. Sunday.
I will write to you every evening about everything that happened during the day, just like I would if I could see you. Sunday.
This morning we went to Portland chapel; and afterwards we walked in the mall of St. James’s Park, which by no means answered my expectations: it is a long straight walk of dirty gravel, very uneasy to the feet; and at each end instead of an open prospect, nothing is to be seen but houses built of brick. When Mrs. Mirvan pointed out the Palace to me-I think I was never much more surprised.
This morning we went to the Portland chapel; and afterwards we walked in the St. James’s Park mall, which didn’t meet my expectations at all: it is a long, straight path of dirty gravel that’s really uncomfortable to walk on; and at each end, instead of an open view, all you can see are brick houses. When Mrs. Mirvan pointed out the Palace to me, I think I was never more surprised.
However, the walk was very agreeable to us; every body looked gay, and seemed pleased; and the ladies were so much dressed, that Miss Mirvan and I could do nothing but look at them. Mrs. Mirvan met several of her friends. No wonder, for I never saw so many people assembled together before. I looked about for some of my acquaintance, but in vain; for I saw not one person that I knew, which is very odd, for all the world seemed there.
However, the walk was really enjoyable for us; everyone looked happy and seemed pleased, and the ladies were so dressed up that Miss Mirvan and I could only stare at them. Mrs. Mirvan ran into several of her friends. It’s no surprise, since I’ve never seen so many people gathered together before. I looked around for some of my acquaintances, but no luck; I didn’t see a single person I knew, which is strange, because it felt like everyone was there.
Mrs. Mirvan says we are not to walk in the Park again next Sunday, even if we should be in town, because there is better company in Kensington Gardens; but really if you had seen how much every body was dressed, you would not think that possible. Monday.
Mrs. Mirvan says we shouldn't walk in the Park again next Sunday, even if we're in town, because there's better company in Kensington Gardens; but honestly, if you had seen how everyone was dressed, you wouldn't believe it. Monday.
We are to go this evening to a private ball, given by Mrs. Stanley, a very fashionable lady of Mrs. Mirvan’s acquaintance.
We are going to a private ball this evening, hosted by Mrs. Stanley, a very stylish woman who knows Mrs. Mirvan.
We have been a-shopping as Mrs. Mirvan calls it, all this morning, to buy silks, caps, gauzes, and so forth.
We have been out shopping, as Mrs. Mirvan calls it, all morning to buy silks, caps, gauzes, and more.
The shops are really very entertaining, especially the mercers; there seem to be six or seven men belonging to each shop; and every one took care by bowing and smirking, to be noticed. We were conducted from one to another, and carried from room to room with so much ceremony, that at I was almost afraid to go on.
The shops are quite entertaining, especially the fabric stores; it seems like there are six or seven guys in each shop, and each one made sure to bow and smile to get noticed. We were led from one store to another and ushered from room to room with so much formality that I was almost scared to continue.
I thought I should never have chosen a silk: for they produced so many, I knew not which to fix upon; and they recommended them all so strongly, that I fancy they thought I only wanted persuasion to buy every thing they showed me. And, indeed, they took so much trouble, that I was almost ashamed I could not.
I thought I should never have picked a silk because they made so many that I didn't know which one to choose. They promoted all of them so enthusiastically that I figured they thought I just needed a little convincing to buy everything they showed me. Honestly, they put in so much effort that I felt a bit embarrassed that I couldn't.
At the milliners, the ladies we met were so much dressed, that I should rather have imagined they were making visits than purchases. But what most diverted me was, that we were more frequently served by men than by women; and such men! so finical, so affected! they seemed to understand every part of a woman’s dress better than we do ourselves; and they recommended caps and ribbands with an air of so much importance, that I wished to ask them how long they had left off wearing them.
At the hat shop, the ladies we encountered were so well-dressed that I felt they were more focused on socializing than shopping. What amused me the most was that we were attended to by men more often than women; and what men they were! So particular and so pretentious! They seemed to know every detail of a woman’s outfit better than we do ourselves, and they suggested hats and ribbons with such seriousness that I wanted to ask them how long it had been since they last wore them.
The dispatch with which they work in these great shops is amazing, for they have promised me a complete suit of linen against the evening.
The speed at which they operate in these large stores is impressive, as they’ve promised me a full linen suit by the evening.
I have just had my hair dressed. You can’t think how oddly my head feels; full of powder and black pins, and a great cushion on the top of it. I believe you would hardly know me, for my face looks quite different to what it did before my hair was dressed. When I shall be able to make use of a comb for myself I cannot tell; for my hair is so much entangled, frizzled they call it, that I fear it will be very difficult.
I just got my hair done. You wouldn’t believe how strange my head feels; it’s loaded with powder and black pins, and there’s a huge cushion on top of it. I think you’d hardly recognize me because my face looks totally different now that my hair is done. I have no idea when I’ll be able to use a comb myself; my hair is so tangled, they call it frizzled, that I’m worried it will be really tough.
I am half afraid of this ball to-night; for, you know, I have never danced but at school: however, Miss Mirvan says there is nothing in it. Yet, I wish it was over.
I’m a little scared about this dance tonight because, you know, I’ve only ever danced at school. Still, Miss Mirvan says it’s not a big deal. But I just wish it was over.
Adieu, my dear Sir, pray excuse the wretched stuff I write; perhaps I may improve by being in this town, and then my letters will be less unworthy your reading. Meantime, I am, Your dutiful and affectionate, though unpolished, EVELINA.
Goodbye, my dear Sir, please forgive the terrible things I write; maybe I'll get better by being in this town, and then my letters will be more deserving of your attention. In the meantime, I am, Your devoted and affectionate, though unrefined, EVELINA.
Poor Miss Mirvan cannot wear one of the caps she made, because they dress her hair too large for them.
Poor Miss Mirvan can't wear any of the caps she made because her hair is too big for them.
LETTER XI - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION Queen Ann Street, April 5, Tuesday Morning.
I HAVE a vast deal to say, and shall give all this morning to my pen.
I have a lot to say, and I’m going to spend the whole morning writing.
As to my plan of writing every evening the adventures of the day, I find it impracticable; for the diversions here are so very late, that if I begin my letters after them, I could not go to bed at all.
Regarding my plan to write about the day's adventures every evening, I've realized it's not realistic; the entertainment here goes on so late that if I start my letters afterward, I wouldn’t be able to go to bed at all.
We passed a most extraordinary evening. A private ball this was called, so I expected to have seen about four or five couple; but Lord! my dear Sir, I believe I saw half the world! Two very large rooms were full of company; in one were cards for the elderly ladies, and in the other were the dancers. My mamma Mirvan, for she always calls me her child, said she would sit with Maria and me till we were provided with partners, and then join the card-players.
We had an incredibly amazing evening. They called it a private ball, so I thought there would be just four or five couples; but wow, my dear Sir, I think I saw half the world! Two large rooms were packed with people; in one room, there were cards for the older ladies, and in the other, people were dancing. My mom, Mrs. Mirvan, since she always calls me her child, said she would stay with Maria and me until we found dance partners, and then she would join the card players.
The gentlemen, as they passed and repassed, looked as if they thought we were quite at their disposal, and only waiting for the honour of their commands; and they sauntered about, in a careless, indolent manner, as if with a view to keep us in suspense. I don’t speak of this in regard to Miss Mirvan and myself only, but to the ladies in general: and I thought it so provoking, that I determined in my own mind that, far from humouring such airs, I would rather not dance at all, than with any one who would seem to think me ready to accept the first partner who would condescend to take me.
The guys, as they walked back and forth, looked like they believed we were completely at their service, just waiting for them to give us orders; they strolled around in a relaxed, lazy way, almost to keep us on edge. I’m not just talking about Miss Mirvan and me, but about all the ladies in general: I found it so annoying that I decided I’d rather not dance at all than with anyone who thought I was just eager to accept the first person who would lower themselves to ask me.
Not long after, a young man, who had for some time looked at us with a kind of negligent impertinence, advanced on tiptoe towards me; he had a set smile on his face, and his dress was so foppish, that I really believed he even wished to be stared at; and yet he was very ugly.
Not long after, a young man, who had been watching us with a kind of careless arrogance, walked on tiptoe toward me; he had a fixed smile on his face, and his outfit was so flashy that I honestly thought he wanted to be the center of attention; and yet he was really unattractive.
Bowing almost to the ground with a sort of swing, and waving his hand, with the greatest conceit, after a short and silly pause, he said, “Madam-may I presume?"-and stopt, offering to take my hand. I drew it back, but could scarce forbear laughing. “Allow me, Madam,” continued he, affectedly breaking off every half moment, “the honour and happiness-if I am not so unhappy as to address you too late-to have the happiness and honour-”
Bowing almost to the ground with a bit of flair and waving his hand, full of himself, after a brief and silly pause, he said, “Excuse me, madam, may I?”—and stopped, reaching to take my hand. I pulled it back, struggling not to laugh. “Allow me, madam,” he continued, dramatically pausing every other moment, “the honor and happiness—if I'm not too late to address you—to have the honor and happiness—”
Again he would have taken my hand; but bowing my head, I begged to be excused, and turned to Miss Mirvan to conceal my laughter. He then desired to know if I had already engaged myself to some more fortunate man? I said No, and that I believed I should not dance at all. He would keep himself he told me, disengaged, in hopes I should relent; and then, uttering some ridiculous speeches of sorrow and disappointment, though his face still wore the same invariable smile, he retreated.
Again, he tried to take my hand, but I bowed my head and asked to be excused, turning to Miss Mirvan to hide my laughter. He then wanted to know if I was already involved with someone luckier. I answered no and said I didn’t think I’d dance at all. He told me he would remain unattached, hoping I would change my mind; then, after saying some ridiculous things about sorrow and disappointment, even though his face still had the same constant smile, he backed away.
It so happened, as we have since recollected, that during this little dialogue Mrs. Mirvan was conversing with the lady of the house. And very soon after, another gentleman, who seemed about six-and-twenty years old, gaily but not foppishly dressed, and indeed extremely handsome, with an air of mixed politeness and gallantry, desired to know if I was engaged, or would honour him with my hand. So he was pleased to say, though I am sure I know not what honour he could receive from me; but these sort of expressions, I find, are used as words of course, without any distinction of persons, or study of propriety.
It turned out, as we've since remembered, that during this little conversation Mrs. Mirvan was chatting with the lady of the house. Shortly after, another man, who looked about twenty-six years old, was dressed nicely but not overly showy, and he was really handsome, with a mix of politeness and charm. He wanted to know if I was available or if I would do him the honor of my company. That’s how he put it, though I’m sure I have no idea what kind of honor he thought he would get from me; but I’ve noticed that these kinds of phrases are used automatically, without regard for who is speaking or any sense of appropriateness.
Well, I bowed, and I am sure I coloured; for indeed I was frightened at the thoughts of dancing before so many people, all strangers, and, which was worse, with a stranger: however, that was unavoidable; for, though I looked round the room several times, I could not see one person that I knew. And so he took my hand, and led me to join in the dance.
Well, I bowed, and I’m sure I turned red; I really was scared at the idea of dancing in front of so many people, all strangers, and, even worse, with someone I didn't know. But there was no way around it; even though I looked around the room several times, I couldn’t see anyone I recognized. So, he took my hand and led me to join the dance.
The minuets were over before we arrived, for we were kept late by the milliners making us wait for our things.
The minuets were finished by the time we got there because the milliners made us wait for our items.
He seemed very desirous of entering into conversation with me; but I was seized with such a panic, that I could hardly speak a word, and nothing but the shame of so soon changing my mind prevented my returning to my seat, and declining to dance at all.
He really wanted to talk to me, but I was so overwhelmed with panic that I could barely say a word, and the only thing stopping me from going back to my seat and deciding not to dance was the embarrassment of changing my mind so quickly.
He appeared to be surprised at my terror, which I believe was but too apparent: however, he asked no questions, though I fear he must think it very strange, for I did not choose to tell him it was owing to my never before dancing but with a school-girl.
He looked surprised by my fear, which I think was pretty obvious; still, he didn't ask any questions, though I worry he must find it really odd since I didn't choose to explain that it was because I had only ever danced with a schoolgirl before.
His conversation was sensible and spirited; his air, and address were open and noble; his manners gentle, attentive, and infinitely engaging; his person is all elegance, and his countenance the most animated and expressive I have ever seen.
His conversation was smart and lively; his demeanor and approach were open and dignified; his manners were kind, considerate, and incredibly charming; his appearance was refined, and his face was the most expressive and lively I've ever seen.
In a short time we were joined by Miss Mirvan, who stood next couple to us. But how I was startled when she whispered me that my partner was a nobleman! This gave me a new alarm: how will he be provoked, thought I, when he finds what a simple rustic he has honoured with his choice! one whose ignorance of the world makes her perpetually fear doing something wrong!
In a little while, Miss Mirvan joined us, standing next to us. But I was so surprised when she whispered to me that my partner was a nobleman! This filled me with a new worry: how will he react when he realizes he has chosen a simple country girl! Someone whose lack of experience with the world makes her constantly afraid of making a mistake!
That he should be so much my superior in every way, quite disconcerted me; and you will suppose my spirits were not much raised, when I heard a lady, in passing us, say, “This is the most difficult dance I ever saw.”
That he should be so much better than me in every way really threw me off; and you can imagine my mood didn’t improve when I heard a lady, as she walked by us, say, “This is the hardest dance I’ve ever seen.”
“O dear, then” cried Maria to her partner, “with your leave, I’ll sit down till the next.”
“O dear, then,” Maria said to her partner, “if you don’t mind, I’ll sit down until the next one.”
“So will I too, then,” cried I, “for I am sure I can hardly stand.”
“So will I too, then,” I shouted, “because I’m pretty sure I can barely stand.”
“But you must speak to your partner first,” answered she; for he had turned aside to talk with some gentlemen. However, I had not sufficient courage to address him; and so away we all three tript, and seated ourselves at another end of the room.
“But you need to talk to your partner first,” she replied, since he had turned to chat with some guys. However, I didn’t have enough courage to approach him, so the three of us left and sat at the other end of the room.
But, unfortunately for me, Miss Mirvan soon after suffered herself to be prevailed upon to attempt the dance; and just as she rose to go, she cried, “My dear, yonder is your partner, Lord Orville walking about the room in search of you.”
But, unfortunately for me, Miss Mirvan soon gave in to the pressure to try the dance; and just as she got up to leave, she exclaimed, “My dear, there’s your partner, Lord Orville, walking around the room looking for you.”
“Don’t leave me then, dear girl!” cried I; but she was obliged to go. And now I was more uneasy than ever; I would have given the world to have seen Mrs. Mirvan, and begged of her to make my apologies; for what, thought I, can I possibly say to him in excuse for running away? He must either conclude me a fool, or half mad; for any one brought up in the great world, and accustomed to its ways, can have no idea of such sort of fears as mine.
“Don’t leave me, please, dear girl!” I cried, but she had to go. Now I was more anxious than ever; I would have given anything to see Mrs. Mirvan and ask her to make my excuses. What, I thought, can I possibly say to him to explain why I ran away? He must think I’m either a fool or half crazy; anyone raised in high society and used to its ways can’t understand fears like mine.
My confusion increased when I observed that he was every where seeking me, with apparent perplexity and surprise; but when, at last, I saw him move towards the place where I sat, I was ready to sink with shame and distress. I found it absolutely impossible to keep my seat, because I could not think of a word to say for myself; and so I rose, and walked hastily towards the card-room, resolving to stay with Mrs. Mirvan the rest of the evening, and not to dance at all. But before I could find her, Lord Orville saw and approached me.
My confusion grew when I noticed he was searching for me everywhere, looking puzzled and surprised; but when I finally saw him coming toward where I was sitting, I felt overwhelmed with shame and distress. I found it completely impossible to stay seated because I couldn't think of a single word to say for myself, so I got up and hurried toward the card room, deciding to stay with Mrs. Mirvan for the rest of the evening and not dance at all. But before I could find her, Lord Orville spotted me and came over.
He begged to know if I was not well? You may easily imagine how much I was embarrassed. I made no answer; but hung my head like a fool, and looked on my fan.
He asked if I was feeling okay. You can imagine how embarrassed I was. I didn’t respond; I just hung my head like an idiot and stared at my fan.
He then, with an air the most respectfully serious, asked if he had been so unhappy as to offend me?
He then, with a very serious and respectful tone, asked if he had been so unfortunate as to offend me.
“No, indeed!” cried I; and, in hopes of changing the discourse, and preventing his further inquiries, I desired to know if he had seen the young lady who had been conversing with me?
“No, not at all!” I exclaimed; and, hoping to change the subject and avoid his further questions, I asked if he had seen the young lady who had been talking with me.
No;-but would I honour him with any commands to her?
No; but would I ask him to give her any orders?
“O, by no means!”
"Oh, definitely not!"
Was there any other person with whom I wished to speak?
Was there anyone else I wanted to talk to?
I said no, before I knew I had answered at all.
I said no before I even realized I had answered.
Should he have the pleasure of bringing me any refreshment?
Should he have the pleasure of bringing me something to drink?
I bowed, almost involuntarily. And away he flew.
I bowed, almost without thinking. And off he went.
I was quite ashamed of being so troublesome, and so much above myself as these seeming airs made me appear; but indeed I was too much confused to think or act with any consistency.
I felt really embarrassed about being such a nuisance and about how these pretentious actions made me seem, but honestly, I was too confused to think or act clearly.
If he had not been as swift as lightning, I don’t know whether I should not have stolen away again; but he returned in a moment. When I had drank a glass of lemonade, he hoped, he said, that I would again honour him with my hand, as a new dance was just begun. I had not the presence of mind to say a single word, and so I let him once more lead me to the place I had left.
If he hadn't been so quick, I might have slipped away again; but he came back right away. After I had a glass of lemonade, he said he hoped I would do him the honor of dancing with him again since a new dance had just started. I was too caught off guard to say anything, so I let him take me back to the spot I had just left.
Shocked to find how silly, how childish a part I had acted, my former fears of dancing before such a company, and with such a partner, returned more forcibly than ever. I suppose he perceived my uneasiness; for he entreated me to sit down again if dancing was disagreeable to me. But I was quite satisfied with the folly I had already shewn; and therefore declined his offer, though I was really scarce able to stand.
Shocked to realize how silly and childish I had been, my earlier fears of dancing in front of such a crowd and with such a partner came back stronger than ever. I guess he noticed my discomfort because he urged me to sit down again if dancing was upsetting to me. But I was already embarrassed enough, so I turned down his offer, even though I was barely able to stand.
Under such conscious disadvantages, you may easily imagine my dear Sir, how ill I acquitted myself. But, though I both expected and deserved to find him very much mortified and displeased at his ill fortune in the choice he had made; yet, to my very great relief, he appeared to be even contented, and very much assisted and encouraged me. These people in high life have too much presence of mind, I believe, to seem disconcerted, or out of humour, however they may feel: for had I been the person of the most consequence in the room, I could not have met with more attention and respect.
Given these obvious challenges, you can easily imagine how poorly I performed, my dear Sir. However, even though I expected and deserved to see him quite upset and displeased with his unfortunate choice, to my great relief, he seemed actually content and fully supported and encouraged me. I think people in high society are too composed to act flustered or irritated, no matter how they might really feel. If I had been the most important person in the room, I couldn't have received more attention and respect.
When the dance was over, seeing me still very much flurried, he led me to a seat, saying that he would not suffer me to fatigue myself from politeness.
When the dance finished and saw me still quite flustered, he took me to a seat, saying he wouldn't let me wear myself out just to be polite.
And then, if my capacity, or even, if my spirits had been better, in how animated a conversation I might have been engaged! it was then I saw that the rank of Lord Orville was his least recommendation, his understanding and his manners being far more distinguished. His remarks upon the company in general were so apt, so just, so lively, I am almost surprised myself that they did not reanimate me; but, indeed, I was too well convinced of the ridiculous part I had myself played before so nice an observer, to be able to enjoy his pleasantry: so self-compassion gave me feeling for others. Yet I had not the courage to attempt either to defend them or to rally in my turn; but listened to him in silent embarrassment.
And then, if I had been in a better mood or had more energy, I could have had such an animated conversation! That was when I realized that Lord Orville's title was his least impressive quality; his intellect and manners were much more remarkable. His observations about the group were so sharp, so accurate, and so lively that I'm almost surprised they didn't lift my spirits. But honestly, I was too aware of the ridiculous way I had acted in front of such a keen observer to enjoy his humor. My self-pity made it hard for me to feel for others. Yet I didn't have the courage to defend them or to join in the fun; I just listened to him, feeling quietly embarrassed.
When he found this, he changed the subject, and talked of public places, and public performers; but he soon discovered that I was totally ignorant of them.
When he realized this, he switched topics and talked about public places and street performers; but he quickly noticed that I knew nothing about them.
He then, very ingeniously, turned the discourse to the amusements and occupations of the country.
He then cleverly shifted the conversation to the entertainment and activities of the area.
It now struck me that he was resolved to try whether or not I was capable of talking upon any subject. This put so great a restraint upon my thoughts, that I was unable to go further than a monosyllable, and not ever so far, when I could possibly avoid it.
It suddenly occurred to me that he was determined to see if I could talk about any topic. This put such a huge pressure on my thoughts that I could only manage a one-word reply, and even then, I tried to avoid it if I could.
We were sitting in this manner, he conversing with all gaiety, I looking down with all foolishness, when that fop who had first asked me to dance, with a most ridiculous solemnity approached, and, after a profound bow or two, said, “I humbly beg pardon, Madam,-and of you too, my Lord,-for breaking in upon such agreeable conversation-which must, doubtless, be more delectable-than what I have the honour to offer-but-”
We were sitting like this, he chatting happily, while I was looking down awkwardly, when that guy who first invited me to dance approached with an absurd seriousness. After bowing deeply a couple of times, he said, “I sincerely apologize, Madam—and to you too, my Lord—for interrupting such a pleasant conversation—which must surely be more enjoyable than what I have the honor to offer—but—”
I interrupted him-I blush for my folly,-with laughing; yet I could not help it; for, added to the man’s stately foppishness, (and he actually took snuff between every three words) when I looked around at Lord Orville, I saw such extreme surprise in his face,-the cause of which appeared so absurd, that I could not for my life preserve my gravity.
I interrupted him—I’m embarrassed by my foolishness—by laughing; yet I couldn’t help it; because, along with the man’s grand ridiculousness (and he actually took snuff after every three words), when I looked at Lord Orville, I saw such extreme surprise on his face—the reason for which seemed so absurd, that I couldn’t for the life of me keep a straight face.
I had not laughed before from the time I had left Miss Mirvan, and I had much better have cried then; Lord Orville actually stared at me; the beau, I know not his name, looked quite enraged. “Refrain-Madam,” said he, with an important air, “a few moments refrain!-I have but a sentence to trouble you with.-May I know to what accident I must attribute not having the honour of your hand?”
I hadn't laughed since I left Miss Mirvan, and I probably should have just cried then; Lord Orville actually stared at me; the handsome guy, whose name I didn't know, looked really angry. "Please, madam," he said with a serious tone, "just a moment, if you would! I have only one question for you. Can I ask what caused you to not have the honor of dancing with me?"
“Accident, Sir!” repeated I, much astonished.
"Accident, sir!" I replied, very surprised.
“Yes, accident, Madam;-for surely,-I must take the liberty to observe-pardon me, Madam,-it ought to be no common one-that should tempt a lady-so young a one too,-to be guilty of ill-manners.”
“Yes, it was an accident, ma'am; for surely, I must take the liberty to say—excuse me, ma'am—it should not be a common thing that would lead a young lady like you to behave badly.”
A confused idea now for the first time entered my head, of something I had heard of the rules of an assembly; but I was never at one before,-I have only danced at school,-and so giddy and heedless I was, that I had not once considered the impropriety of refusing one partner, and afterwards accepting another. I was thunderstruck at the recollection: but, while these thoughts were rushing into my head, Lord Orville with some warmth, said, “This Lady, Sir, is incapable of meriting such an accusation!”
A confusing thought suddenly popped into my mind about something I'd heard regarding the rules of a gathering; however, this was my first time attending one—I had only danced at school. I was so dizzy and careless that I hadn't thought at all about the inappropriateness of refusing one partner and then accepting another. I was shocked when I realized this. Just as those thoughts were swirling in my head, Lord Orville said with some intensity, “This lady, sir, is certainly not deserving of such an accusation!”
The creature-for I am very angry with him-made a low bow and with a grin the most malicious I ever saw, “My Lord,” said he, “far be it from me to accuse the lady, for having the discernment to distinguish and prefer-the superior attractions of your Lordship.”
The creature—I'm really angry with him—gave a low bow and with the most malicious grin I've ever seen, “My Lord,” he said, “I would never accuse the lady for having the insight to recognize and choose the superior charms of your Lordship.”
Again he bowed and walked off.
Again, he nodded and walked away.
Was ever any thing so provoking? I was ready to die with shame. “What a coxcomb!” exclaimed Lord Orville: while I, without knowing what I did, rose hastily, and moving off, “I can’t imagine,” cried I, “where Mrs. Mirvan has hid herself!”
Was anything ever so frustrating? I was dying of embarrassment. “What a fool!” exclaimed Lord Orville; while I, without realizing what I was doing, got up quickly and walked away, “I can’t believe,” I said, “where Mrs. Mirvan has gone!”
“Give me leave to see,” answered he. I bowed and sat down again, not daring to meet his eyes; for what must he think of me, between my blunder, and the supposed preference?
“Let me see,” he replied. I nodded and sat down again, too nervous to meet his gaze; I could only imagine what he must think of me, given my mistake and the assumed favoritism.
He returned in a moment, and told me that Mrs. Mirvan was at cards, but would be glad to see me; and I went immediately. There was but one chair vacant; so, to my great relief, Lord Orville presently left us. I then told Mrs. Mirvan my disasters; and she good-naturedly blamed herself for not having better instructed me; but said, she had taken it for granted that I must know such common customs. However, the man may, I think, be satisfied with his pretty speech and carry his resentment no farther.
He came back in a moment and told me that Mrs. Mirvan was playing cards but would be happy to see me, so I went right away. There was only one chair open, so, much to my relief, Lord Orville soon excused himself from us. I then shared my troubles with Mrs. Mirvan, and she kindly blamed herself for not teaching me better, saying she assumed I would know such common customs. Still, I think the guy might be satisfied with his nice words and won't hold a grudge any longer.
In a short time Lord Orville returned. I consented, with the best grace I could, to go down another dance, for I had had time to recollect myself; and therefore resolved to use some exertion, and, if possible, to appear less a fool than I had hitherto done; for it occurred to me, that, insignificant as I was, compared to a man of his rank and figure; yet, since he had been so unfortunate as to make choice of me for a partner, why I should endeavour to make the best of it.
In a little while, Lord Orville came back. I agreed, as graciously as I could, to dance again since I had a chance to collect my thoughts. I decided to put in some effort and, if I could, to look less foolish than I had so far; because it struck me that, despite how insignificant I felt compared to someone of his status and presence, since he had unfortunately chosen me as his partner, I should try to make the most of it.
The dance, however, was short, and he spoke very little; so I had no opportunity of putting my resolution in practice. He was satisfied, I suppose, with his former successless efforts to draw me out or, rather, I fancied he had been inquiring who I was. This again disconcerted me; and the spirits I had determined to exert, again failed me. Tired, ashamed, and mortified, I begged to sit down till we returned home, which I did soon after. Lord Orville did me the honour to hand me to the coach, talking all the way of the honour I had done him! O these fashionable people!
The dance was brief, and he hardly spoke, so I didn't get a chance to act on my decision. I assume he was content with his previous unsuccessful attempts to engage me, or rather, I thought he must have been asking about who I was. This only threw me off more, and the confidence I meant to show failed me again. Exhausted, embarrassed, and frustrated, I requested to sit down until we headed home, and I did so soon after. Lord Orville graciously escorted me to the carriage, praising me the whole way for the honor I had given him! Oh, these fashionable people!
Well, my dear Sir, was it not a strange evening? I could not help being thus particular, because, to me, every thing is so new. But it is now time to conclude. I am, with all love and duty, your EVELINA.
Well, my dear Sir, wasn't it a strange evening? I couldn’t help being so specific because everything is so new to me. But it’s time to wrap this up. I am, with all my love and respect, your EVELINA.
LETTER XII - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION Tuesday, April 5.
THERE is to be no end to the troubles of last night. I have this moment, between persuasion and laughter, gathered from Maria the most curious dialogue that ever I heard. You will at first be startled at my vanity; but, my dear Sir, have patience!
THERE is no end to the troubles from last night. Right now, caught between persuasion and laughter, I've just heard from Maria the most fascinating conversation I've ever experienced. You might be surprised by my vanity at first; but, my dear Sir, please be patient!
It must have passed while I was sitting with Mrs. Mirvan, in the card-room. Maria was taking some refreshment, and saw Lord Orville advancing for the same purpose himself; but he did not know her, though she immediately recollected him. Presently after, a very gay-looking man, stepping hastily up to him cried, “Why, my Lord, what have you done with your lovely partner?”
It must have happened while I was with Mrs. Mirvan in the card room. Maria was having some refreshments and noticed Lord Orville coming over for the same reason, but he didn't recognize her, even though she immediately remembered him. Just then, a very cheerful-looking man rushed up to him and exclaimed, "Hey, my Lord, where's your lovely partner?"
“Nothing!” answered Lord Orville with a smile and a shrug.
“Nothing!” Lord Orville replied with a smile and a shrug.
“By Jove,” cried the man, “she is the most beautiful creature I ever saw in my life!”
"Wow," the man exclaimed, "she is the most beautiful person I've ever seen in my life!"
Lord Orville, as he well might, laughed; but answered, “Yes, a pretty modest-looking girl.”
Lord Orville laughed, as he understandably would, and replied, “Yeah, a rather modest-looking girl.”
“O my Lord!” cried the madman, “she is an angel!”
“O my Lord!” shouted the madman, “she’s an angel!”
“A silent one,” returned he.
“A quiet one,” he replied.
“Why ay, my Lord, how stands she as to that? She looks all intelligence and expression.”
"Sure, my Lord, what does she think about that? She looks so aware and expressive."
“A poor weak girl!” answered Lord Orville, shaking his head.
“A poor, weak girl!” replied Lord Orville, shaking his head.
“By Jove,” cried the other, “I am glad to hear it!”
“Wow,” exclaimed the other, “I’m really glad to hear that!”
At that moment, the same odious creature who had been my former tormentor, joined them. Addressing Lord Orville with great respect, he said, “I beg pardon, my Lord,-if I was-as I fear might be the case-rather too severe in my censure of the lady who is honoured with your protection-but, my Lord, ill-breeding is apt to provoke a man.”
At that moment, the same unpleasant person who had tormented me before joined them. Speaking to Lord Orville with great respect, he said, “I apologize, my Lord, if I was—though I fear I might have been—a bit too harsh in my criticism of the lady who has your protection. But, my Lord, bad behavior tends to bring out the worst in a person.”
“Ill-breeding!” cried my unknown champion, “impossible! that elegant face can never be so vile a mask!”
“Bad breeding!” shouted my unknown champion, “impossible! That elegant face can never be such a hideous mask!”
“O Sir, as to that,” answered he, “you must allow me to judge; for though I pay all deference to your opinion-in other things-yet I hope you will grant-and I appeal to your Lordship also-that I am not totally despicable as a judge of good or ill-manners.”
“O Sir, in that regard,” he replied, “you have to let me decide; because while I fully respect your opinion on other matters, I hope you’ll agree—and I ask your Lordship as well—that I’m not completely unqualified to judge what’s good or bad manners.”
“I was so wholly ignorant,” said Lord Orville, gravely, “of the provocation you might have had, that I could not but be surprised at your singular resentment.”
“I was completely unaware,” said Lord Orville, seriously, “of any reasons you might have had, that I couldn’t help but be surprised by your unusual anger.”
“It was far from my intention,” answered he, “to offend your lordship; but, really, for a person who is nobody, to give herself such airs,-I own I could not command my passion. For, my Lord, though I have made diligent inquiry-I cannot learn who she is.”
“It was never my intention,” he replied, “to offend you, my lord; but honestly, for someone who is nobody to act so high and mighty—I admit I couldn’t control my anger. For, my lord, even though I’ve asked around, I can’t find out who she is.”
“By what I can make out,” cried my defender, “she must be a country parson’s daughter.”
"From what I can tell," shouted my defender, "she must be the daughter of a country pastor."
“He! he! he! very good, ‘pon honour!” cried the fop;-“well, so I could have sworn by her manners.”
“He! he! he! very good, I swear!” exclaimed the dandy; “well, I could have bet on her manners.”
And then, delighted at his own wit, he laughed, and went away, as I suppose, to repeat it.
And then, pleased with his own cleverness, he laughed and walked away, I guess, to share it again.
“But what the deuce is all this?” demanded the other.
“But what on earth is all this?” asked the other.
“Why a very foolish affair,” answered Lord Orville; “your Helen first refused this coxcomb, and then-danced with me. This is all I can gather of it.”
“Why, that's a really foolish situation,” replied Lord Orville; “your Helen first turned down this fool, and then danced with me. That’s all I can figure out.”
“O, Orville,” returned he, “you are a happy man!-But ill-bred? -I can never believe it! And she looks too sensible to be ignorant.”
“O, Orville,” he replied, “you’re a lucky guy! But rude? I can’t ever believe that! And she seems too smart to be clueless.”
“Whether ignorant or mischievous, I will not pretend to determine; but certain it is, she attended to all I could say to her, though I have really fatigued myself with fruitless endeavours to entertain her, with the most immovable gravity; but no sooner did Lovel begin his complaint, than she was seized with a fit of laughing, first affronting the poor beau, and then enjoying his mortification.”
“Whether she was clueless or just being difficult, I won’t try to figure it out; but it’s clear she listened to everything I said, even though I totally exhausted myself trying to entertain her with the most serious demeanor. But as soon as Lovel started his complaint, she burst out laughing, first making fun of the poor guy, and then relishing in his embarrassment.”
“Ha! ha! ha! why there is some genius in that, my Lord, perhaps rather-rustic.”
“Ha! Ha! Ha! There’s some genius in that, my Lord, maybe a bit rustic.”
Here Maria was called to dance, and so heard no more.
Here Maria was asked to dance, and so she heard nothing else.
Now, tell me, my dear Sir, did you ever know any thing more provoking? “A poor weak girl!” “ignorant or mischievous!” What mortifying words! I am resolved, however, that I will never again be tempted to go to an assembly. I wish I had been in Dorsetshire.
Now, tell me, my dear Sir, did you ever know anything more frustrating? “A poor weak girl!” “Ignorant or troublesome!” What humiliating words! I’ve decided, though, that I will never let myself be tempted to go to a gathering again. I wish I had been in Dorsetshire.
Well, after this, you will not be surprised that Lord Orville contented himself with an inquiry after our healths this morning, by his servant, without troubling himself to call, as Miss Mirvan had told me he would; but perhaps it may be only a country custom.
Well, after this, you won’t be surprised that Lord Orville checked on our health this morning through his servant, instead of coming to see us himself, as Miss Mirvan said he would; but maybe that’s just how things are done in the country.
I would not live here for the world. I care not how soon we leave town. London soon grows tiresome. I wish the Captain would come. Mrs. Mirvan talks of the opera for this evening; however, I am very indifferent about it. Wednesday Morning.
I wouldn't live here for anything. I don't care how soon we leave town. London gets boring really quickly. I wish the Captain would arrive. Mrs. Mirvan is talking about the opera for tonight; honestly, I couldn't care less about it. Wednesday Morning.
Well, my dear Sir, I have been pleased against my will, I could almost say; for I must own I went out in very ill humour, which I think you cannot wonder at: but the music and the singing were charming; they soothed me into a pleasure the most grateful, the best suited to my present disposition in the world. I hope to persuade Mrs. Mirvan to go again on Saturday. I wish the opera was every night. It is, of all entertainments, the sweetest and most delightful. Some of the songs seemed to melt my very soul. It was what they call a serious opera, as the comic first singer was ill.
Well, my dear Sir, I reluctantly found myself enjoying the evening; I could almost say it was against my will. I must admit I went out feeling quite grumpy, which I think you can understand. But the music and the singing were lovely; they calmed me in a way that felt really satisfying and perfectly matched my mood. I hope to convince Mrs. Mirvan to join me again on Saturday. I wish the opera was on every night. Of all the entertainments, it’s the sweetest and most delightful. Some of the songs seemed to touch my very soul. It was what they call a serious opera since the comedic lead singer was unwell.
To-night we go to Ranelagh. If any of those three gentlemen who conversed so freely about me should be there-but I won’t think of it. Thursday Morning.
To-night we’re going to Ranelagh. If any of those three guys who talked so openly about me are there—but I won’t dwell on it. Thursday Morning.
Well, my dear Sir, we went to Ranelagh. It is a charming place; and the brilliancy of the lights, on my first entrance, made me almost think I was in some enchanted castle or fairy palace, for all looked like magic to me.
Well, my dear Sir, we went to Ranelagh. It’s a lovely place; and the brightness of the lights, as soon as I walked in, made me feel like I was in some enchanted castle or fairy palace, because it all seemed like magic to me.
The very first person I saw was Lord Orville. I felt so confused!-but he did not see me. After tea, Mrs. Mirvan being tired, Maria and I walked round the room alone. Then again we saw him, standing by the orchestra. We, too, stopt to hear a singer. He bowed to me; I courtesied, and I am sure I coloured. We soon walked on, not liking our situation; however, he did not follow us; and when we passed by the orchestra again, he was gone. Afterwards, in the course of the evening, we met him several times; but he was always with some party, and never spoke to us, though whenever he chanced to meet my eyes, he condescended to bow.
The first person I saw was Lord Orville. I felt so confused! But he didn’t notice me. After tea, Mrs. Mirvan got tired, so Maria and I walked around the room by ourselves. Then we saw him again, standing by the stage. We stopped to listen to a singer. He bowed to me; I curtsied, and I’m sure I blushed. We quickly moved on, not liking the situation, but he didn’t follow us. When we walked by the stage again, he was gone. Later that evening, we ran into him several times, but he was always with a group and didn’t talk to us, although whenever our eyes met, he graciously bowed.
I cannot but be hurt at the opinion he entertains of me. It is true my own behaviour incurred it-yet he is himself the most agreeable, and, seemingly, the most amiable man in the world, and therefore it is that I am grieved to be thought ill of by him: for of whose esteem ought we to be ambitious, if not of those who most merit our own?-But it is too late to reflect upon this now. Well I can’t help it.-However, I think I have done with assemblies.
I can’t help but feel hurt by his opinion of me. It’s true my own behavior led to it, but he is the most pleasant and seemingly kind man in the world, which is why I'm upset to be thought poorly of by him. After all, whose respect should we want if not from those who truly deserve our own? But it’s too late to think about that now. I guess it is what it is. Anyway, I think I’m done with gatherings.
This morning was destined for seeing sights, auctions, curious shops, and so forth; but my head ached, and I was not in a humour to be amused, and so I made them go without me, though very unwillingly. They are all kindness.
This morning was meant for sightseeing, auctions, quirky shops, and all that; but I had a headache and wasn't in the mood to have fun, so I made them go without me, even though they were reluctant. They are all so kind.
And now I am sorry I did not accompany them, for I know not what to do with myself. I had resolved not to go to the play to-night; but I believe I shall. In short, I hardly care whether I do or not.
And now I regret not going with them, because I don’t know what to do with myself. I had decided not to go to the show tonight, but I think I will. Honestly, I barely care if I go or not.
I thought I had done wrong! Mrs. Mirvan and Maria have been half the town over, and so entertained!-while I, like a fool, staid at home to do nothing. And, at the auction in Pall-mall, who should they meet but Lord Orville. He sat next to Mrs. Mirvan, and they talked a great deal together; but she gave me no account of the conversation.
I thought I had messed up! Mrs. Mirvan and Maria have been all over town and having such a good time—while I, like an idiot, stayed home doing nothing. And at the auction in Pall Mall, guess who they ran into? Lord Orville. He sat next to Mrs. Mirvan, and they chatted a lot, but she didn't tell me anything about what they talked about.
I may never have such another opportunity of seeing London; I am quite sorry that I was not of the party; but I deserve this mortification, for having indulged my ill-humour. Thursday Night.
I might never have another chance to see London; I really regret not being part of the group; but I deserve this embarrassment for letting my bad mood take over. Thursday Night.
We are just returned from the play, which was King Lear, and has made me very sad. We did not see any body we knew.
We just got back from the play, which was King Lear, and it really made me sad. We didn't see anyone we knew.
Well, adieu, it is too late to write more. Friday.
Well, goodbye, it’s too late to write more. Friday.
Captain Mirvan is arrived. I have not spirits to give an account of his introduction, for he has really shocked me. I do not like him. He seems to be surly, vulgar, and disagreeable.
Captain Mirvan has arrived. I don't have the energy to explain how he was introduced, because he has genuinely shocked me. I don't like him. He comes across as grumpy, rude, and unpleasant.
Almost the same moment that Maria was presented to him, he began some rude jests upon the bad shape of her nose, and called her a tall ill-formed thing. She bore it with the utmost good-humour; but that kind and sweet-tempered woman, Mrs. Mirvan, deserved a better lot. I am amazed she would marry him.
Almost the same moment that Maria was introduced to him, he started making some rude jokes about the awkward shape of her nose and called her a tall, poorly shaped thing. She took it all in stride with great good humor; but that kind and sweet-tempered woman, Mrs. Mirvan, deserved a better fate. I’m surprised she would marry him.
For my own part, I have been so shy, that I have hardly spoken to him, or he to me. I cannot imagine why the family was so rejoiced at his return. If he had spent his whole life abroad, I should have supposed they might rather have been thankful than sorrowful. However, I hope they do not think so ill of him as I do. At least, I am sure they have too much prudence to make it known. Saturday Night.
For my part, I’ve been so shy that I’ve hardly spoken to him, and he hasn’t really talked to me either. I can’t understand why the family was so happy about his return. If he had spent his entire life away, I would have thought they should be more grateful than upset. Still, I hope they don’t think as poorly of him as I do. At least, I’m sure they have enough sense not to let it show. Saturday Night.
We have been to the opera, and I am still more pleased than I was on Tuesday. I could have thought myself in Paradise, but for the continual talking of the company around me. We sat in the pit, where every body was dressed in so high a style, that if I had been less delighted with the performance, my eyes would have found me sufficient entertainment from looking at the ladies.
We went to the opera, and I’m even more pleased than I was on Tuesday. I could have imagined I was in Paradise, if not for the constant chatter from the people around me. We sat in the front row, where everyone was dressed so elegantly that if I hadn’t been so captivated by the performance, I could have entertained myself just by watching the ladies.
I was very glad I did not sit next the Captain; for he could not bear the music or singers, and was extremely gross in his observations of both. When the opera was over, we went into a place called the coffee-room where ladies, as well as gentlemen, assemble. There are all sorts of refreshments, and the company walk about, and chat with the same ease and freedom as in a private room.
I was really glad I didn't sit next to the Captain because he couldn't stand the music or the singers and was pretty rude about both. After the opera was over, we went to a place called the coffee-room where ladies and gentlemen gather. There are all kinds of snacks, and people stroll around and chat just as easily and freely as they would in a private room.
On Monday we go to a ridotto, and on Wednesday we return to Howard Grove. The Captain says he won’t stay here to be smoked with filth any longer; but, having been seven years smoked with a burning sun, he will retire to the country, and sink into a fair weather chap. Adieu, my dear Sir.
On Monday we’re going to a party, and on Wednesday we’re heading back to Howard Grove. The Captain says he’s not staying here to be suffocated by dirt any longer; after being exposed to the blazing sun for seven years, he plans to retire to the countryside and become a leisurely person. Goodbye, my dear Sir.
LETTER XIII - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION Tuesday, April 12. My dear Sir,
WE came home from the ridotto so late, or rather so early that it was not possible for me to write. Indeed, we did not go -you will be frightened to hear it-till past eleven o’clock: but no body does. A terrible reverse of the order of nature! We sleep with the sun, and wake with the moon.
WE came home from the party so late, or rather so early that I couldn't write. In fact, we didn't leave—you're going to be shocked to hear this—until after eleven o’clock: but nobody cares. It's such a crazy shift from the natural order! We sleep when the sun is up and wake when the moon is out.
The room was very magnificent, the lights and decorations were brilliant, and the company gay and splendid. But I should have told you, that I made many objections to being of the party, according to the resolution I had formed. However, Maria laughed me out of my scruples, and so once again I went to an assembly.
The room was stunning, with bright lights and beautiful decorations, and the atmosphere was lively and cheerful. But I should have mentioned that I had many reservations about attending, based on the decision I had made. However, Maria convinced me to let go of my doubts, and so I ended up going to the gathering again.
Miss Mirvan danced a minuet; but I had not the courage to follow her example. In our walks I saw Lord Orville. He was quite alone, but did not observe us. Yet, as he seemed of no party, I thought it was not impossible that he might join us; and though I did not wish much to dance at all-yet, as I was more acquainted with him than with any other person in the room, I must own I could not help thinking it would be infinitely more desirable to dance again with him than with an entire stranger. To be sure, after all that had passed, it was very ridiculous to suppose it even probable that Lord Orville would again honour me with his choice; yet I am compelled to confess my absurdity, by way of explaining what follows.
Miss Mirvan danced a minuet, but I didn't have the courage to follow her lead. While we were walking, I spotted Lord Orville. He was by himself and didn't seem to notice us. However, since he didn't appear to be with anyone, I thought it was possible he might join us. Although I wasn't really keen on dancing at all, I had to admit that I was more familiar with him than anyone else in the room, so I couldn't help but think it would be much better to dance with him than with a complete stranger. Of course, after everything that had happened, it seemed pretty silly to think it was even likely that Lord Orville would choose to dance with me again. Still, I have to acknowledge my foolishness to explain what happens next.
Miss Mirvan was soon engaged; and presently after a very fashionable gay looking man, who seemed about thirty years of age, addressed himself to me, and begged to have the honour of dancing with me. Now Maria’s partner was a gentleman of Mrs. Mirvan’s acquaintance; for she had told us it was highly improper for young women to dance with strangers at any public assembly. Indeed it was by no means my wish so to do: yet I did not like to confine myself from dancing at all; neither did I dare refuse this gentleman as I had done Mr. Lovel, and then, if any acquaintance should offer, accept him: and so, all these reasons combining, induced me to tell him-yet I blush to write it to you!-that I was already engaged; by which I meant to keep myself at liberty to a dance, or not, as matters should fall out.
Miss Mirvan was soon taken, and shortly after, a very stylish man who looked like he was around thirty came up to me and requested the honor of dancing with me. Maria’s partner was someone Mrs. Mirvan knew, as she had told us it was very inappropriate for young women to dance with strangers at public events. Honestly, I had no intention of doing so either, but I also didn’t want to miss out on dancing completely. I didn’t want to refuse this gentleman like I did Mr. Lovel, and then if someone I knew asked me later, I’d be in a bind. So, with all these thoughts in my mind, I told him—though it makes me blush to admit it—that I was already engaged, which I meant to keep myself free for a dance if the opportunity arose.
I suppose my consciousness betrayed my artifice, for he looked at me as if incredulous; and, instead of being satisfied with my answer and leaving me, according to my expectation, he walked at my side, and, with the greatest ease imaginable, began a conversation in the free style which only belongs to old and intimate acquaintance. But, what was most provoking, he asked me a thousand questions concerning the partner to whom I was engaged. And at last he said, “Is it really possible that a man whom you have honoured with your acceptance can fail to be at hand to profit from your goodness?”
I guess my thoughts gave away my act because he looked at me like he couldn’t believe it; instead of accepting my answer and leaving, as I expected, he walked alongside me and casually started a conversation in the relaxed way that only comes with old friends. But what was most irritating was that he fired off a ton of questions about the person I was engaged to. Finally, he asked, “Is it really possible that a man you’ve chosen would not be around to take advantage of your kindness?”
I felt extremely foolish; and begged Mrs. Mirvan to lead to a seat; which she very obligingly did. The Captain sat next her; and to my great surprise, this gentleman thought proper to follow, and seat himself next to me.
I felt really foolish and asked Mrs. Mirvan to show me to a seat, which she kindly did. The Captain sat next to her, and to my surprise, this guy decided to follow and sit next to me.
“What an insensible!” continued he; “why, Madam, you are missing the most delightful dance in the world!-The man must be either mad or a fool-Which do you incline to think him yourself?”
“What an insensitive person!” he continued. “Honestly, ma’am, you’re missing out on the most amazing dance in the world! That guy must be either crazy or foolish—what do you think?”
“Neither, Sir,” answered I, in some confusion.
“Not at all, Sir,” I replied, feeling a bit confused.
He begged my pardon for the freedom of his supposition, saying, “I really was off my guard, from astonishment that any man can be so much and so unaccountably his own enemy. But where, Madam, can he possibly be!-has he left the room!-or has not he been in it?”
He apologized for assuming too much, saying, “I was really caught off guard; it's amazing how someone can be so much their own enemy without reason. But where, ma’am, could he possibly be? Has he left the room? Or has he not been here at all?”
“Indeed, Sir,” said I peevishly, “I know nothing of him.”
“Sure, Sir,” I replied irritably, “I don’t know anything about him.”
“I don’t wonder that you are disconcerted, Madam; it is really very provoking. The best part of the evening will be absolutely lost. He deserves not that you should wait for him.”
“I can understand why you’re feeling unsettled, Madam; it’s really quite frustrating. The best part of the evening will definitely be wasted. He doesn’t deserve for you to wait for him.”
“I do not, Sir,” said I, “and I beg you not to-”
“I don’t, Sir,” I said, “and I ask you not to-”
“Mortifying, indeed, Madam,” interrupted he, “a lady to wait for a gentleman!-O fie!-careless fellow!-What can detain him?-Will you give me leave to seek him?”
“Really embarrassing, Madam,” he interrupted, “a lady waiting for a gentleman! Oh come on! What a careless guy! What could be holding him up? Can I go look for him?”
“If you please, Sir,” answered I; quite terrified lest Mrs. Mirvan should attend to him; for she looked very much surprised at seeing me enter into conversation with a stranger.
“If you please, Sir,” I replied, feeling really scared that Mrs. Mirvan might notice him, as she seemed quite surprised to see me talking to a stranger.
“With all my heart,” cried he; “pray, what coat has he on?”
“With all my heart,” he exclaimed; “please, what coat is he wearing?”
“Indeed I never looked at it.”
“Honestly, I never looked at it.”
“Out upon him!” cried he; “What! did he address you in a coat not worth looking at?-What a shabby wretch!”
“Get away from him!” he shouted. “What! Did he talk to you while wearing a coat that’s not even worth noticing? What a pathetic loser!”
How ridiculous! I really could not help laughing, which I fear encouraged him, for he went on.
How ridiculous! I couldn't stop laughing, and I think that just encouraged him to keep talking.
“Charming creature!-and can you really bear ill usage with so much sweetness? Can you, like patience on a monument, smile in the midst of disappointment? For my part, though I am not the offended person, my indignation is so great, that I long to kick the fellow round the room!-unless, indeed,-(hesitating and looking earnestly at me,) unless, indeed,-it is a partner of your own creating?”
“Charming creature! - Can you really handle mistreatment with such sweetness? Can you, like a statue of patience, smile even when you're disappointed? For me, even though I'm not the one who's been wronged, my anger is so intense that I just want to kick that guy around the room! - Unless, of course, - (hesitating and looking seriously at me,) unless, of course, - it’s someone you created yourself?”
I was dreadfully abashed, and could not make an answer.
I was really embarrassed and couldn't respond.
“But no!” cried he (again, and with warmth,) “It cannot be that you are so cruel! Softness itself is painted in your eyes.-You could not, surely, have the barbarity so wantonly to trifle with my misery.”
“But no!” he exclaimed passionately, “It can't be that you're so heartless! Softness is reflected in your eyes. You couldn't possibly be so cruel as to play with my suffering like this.”
I turned away from this nonsense with real disgust, Mrs. Mirvan saw my confusion, but was perplexed what to think of it, and I could not explain to her the cause, lest the Captain should hear me. I therefore proposed to walk; she consented, and we all rose; but, would you believe it? this man had the assurance to rise too, and walk close by my side, as if of my party!
I turned away from this nonsense with real disgust. Mrs. Mirvan noticed my confusion but was unsure what to make of it, and I couldn’t explain the reason to her without the Captain overhearing. So, I suggested we take a walk; she agreed, and we all stood up. But can you believe it? This guy had the nerve to get up too and walk right next to me, as if he was part of our group!
“Now,” cried he, “I hope we shall see this ingrate.-Is that he?"-pointing to an old man who was lame, “or that?” And in this manner he asked me of whoever was old or ugly in the room. I made no sort of answer: and when he found that I was resolutely silent, and walked on as much as I could without observing him, he suddenly stamped his foot, and cried out in a passion, “Fool! idiot! booby!”
“Now,” he shouted, “I hope we’ll finally see this ingrate. Is that him?”—pointing to an old man who was sitting there, “or that?” As he spoke, he kept asking me about anyone old or unattractive in the room. I didn't respond at all, and when he noticed that I was firmly quiet and kept walking as if I didn't notice him, he suddenly stomped his foot and yelled in anger, “Fool! Idiot! Clown!”
I turned hastily toward him: “O, Madam,” continued he, “forgive my vehemence; but I am distracted to think there should exist a wretch who can slight a blessing for which I would forfeit my life!-O that I could but meet him, I would soon-But I grow angry: pardon me, Madam, my passions are violent, and your injuries affect me!”
I turned quickly toward him: “Oh, ma'am,” he said, “please forgive my intensity; I'm overwhelmed thinking that there might be someone who can take for granted a blessing for which I would give my life! Oh, if I could just meet that person, I would quickly—But I'm getting angry: forgive me, ma'am, my emotions are strong, and your hurt affects me!”
I began to apprehend he was a madman, and stared at him with the utmost astonishment. “I see you are moved, Madam,” said he; “generous creature!-but don’t be alarmed, I am cool again, I am indeed,-upon my soul I am;-I entreat you, most lovely of mortals! I intreat you to be easy.”
I started to realize he was crazy and looked at him in total disbelief. “I can see you’re affected, Madam,” he said. “What a generous soul you are! But don’t be scared, I’m calm now, really—I honestly am. I beg you, most beautiful of beings! I sincerely ask you to relax.”
“Indeed, Sir,” said I very seriously, “I must insist upon your leaving me; you are quite a stranger to me, and I am both unused, and averse to your language and your manners.”
“Absolutely, Sir,” I replied earnestly, “I have to insist that you leave me; you’re a complete stranger to me, and I’m both unaccustomed to and put off by your language and your behavior.”
This seemed to have some effect on him. He made me a low bow, begged my pardon, and vowed he would not for the world offend me.
This seemed to have some effect on him. He gave me a slight bow, apologized, and promised he would never intentionally upset me.
“Then, Sir, you must leave me,” cried I. “I am gone, Madam, I am gone!” with a most tragical air; and he marched away at a quick pace, out of sight in a moment; but before I had time to congratulate myself, he was again at my elbow.
“Then, Sir, you have to leave me,” I exclaimed. “I’m leaving, Madam, I’m leaving!” he said dramatically, and he walked away quickly, out of sight in an instant; but before I could even congratulate myself, he was suddenly right next to me again.
“And could you really let me go, and not be sorry?-Can you see me suffer torments inexpressible, and yet retain all your favour for that miscreant who flies you?-Ungrateful puppy!-I could bastinado him!”
“And could you really let me go without feeling sorry? Can you watch me suffer unimaginable pain and still keep all your affection for that scoundrel who abandons you? Ungrateful fool! I could beat him!”
“For Heaven’s sake, my dear,” cried Mrs. Mirvan, “who is he talking of?”
“For heaven’s sake, my dear,” exclaimed Mrs. Mirvan, “who is he talking about?”
“Indeed-I do not know, Madam,” said I; “but I wish he would leave me.”
“Honestly, I don’t know, ma’am,” I said; “but I wish he would just go away.”
“What’s all that there?” cried the Captain.
“What’s all that?” yelled the Captain.
The man made a low bow, and said, “Only, Sir, a slight objection which this young lady makes to dancing with me, and which I am endeavouring to obviate. I shall think myself greatly honoured if you will intercede for me.”
The man bowed slightly and said, “Sir, there’s just a minor issue that this young lady has with dancing with me, and I’m trying to work it out. I would be very grateful if you could help me with this.”
“That lady, Sir,” said the Captain coldly, “is her own mistress.” And he walked sullenly on.
“That lady, Sir,” the Captain said coldly, “is her own boss.” And he walked away, grumbling.
“You, Madam,” said the man (who looked delighted, to Mrs. Mirvan), “You, I hope, will have the goodness to speak for me.”
"You, ma'am," the man said, looking pleased as he addressed Mrs. Mirvan, "I hope you'll be kind enough to speak on my behalf."
“Sir,” answered she gravely, “I have not the pleasure of being acquainted with you.”
“Sir,” she replied seriously, “I don’t have the pleasure of knowing you.”
“I hope when you have, Ma’am,” cried he, undaunted, “you will honour me with your approbation: but, while I am yet unknown to you, it would be truly generous in you to countenance me; and I flatter myself, Madam, that you will not have cause to repent it.”
“I hope, Ma’am,” he exclaimed confidently, “that once you have, you’ll approve of me. But while you still don’t know me, it would be really generous of you to support me; and I believe, Madam, that you won’t regret it.”
Mrs. Mirvan, with an embarrassed air, replied, “I do not at all mean, Sir, to doubt your being a gentleman,-but-”
Mrs. Mirvan, looking embarrassed, replied, “I don't mean to doubt your being a gentleman, Sir, but—”
“But what, Madam?-that doubt removed, why a but?”
“But what, Madam? Now that doubt is gone, why still a ‘but’?”
“Well, Sir,” said Mrs. Mirvan (with a good humoured smile), “I will even treat you with your own plainness, and try what effect that will have on you: I must therefore tell you, once for all-”
“Well, Sir,” said Mrs. Mirvan (with a friendly smile), “I'll even respond to your straightforwardness and see how that affects you: I need to tell you, once and for all—”
“O pardon me, Madam!” interrupted he, eagerly, “you must not proceed with those words once for all; no, if I have been too plain, and though a man, deserve a rebuke, remember, dear ladies that if you copy, you ought in justice to excuse me.”
“O pardon me, Madam!” he interrupted eagerly, “you must not use those words anymore; no, if I have been too straightforward, and as a man, deserve a scolding, remember, dear ladies, that if you imitate, you should fairly excuse me.”
We both stared at the man’s strange behaviour.
We both looked at the man's odd behavior.
“Be nobler than your sex,” continued he, turning to me, “honour me with one dance, and give up the ingrate who has merited so ill your patience.”
“Be better than your gender,” he continued, turning to me, “honor me with a dance, and give up the ungrateful person who has treated your patience so poorly.”
Mrs. Mirvan looked with astonishment at us both.
Mrs. Mirvan stared at us in disbelief.
“Who does he speak of, my dear?-you never mentioned-”
“Who is he talking about, my dear? You never said anything about it.”
“O, Madam!” exclaimed he, “he was not worth mentioning-it is a pity he was ever though of; but let us forget his existence. One dance is all I solicit. Permit me, Madam, the honour of this young lady’s hand; it will be a favour I shall ever most gratefully acknowledge.”
“O, Madam!” he exclaimed, “he wasn’t worth mentioning—it’s a shame he was ever even thought of; but let’s forget he exists. All I ask for is one dance. Please allow me the honor of this young lady’s hand; it would be a favor I will always be truly grateful for.”
“Sir,” answered she, “favours and strangers have with me no connection.”
“Sir,” she replied, “I have no connection with favors and strangers.”
“If you have hitherto,” said he, “confined your benevolence to your intimate friends, suffer me to be the first for whom your charity is enlarged.”
“If you have so far,” he said, “kept your kindness limited to your close friends, let me be the first to benefit from your generosity.”
“Well, Sir, I know not what to say to you,-but-”
“Well, Sir, I’m not sure what to say to you, but—”
He stopt her but with so many urgent entreaties that she at last told me, I must either go down one dance, or avoid his importunities by returning home. I hesitated which alternative to chose; but this impetuous man at length prevailed, and I was obliged to consent to dance with him.
He stopped her but with so many urgent requests that she finally told me I had to either sit out one dance or avoid his persistent pleas by going home. I hesitated over which option to choose, but this passionate man won out in the end, and I had to agree to dance with him.
And thus was my deviation from truth punished; and thus did this man’s determined boldness conquer.
And so, my departure from the truth was punished; and this man’s unwavering courage triumphed.
During the dance, before we were too much engaged in it for conversation, he was extremely provoking about my partner, and tried every means in his power to make me own that I had deceived him; which, though I would not so far humble myself as to acknowledge, was indeed but too obvious.
During the dance, before we got too caught up in it to talk, he was really annoying about my partner and tried everything he could to make me admit that I had deceived him; which, although I refused to lower myself to acknowledge, was honestly way too obvious.
Lord Orville, I fancy, did not dance at all. He seemed to have a large acquaintance, and joined several different parties: but you will easily suppose, I was not much pleased to see him, in a few minutes after I was gone, walk towards the place I had just left, and bow to and join Mrs. Mirvan!
Lord Orville, I think, didn’t dance at all. He appeared to know a lot of people and mingled with various groups. But you can imagine, I wasn’t very happy to see him, just a few minutes after I left, walk over to the spot I had just vacated and greet and join Mrs. Mirvan!
How unlucky I thought myself, that I had not longer withstood this stranger’s importunities! The moment we had gone down the dance, I was hastening away from him; but he stopt me, and said, that I could by no means return to my party without giving offence, before we had done our duty of walking up the dance. As I know nothing at all of these rules and customs I was obliged to submit to his directions; but I fancy I looked rather uneasy, for he took notice of my inattention, saying, in his free way, “Whence that anxiety?-Why are those lovely eyes perpetually averted?”
How unlucky I thought I was that I hadn’t resisted this stranger’s persistence longer! As soon as we finished dancing, I tried to get away from him, but he stopped me and said I couldn't go back to my friends without causing offense until we had completed our duty of walking up the dance. Since I didn’t know anything about these rules and customs, I had to follow his instructions. I think I looked a bit uneasy, because he noticed my distraction and, in a casual way, said, “What’s with the worry? Why are those beautiful eyes always looking away?”
“I wish you would say no more to me, Sir,” cried I peevishly; “you have already destroyed all my happiness for this evening.”
“I wish you would stop talking to me, Sir,” I said irritably; “you’ve already ruined my happiness for this evening.”
“Good Heaven! What is it I have done?-How have I merited this scorn?”
“Good grief! What have I done? How did I deserve this disdain?”
“You have tormented me to death; you have forced me from my friends, and intruded yourself upon me, against my will, for a partner.”
“You have completely tormented me; you've driven me away from my friends, and you've intruded yourself into my life, against my wishes, as a partner.”
“Surely, my dear Madam, we ought to be better friends, since there seems to be something of sympathy in the frankness of our dispositions.-And yet, were you not an angel-how do you think I could brooke such contempt?”
“Surely, my dear Madam, we should be better friends, since there seems to be a mutual understanding in the openness of our personalities. And yet, if you weren’t an angel, how do you think I could tolerate such disdain?”
“If I have offended you,” cried I, “you have but to leave me-and O how I wish you would!”
“If I’ve upset you,” I exclaimed, “all you have to do is walk away—and I truly wish you would!”
“My dear creature,” said he, half laughing, “why where could you be educated?”
“My dear creature,” he said, laughing a bit, “where on earth could you have been educated?”
“Where I most sincerely wish I now was!”
“Where I really wish I was right now!”
“How conscious you must be, all beautiful that you are, that those charming airs serve only to heighten the bloom of your complexion!”
“How aware you must be, being as beautiful as you are, that those lovely charms only enhance the glow of your skin!”
“Your freedom, Sir, where you are more acquainted, may perhaps be less disagreeable; but to me -”
“Your freedom, Sir, where you know better, might be less uncomfortable; but for me -”
“You do me justice,” cried he, interrupting me, “yes, I do indeed improve upon acquaintance; you will hereafter be quite charmed with me.”
"You give me credit," he exclaimed, cutting me off, "yes, I really do get better as you get to know me; you'll find me quite charming from now on."
“Hereafter, Sir, I hope I shall never-”
“From now on, Sir, I hope I will never-”
“O hush!-hush!-have you forgot the situation in which I found you?-Have you forgot, that when deserted, I pursued you,-when betrayed, I adored you?-but for me-”
“O hush!-hush!-have you forgotten the situation I found you in?-Have you forgotten that when you were abandoned, I chased after you,-when you were betrayed, I adored you?-but for me-”
“But for you, Sir, I might perhaps have been happy.”
“But for you, Sir, I might have been happy.”
“What then, am I to conclude that, but for me, your partner would have appeared?-poor fellow!-and did my presence awe him?”
“What am I supposed to conclude then? That if it weren’t for me, your partner would have shown up—poor guy!—and did my presence intimidate him?”
“I wish his presence, Sir, could awe you!”
“I wish his presence, Sir, could impress you!”
“His presence!-perhaps then you see him?”
“His presence! Maybe then you can see him?”
“Perhaps, Sir, I do,” cried I, quite wearied of his raillery.
“Maybe I do, sir,” I exclaimed, tired of his teasing.
“Where? Where?-for Heaven’s sake show me the wretch!”
“Where? Where? For heaven’s sake, show me the poor soul!”
“Wretch, Sir!”
"Poor thing, Sir!"
“O, a very savage!-a sneaking, shame-faced, despicable puppy!”
“O, a real savage! A sneaky, shameful, pathetic little pup!”
I know not what bewitched me-but my pride was hurt, and my spirits were tired, and-in short, I had the folly, looking at Lord Orville, to repeat, “Despicable, you think?”
I don't know what got into me—but my pride was hurt, and I was feeling exhausted. In short, I foolishly looked at Lord Orville and said, “Do you think I'm despicable?”
His eyes instantly followed mine; “Why, is that the gentleman?”
His eyes quickly met mine; “Oh, is that the guy?”
I made no answer; I could not affirm, and I would not deny:-for I hoped to be relieved from his teasing by his mistake.
I didn’t respond; I couldn’t say yes, and I wouldn’t say no—because I hoped his mistake would free me from his teasing.
The very moment we had done what he called our duty, I eagerly desired to return to Mrs. Mirvan.
The moment we finished what he called our duty, I was eager to return to Mrs. Mirvan.
“To your partner, I presume, Madam?” said he, very gravely.
“To your partner, I assume, madam?” he said very seriously.
This quite confounded me. I dreaded lest this mischievous man ignorant of his rank, should address himself to Lord Orville, and say something which might expose my artifice. Fool! to involve myself in such difficulties! I now feared what I had before wished; and therefore, to avoid Lord Orville, I was obliged myself to propose going down another dance, though I was ready to sink with shame while I spoke.
This completely confused me. I was worried that this troublesome guy, unaware of his status, might approach Lord Orville and say something that would reveal my trickery. How foolish of me to get myself into such a mess! I now feared what I had previously hoped for, and so, to steer clear of Lord Orville, I had to suggest going down to another dance, even though I felt utterly embarrassed while I did.
“But your partner, Ma’am?” said he, affecting a very solemn air, “perhaps he may resent my detaining you: if you will give me leave to ask his consent-”
“But your partner, Ma’am?” he said, putting on a very serious expression. “Maybe he won’t like that I’m keeping you here. If you’ll allow me to ask for his permission—”
“Not for the universe.”
"Not for the universe."
“Who is he, Madam?”
"Who is he, ma'am?"
I wished myself a hundred miles off. He repeated his question, “What is his name?”
I wished I were a hundred miles away. He asked again, “What’s his name?”
“Nothing-nobody-I don’t know-”
“Nothing, nobody, I don’t know.”
He assumed a most important solemnity: “How!-not know?-Give me leave, my dear Madam, to recommend this caution to you: Never dance in public with a stranger,-with one whose name you are unacquainted with,-who may be a mere adventurer,-a man of no character, consider to what impertinence you may expose yourself.”
He took on a serious tone: “What! You don’t know? Please, my dear Madam, let me advise you: Never dance in public with a stranger—someone whose name you don't know—who could be just a charlatan—a man with no reputation. Think about the trouble you might get yourself into.”
Was ever anything so ridiculous? I could not help laughing, in spite of my vexation.
Was anything ever so ridiculous? I couldn't help but laugh, even though I was frustrated.
At this instant, Mrs. Mirvan, followed by Lord Orville, walked up to us. You will easily believe it was not difficult for me to recover my gravity; but what was my consternation, when this strange man, destined to be the scourge of my artifice, exclaimed, “Ha! My Lord Orville!-I protest I did not know your Lordship. What can I say for my usurpation?-Yet, faith, my Lord, such a prize was not to be neglected.”
At that moment, Mrs. Mirvan, followed by Lord Orville, approached us. You can imagine it wasn't hard for me to regain my composure; but I was shocked when this unusual man, ready to ruin my plans, said, “Ha! My Lord Orville! I swear I didn't recognize you. What can I say about my act of taking over? Yet, honestly, my Lord, such a catch was too good to ignore.”
My shame and confusion were unspeakable. Who could have supposed or foreseen that this man knew Lord Orville? But falsehood is not more unjustifiable than unsafe.
My shame and confusion were beyond words. Who could have imagined or predicted that this man knew Lord Orville? But deception is not only wrong but also dangerous.
Lord Orville-well he might-looked all amazement.
Lord Orville—well, he could only look completely amazed.
“The philosophic coldness of your Lordship,” continued this odious creature, “every man is not endowed with. I have used my utmost endeavours to entertain this lady, though I fear without success; and your lordship will not be a little flattered, if acquainted with the difficulty which attended my procuring the honour of only one dance.” Then, turning to me, who was sinking with shame, while Lord Orville stood motionless, and Mrs. Mirvan astonished,-he suddenly seized my hand, saying, “Think, my Lord, what must be my reluctance to resign this fair hand to your Lordship!”
“The cold detachment of your Lordship,” continued this wretched person, “is something not every man possesses. I’ve done my best to entertain this lady, though I fear it hasn’t worked; and your Lordship would be quite flattered if you knew the challenge I faced just to secure the honor of one dance.” Then, turning to me, feeling embarrassed while Lord Orville stood still, and Mrs. Mirvan looked shocked, he suddenly grabbed my hand, saying, “Imagine, my Lord, how reluctant I must be to give up this lovely hand to your Lordship!”
In the same instant, Lord Orville took it of him; I coloured violently, and made an effort to recover it. “You do me too much honour, Sir,” cried he, (with an air of gallantry, pressing it to his lips before he let it go;) “however, I shall be happy to profit by it, if this lady,” turning to Mrs. Mirvan, “will permit me to seek for her party.”
In that moment, Lord Orville took it from him; I blushed intensely and tried to get it back. “You give me too much credit, Sir,” he said, with a charming gesture, pressing it to his lips before releasing it; “but I’d be glad to take advantage of it, if this lady,” turning to Mrs. Mirvan, “allows me to look for her group.”
To compel him thus to dance, I could not endure; and eagerly called out, “By no means-not for the world!-I must beg-”
To force him to dance like that, I couldn't stand it; so I called out urgently, “No way—not for anything! I have to ask—”
“Will you honour me, Madam, with your commands,” cried my tormentor; “may I seek the lady’s party?”
“Will you do me the honor, ma'am, by giving me your instructions?” my tormentor asked. “May I join the lady’s group?”
“No, Sir,” answered I, turning from him.
“No, sir,” I replied, turning away from him.
“What shall be done, my dear?” said Mrs. Mirvan.
“What should we do, my dear?” said Mrs. Mirvan.
“Nothing, Ma’am;-anything, I mean-”
"Nothing, Ma'am; I mean anything-"
“But do you dance, or not? you see his Lordship waits.”
“But do you dance, or not? You see, his Lordship is waiting.”
“I hope not-I beg that-I would not for the world-I am sure I ought to-to-”
“I hope not—I really hope not—I wouldn’t do that for anything—I’m sure I should—”
I could not speak; but that confident man, determining to discover whether or not I had deceived him, said to Lord Orville, who stood suspended, “My Lord, this affair, which at present seems perplexed, I will briefly explain:-this lady proposed to me another dance,-nothing could have made me more happy,-I only wished for your Lordship’s permission; which, if now granted, will, I am persuaded, set everything right.”
I couldn't speak; but that confident guy, wanting to find out if I had tricked him, said to Lord Orville, who was standing there in suspense, “My Lord, this situation, which seems complicated right now, I'll explain quickly: this lady asked me for another dance—nothing would make me happier—I just wanted your Lordship’s permission; if you grant it now, I’m sure everything will be fine.”
I glowed with indignation. “No, Sir-it is your absence, and that alone, can set everything right.”
I was filled with anger. “No, Sir—it’s your absence, and that alone, can fix everything.”
“For Heaven’s sake, my dear,” cried Mrs. Mirvan, who could no longer contain her surprise, “what does all this mean?-were you pre-engaged?-had Lord Orville-”
“For heaven’s sake, my dear,” cried Mrs. Mirvan, who could no longer contain her surprise, “what does all this mean? Were you engaged? Had Lord Orville—”
“No, Madam,” cried I, “only-only I did not know that gentleman,-and so-and so I thought-I intended-I-”
“No, Ma'am,” I exclaimed, “it’s just that I didn’t know that guy, and so I thought—I meant to—”
Overpowered by all that had passed, I had not strength to make my mortifying explanation;-my spirits quite failed me, and I burst into tears.
Overwhelmed by everything that had happened, I didn't have the strength to give my embarrassing explanation; my emotions completely gave way, and I started crying.
They all seemed shocked and amazed.
They all looked shocked and amazed.
“What is the matter, my dearest love?” cried Mrs. Mirvan, with kindest concern.
“What’s wrong, my dearest love?” exclaimed Mrs. Mirvan, with the utmost care.
“What have I done!” exclaimed my evil genius, and ran officiously for a glass of water.
“What have I done!” my evil genius exclaimed, rushing to get a glass of water.
However, a hint was sufficient for Lord Orville, who comprehended all I would have explained. He immediately led me to a seat, and said in a low voice, “Be not distressed, I beseech you: I shall ever think my name honoured by your making use of it.”
However, a hint was enough for Lord Orville, who understood everything I didn’t say. He quickly guided me to a seat and said in a quiet voice, “Please don’t be upset, I beg you: I will always feel honored that you use my name.”
This politeness relieved me. A general murmur had alarmed Miss Mirvan, who flew instantly to me; while Lord Orville the moment Mrs. Mirvan had taken the water, led my tormentor away.
This politeness put me at ease. A general murmur had worried Miss Mirvan, who immediately rushed to my side; while Lord Orville, as soon as Mrs. Mirvan had taken the water, took my tormentor away.
“For Heaven’s sake, dear Madam,” cried I, “let me go home;-indeed I cannot stay here any longer.”
“For heaven's sake, dear Madam,” I exclaimed, “please let me go home; I really can't stay here any longer.”
“Let us all go,” cried my kind Maria.
“Let’s all go,” shouted my dear Maria.
“But the Captain, what will he say-I had better go home in a chair.”
“But what will the Captain say? I should probably just go home in a chair.”
Mrs. Mirvan consented, and I rose to depart. Lord Orville and that man both came to me. The first, with an attention I but ill-merited from him, led me to a chair; while the other followed, pestering me with apologies. I wished to have made mine to Lord Orville, but was too much ashamed.
Mrs. Mirvan agreed, and I stood up to leave. Lord Orville and that guy both walked over to me. Lord Orville, with a kindness I didn't really deserve, guided me to a chair; while the other one trailed behind, annoying me with his apologies. I wanted to apologize to Lord Orville, but I was too embarrassed.
It was about one o’clock. Mrs. Mirvan’s servants saw me home.
It was about one o’clock. Mrs. Mirvan’s staff walked me home.
And now,-what again shall ever tempt me to an assembly? I dread to hear what you will think of me, my most dear and honoured Sir: you will need your utmost partiality to receive me without displeasure.
And now, what could ever convince me to go to a gathering again? I'm anxious about what you'll think of me, my dearest and most respected Sir: you'll need to be really fair-minded to accept me without any irritation.
This morning Lord Orville has sent to inquire after our health; and Sir Clement Willoughby, for that, I find, is the name of my persecutor, has called; but I would not go down stairs till he was gone.
This morning, Lord Orville checked in on our health; and Sir Clement Willoughby, which I’ve learned is the name of my tormentor, came by, but I didn’t want to go downstairs until he left.
And now, my dear Sir, I can somewhat account for the strange, provoking, and ridiculous conduct of this Sir Clement last night; for Miss Mirvan says he is the very man with whom she heard Lord Orville conversing at Mrs. Stanley’s, when I was spoken of in so mortifying a manner. He was pleased to say he was glad to hear I was a fool; and therefore, I suppose, he concluded he might talk as much nonsense as he pleased to me: however, I am very indifferent as to his opinion;-but for Lord Orville,-if then he thought me an idiot, now, I am sure, he must suppose me both bold and presuming. Make use of his name!-what impertinence-he can never know how it happened,-he can only imagine it was from an excess of vanity;-well, however, I shall leave this bad city to-morrow, and never again will I enter it.
And now, my dear Sir, I can somewhat explain the strange, annoying, and ridiculous behavior of Sir Clement last night; Miss Mirvan told me he is the same guy she saw talking to Lord Orville at Mrs. Stanley’s when I was mentioned in such an embarrassing way. He arrogantly said he was glad to hear I was a fool; so, I guess he thought he could say whatever nonsense he wanted to me. Honestly, I don’t really care what he thinks; but as for Lord Orville—if he thought I was an idiot then, I’m sure he must see me as both bold and presumptuous now. Using his name—what arrogance! He can never know how it happened; he can only assume it was out of extreme vanity. Anyway, I’m leaving this terrible city tomorrow, and I will never come back.
The Captain intends to take us to-night to the Fantoccini. I cannot bear that Captain; I can give you no idea how gross he is. I heartily rejoice that he was not present at the disagreeable conclusion of yesterday’s adventure, for I am sure he would have contributed to my confusion; which might, perhaps, have diverted him, as he seldom or never smiles but at some other person’s expense.
The Captain plans to take us to the puppet show tonight. I really can’t stand that Captain; I can’t even begin to describe how crude he is. I’m truly glad he wasn’t around for the unpleasant ending of yesterday’s adventure because I know he would have added to my embarrassment, which might have entertained him since he hardly ever smiles unless it’s at someone else’s expense.
And here I conclude my London letters,-and without any regret; for I am too inexperienced and ignorant to conduct myself with propriety in this town, where everything is new to me, and many things are unaccountable and perplexing.
And here I wrap up my London letters—without any regret; because I'm too inexperienced and naive to behave properly in this city, where everything feels new to me, and a lot of things are confusing and hard to understand.
Adieu, my dear Sir; Heaven restore me safely to you! I wish I was to go immediately to Berry Hill; yet the wish is ungrateful to Mrs. Mirvan, and therefore I will repress it. I shall write an account of the Fantoccini from Howard Grove. We have not been to half the public places that are now open, though I dare say you will think we have been to all. But they are almost as innumerable as the persons who fill them.
Goodbye, my dear Sir; may Heaven bring me back to you safely! I wish I could go straight to Berry Hill; however, that thought feels ungrateful to Mrs. Mirvan, so I’ll hold back. I’ll write to you about the Fantoccini from Howard Grove. We haven't been to half the public places that are open now, even though I’m sure you’ll think we’ve visited them all. But there are almost as many as the people who fill them.
LETTER XIV - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. Queen Ann Street, April 13.
HOW much will you be surprised, my dearest Sir, at receiving another letter, from London, of your Evelina’s writing! But, believe me, it was not my fault, neither is it my happiness, that I am still here: our journey has been postponed by an accident equally unexpected and disagreeable.
HOW much will you be surprised, my dearest Sir, at receiving another letter from London, written by your Evelina! But, believe me, it wasn't my fault, nor is it my joy, that I'm still here: our trip has been delayed by an equally unexpected and unpleasant accident.
We went last night to see the Fantoccini, where we had infinite entertainment from the performance of a little comedy in French and Italian, by puppets, so admirably managed, that they both astonished and diverted us all, except the Captain, who has a fixed and most prejudiced hatred of whatever is not English.
We went last night to see the puppet show, where we had a great time watching a little comedy in French and Italian, performed by puppets that were so skillfully handled that they amazed and entertained everyone, except for the Captain, who has a strong and biased dislike for anything that isn't English.
When it was over, while we waited for the coach, a tall elderly woman brushed quickly past us, calling out, “My God, what shall I do?”
When it was over, while we waited for the coach, a tall elderly woman quickly passed by us, shouting, “Oh my God, what am I going to do?”
“Why, what would you do?” cried the Captain.
“Why, what would you do?” exclaimed the Captain.
“Ma foi, Monsieur,” answered she, “I have lost my company, and in this place I don’t know nobody.”
"Well, sir," she replied, "I've lost my group, and I don't know anyone here."
There was something foreign in her accent, though it was difficult to discover whether she was an English or a French woman. She was very well dressed; and seemed so entirely at a loss what to do, that Mrs. Mirvan proposed to the Captain to assist her.
There was something unusual about her accent, though it was hard to tell if she was English or French. She was dressed very well and looked so completely unsure of what to do that Mrs. Mirvan suggested to the Captain that they help her.
“Assist her!” cried he, “ay, with all my heart;-let a link-boy call her a coach.”
“Help her!” he shouted, “yes, with all my heart; let a lamp-lighter call her a cab.”
There was not one to be had, and it rained very fast.
There wasn't one available, and it rained heavily.
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the stranger, “what shall become of me? Je suis au desespoir!”
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed the stranger, “what will happen to me? I am in despair!”
“Dear Sir,” cried Miss Mirvan, “pray let us take the poor lady into our coach. She is quite alone, and a foreigner-”
“Dear Sir,” exclaimed Miss Mirvan, “please let us take the poor lady into our coach. She is all alone and a foreigner—”
“She’s never the better for that,” answered he: “she may be a woman of the town, for anything you know.”
"That won’t make her any better," he replied. "She could be a woman of the street, for all you know."
“She does not appear such,” said Mrs. Mirvan; “and indeed she seems so much distressed, that we shall but follow the golden rule, if we carry her to her lodgings.”
“She doesn't seem like that,” said Mrs. Mirvan; “and she looks so upset that it would be best if we took her back to her place.”
“You are mighty fond of new acquaintance,” returned he; “but first let us know if she be going our way.”
"You really like meeting new people," he replied; "but let's find out first if she's going in our direction."
Upon inquiry, we found that she lived in Oxford Road; and, after some disputing, the Captain surlily, and, with a very bad grace, consented to admit her into his coach; though he soon convinced us, that he was determined she should not be too much obliged to him, for he seemed absolutely bent upon quarrelling with her: for which strange inhospitality I can assign no other reason, than that she appeared to be a foreigner.
Upon asking, we learned that she lived on Oxford Road; and after some arguing, the Captain reluctantly agreed to let her into his coach. However, he soon made it clear that he wasn’t going to make her feel too grateful, as he seemed hell-bent on picking a fight with her. I can't think of any other reason for this strange unfriendliness than that she looked like a foreigner.
The conversation began, by her telling us, that she had been in England only two days; that the gentlemen belonging to her were Parisians, and had left her to see for a hackney-coach, as her own carriage was abroad; and that she had waited for them till she was quite frightened, and concluded that they had lost themselves.
The conversation started with her telling us that she had been in England for just two days; that the men she was with were from Paris and had left her to find a cab since her own carriage was away; and that she had waited for them until she became really worried and thought they must have gotten lost.
“And pray,” said the Captain, “why did you go to a public place without an Englishman?”
“And please,” said the Captain, “why did you go to a public place without an Englishman?”
“Ma foi, Sir,” answered she, “because none of my acquaintance is in town.”
"Well, Sir," she replied, "because none of my friends are in town."
“Why then,” said he, “I’ll tell you what, your best way is to go out of it yourself.”
“Why then,” he said, “I’ll tell you what, your best move is to walk away from it yourself.”
“Pardi, Monsieur,” returned she, “and so I shall; for, I promise you, I think the English a parcel of brutes; and I’ll go back to France as fast as I can, for I would not live among none of you.”
“Sure, Mister,” she replied, “and I will; because, I swear, I think the English are a bunch of animals; and I’ll get back to France as quickly as I can, because I wouldn’t want to live among any of you.”
“Who wants you?” cried the Captain: “do you suppose, Madam French, we have not enough of other nations to pick our pockets already? I’ll warrant you, there’s no need for you for to put in your oar.”
“Who wants you?” shouted the Captain. “Do you think, Madam French, that we don’t have enough people from other nations to rob us already? I assure you, there’s no reason for you to get involved.”
“Pick your pockets, Sir! I wish nobody wanted to pick your pockets no more than I do; and I’ll promise you you’d be safe enough. But there’s no nation under the sun can beat the English for ill-politeness: for my part, I hate the very sight of them; and so I shall only just visit a person of quality or two of my particular acquaintance, and then I shall go back again to France.”
“Watch out for pickpockets, sir! I wish nobody wanted to rob you any more than I do, and I promise you’d be just fine. But there’s no country in the world that can match the English for rudeness: I can't stand the sight of them; so I’ll just visit a couple of well-connected people I know, and then I’m heading back to France.”
“Ay, do,” cried he; “and then go to the devil together, for that’s the fittest voyage for the French and the quality.”
“Yeah, do it,” he shouted; “and then head to hell together, because that’s the best trip for the French and the elite.”
“We’ll take care, however,” cried the stranger with great vehemence, “not to admit none of your vulgar unmannered English among us.”
“We’ll be careful, though,” shouted the stranger passionately, “not to let any of your rude, unsophisticated English into our company.”
“O never fear,” returned he, coolly, “we shan’t dispute the point with you; you and the quality may have the devil all to yourselves.”
“O don't worry,” he replied casually, “we won't argue with you; you and your kind can have the devil all to yourselves.”
Desirous of changing the subject of a conversation which now became very alarming, Miss Mirvan called out, “Lord, how slow the man drives!”
Wanting to change the subject of a conversation that was becoming quite concerning, Miss Mirvan exclaimed, “Wow, this guy drives so slowly!”
“Never mind, Moll,” said her father, “I’ll warrant you he’ll drive fast enough to-morrow, when you are going to Howard Grove.”
“Don’t worry, Moll,” her father said, “I’m sure he’ll drive fast enough tomorrow when you’re going to Howard Grove.”
“To Howard Grove!” exclaimed the stranger, “why, mon Dieu, do you know Lady Howard?”
“To Howard Grove!” shouted the stranger, “Wow, do you know Lady Howard?”
“Why, what if we do?” answered he; “that’s nothing to you; she’s none of your quality, I’ll promise you.”
“Why, what if we do?” he replied. “That’s not your concern; she’s not your type, I assure you.”
“Who told you that?” cried she; “you don’t know nothing about the matter! besides, you’re the ill-bredest person ever I see: and as to your knowing Lady Howard, I don’t believe no such a thing; unless, indeed, you are her steward.”
“Who told you that?” she exclaimed. “You don’t know anything about it! Plus, you’re the rudest person I’ve ever seen. As for knowing Lady Howard, I don’t believe that at all; unless, of course, you’re her steward.”
The Captain, swearing terribly, said, with great fury, “You would much sooner be taken for her wash-woman.”
The Captain, cursing loudly, exclaimed in a fit of rage, “You’d be much more likely seen as her laundry lady.”
“Her wash-woman, indeed?-Ha, ha, ha, why you han’t no eyes; did you ever see a wash-woman in such a gown as this?-Besides, I’m no such mean person, for I’m as good as Lady Howard, and as rich too; and besides, I’m now come to England to visit her.”
“Her laundress, really? Ha, ha, ha, do you not have eyes? Have you ever seen a laundress in a dress like this? Besides, I’m no ordinary person; I’m just as good as Lady Howard, and just as wealthy too. And by the way, I’ve come to England to visit her.”
“You may spare yourself that there trouble,” said the Captain, “she has paupers enough about her already.”
“You can save yourself that trouble,” said the Captain, “she already has plenty of poor people around her.”
“Paupers, Mister!-no more a pauper than yourself, nor so much neither;-but you are a low, dirty fellow, and I shan’t stoop to take no more notice of you.”
“Beggar, mister! You're no more of a beggar than you are, not even close; but you’re a filthy, scummy person, and I’m not going to lower myself to acknowledge you anymore.”
“Dirty fellow!” exclaimed the Captain, seizing both her wrists, “hark you, Mrs. Frog, you’d best hold your tongue; for I must make bold to tell you, if you don’t, that I shall make no ceremony of tripping you out of the window, and there you may lie in the mud till some of your Monseers come to help you out of it.”
“Filthy creature!” shouted the Captain, grabbing both her wrists. “Listen up, Mrs. Frog, you’d better keep quiet; because I’ll be bold enough to say that if you don’t, I won’t think twice about throwing you out of the window, and you'll be left in the mud until some of your gentlemen come to pull you out.”
Their increasing passion quite terrified us; and Mrs. Mirvan was beginning to remonstrate with the Captain, when we were all silenced by what follows.
Their growing enthusiasm really scared us; and Mrs. Mirvan was about to argue with the Captain when we were all quieted by what happened next.
“Let me go, villain that you are, let me go, or I’ll promise you I’ll get you put to prison for this usage. I’m no common person, I assure you; and, ma foi, I’ll go to Justice Fielding about you; for I’m a person of fashion, and I’ll make you know it, or my name a’n’t Duval.”
“Let me go, you villain, let me go, or I promise I’ll have you thrown in jail for this. I’m not just anyone, I swear; and, trust me, I’ll go to Justice Fielding about you because I’m a person of importance, and I’ll make sure you know it, or my name isn’t Duval.”
I heard no more: amazed, frightened, and unspeakably shocked, an involuntary exclamation of Gracious Heaven! escaped me, and, more dead than alive, I sunk into Mrs. Mirvan’s arms. But let me draw a veil over a scene too cruel for a heart so compassionately tender as your’s; it is sufficient that you know this supposed foreigner proved to be Madame Duval,-the grandmother of your Evelina!
I couldn't take it anymore: shocked, scared, and utterly stunned, an involuntary gasp of "Oh my God!" escaped me, and feeling more dead than alive, I collapsed into Mrs. Mirvan’s arms. But let me gloss over a moment too harsh for a heart as kind as yours; it's enough for you to know that this supposed foreigner turned out to be Madame Duval—the grandmother of your Evelina!
O, Sir, to discover so near a relation in a woman, who had thus introduced herself!-what would become of me, were it not for you, my protector, my friend, and my refuge?
O, Sir, to find such a close connection in a woman who had introduced herself like this! What would happen to me if it weren't for you, my protector, my friend, and my safe haven?
My extreme concern, and Mrs. Mirvan’s surprise, immediately betrayed me. But, I will not shock you with the manner of her acknowledging me, or the bitterness, the grossness -I cannot otherwise express myself,-with which she spoke of those unhappy past transactions you have so pathetically related to me. All the misery of a much injured parent, dear, though never seen, regretted, though never known, crowded so forcibly upon my memory, that they rendered this interview-one only excepted-the most afflicting I can ever know.
My deep concern, along with Mrs. Mirvan’s shock, gave me away. But I won't get into how she reacted to me or the harsh, unpleasant way she talked about those painful past events you’ve shared with me so movingly. All the heartbreak of a parent I never met, grieved for even though I didn’t know them, flooded my mind so intensely that this meeting—except for one other—was the most painful I could ever experience.
When we stopt at her lodgings, she desired me to accompany her into the house, and said she could easily procure a room for me to sleep in. Alarmed and trembling, I turned to Mrs. Mirvan. “My daughter, Madam,” said that sweet woman, “cannot so abruptly part with her young friend; you must allow a little time to wean them from each other.”
When we stopped at her place, she asked me to come inside and mentioned that she could easily get a room for me to sleep in. Feeling alarmed and trembling, I turned to Mrs. Mirvan. “My daughter, ma'am,” said that lovely woman, “can’t just suddenly say goodbye to her young friend; you need to give them a little time to adjust to being apart.”
“Pardon me, Ma’am,” answered Madame Duval, (who, from the time of her being known, somewhat softened her manners) “Miss can’t possibly be so nearly connected to this child as I am.”
“Excuse me, Ma’am,” replied Madame Duval, (who, since becoming known, had somewhat softened her demeanor) “Miss can’t possibly be as closely connected to this child as I am.”
“No matter for that,” cried the Captain, (who espoused my cause to satisfy his own pique, tho’ an awkward apology had passed between them) “she was sent to us; and so, dy’e see, we don’t choose for to part with her.”
“No worries about that,” shouted the Captain, (who took up my cause to satisfy his own annoyance, even though a clumsy apology had been exchanged between them) “she was sent to us; and so, you see, we don’t want to let her go.”
I promised to wait upon her at what time she pleased the next day; and, after a short debate, she desired me to breakfast with her, and we proceeded to Queen Ann Street.
I promised to wait for her at whatever time she wanted the next day; and after a brief discussion, she asked me to have breakfast with her, and we headed to Queen Ann Street.
What an unfortunate adventure! I could not close my eyes the whole night. A thousand times I wished I had never left Berry Hill: however, my return thither shall be accelerated to the utmost of my power; and, once more in that abode of tranquil happiness, I will suffer no temptation to allure me elsewhere.
What a disappointing adventure! I couldn't sleep at all that night. A thousand times, I wished I had never left Berry Hill; however, I will do everything I can to get back there as quickly as possible, and once I'm back in that peaceful home, I won't let anything tempt me to go anywhere else.
Mrs. Mirvan was so kind as to accompany me to Madame Duval’s house this morning. The Captain, too, offered his service; which I declined, from a fear she should suppose I meant to insult her.
Mrs. Mirvan was kind enough to go with me to Madame Duval’s house this morning. The Captain also offered his help, but I declined because I was afraid she might think I intended to insult her.
She frowned most terribly upon Mrs. Mirvan; but she received me with as much tenderness as I believe she is capable of feeling. Indeed, our meeting seems really to have affected her; for when, overcome by the variety of emotions which the sight of her occasioned, I almost fainted in her arms, she burst into tears, and said, “let me not lose my poor daughter a second time!” This unexpected humanity softened me extremely; but she very soon excited my warmest indignation, by the ungrateful mention she made of the best of men, my dear and most generous benefactor. However, grief and anger mutually gave way to terror, upon her avowing the intention of her visiting England was to make me return with her to France. This, she said, was a plan she had formed from the instant she had heard of my birth; which, she protested, did not reach her ears till I must have been twelve years of age; but Monsieur Duval, who she declared was the worst husband in the world, would not permit her to do any thing she wished: he had been dead but three months; which had been employed in arranging certain affairs, that were no sooner settled, than she set off for England. She was already out of mourning, for she said nobody here could tell how long she had been a widow.
She frowned terribly at Mrs. Mirvan, but she welcomed me with as much warmth as she was capable of feeling. In fact, our meeting seemed to really impact her; when I was nearly overcome by the mix of emotions seeing her stirred up and almost fainted in her arms, she broke down in tears and said, “I can’t lose my poor daughter again!” This unexpected kindness softened me immensely; however, she quickly stirred my deepest anger by the ungrateful way she spoke of the best of men, my dear and generous benefactor. Yet, grief and anger were overshadowed by fear when she declared that her reason for visiting England was to make me return with her to France. She said this was a plan she had made the moment she heard of my birth, which she claimed she didn’t find out about until I was twelve years old. But Monsieur Duval, who she insisted was the worst husband in the world, wouldn’t allow her to do anything she wanted. He had only been dead for three months, and in that time, she had been busy settling certain affairs. As soon as everything was taken care of, she headed to England. She was already out of mourning, saying that nobody here could know how long she had been a widow.
She must have been married very early in life: what her age is I do not know; but she really looks to be less than fifty. She dresses very gaily, paints very high, and the traces of former beauty are still very visible in her face.
She must have gotten married really young: I’m not sure how old she is, but she honestly looks under fifty. She dresses very brightly, wears a lot of makeup, and you can still see signs of her past beauty on her face.
I know not when, or how, this visit would have ended, had not the Captain called for Mrs. Mirvan, and absolutely insisted upon my attending her. He is become, very suddenly, so warmly my friend, that I quite dread his officiousness. Mrs. Mirvan, however, whose principal study seems to be healing those wounds which her husband inflicts, appeased Madame Duval’s wrath, by a very polite invitation to drink tea and spend the evening here. Not without great difficulty was the Captain prevailed upon to defer his journey some time longer; but what could be done? It would have been indecent for me to have quitted town the very instant I discovered that Madame Duval was in it; and to have staid here solely under her protection-Mrs. Mirvan, thank Heaven, was too kind for such a thought. That she should follow us to Howard Grove, I almost equally dreaded. It is therefore determined, that we remain in London for some days, or a week: though the Captain has declared that the old French hag, as he is pleased to call her, shall fare never the better for it.
I don’t know when or how this visit would have ended if the Captain hadn’t called for Mrs. Mirvan and insisted that I attend her. He has suddenly become such a close friend that I dread his over-eagerness. Mrs. Mirvan, whose main focus seems to be healing the wounds caused by her husband, calmed Madame Duval’s anger by politely inviting her to drink tea and spend the evening with us. It took a lot of effort to convince the Captain to delay his journey for a bit longer, but what could be done? It would have been inappropriate for me to leave town the moment I found out Madame Duval was here, and staying only under her protection—thank goodness Mrs. Mirvan was too kind to consider that. I also almost dreaded the thought of her following us to Howard Grove. So, we’ve decided to stay in London for a few days, maybe a week; although the Captain has said that the old French hag, as he calls her, won’t benefit from it at all.
My only hope is to get safe to Berry Hill; where, counselled and sheltered by you, I shall have nothing more to fear. Adieu, my ever dear and most honoured Sir! I shall have no happiness till I am again with you.
My only hope is to make it safely to Berry Hill; where, guided and protected by you, I won’t have anything else to worry about. Goodbye, my dearest and most respected Sir! I won’t feel happy until I’m with you again.
LETTER XV - MR. VILLARS TO EVELINA Berry Hill, April 16.
IN the belief and hope that my Evelina would, ere now, have bid adieu to London, I had intended to have deferred writing, till I heard of her return to Howard Grove; but the letter I have this moment received, with intelligence of Madame Duval’s arrival in England, demands an immediate answer.
IN the belief and hope that my Evelina would have already said goodbye to London, I intended to wait to write until I heard about her return to Howard Grove; however, the letter I just received, informing me of Madame Duval’s arrival in England, requires an immediate response.
Her journey hither equally grieves and alarms me. How much did I pity my child, when I read of a discovery at once so unexpected and unwished! I have long dreaded this meeting and its consequence; to claim you seems naturally to follow acknowledging you. I am well acquainted with her disposition, and have for many years foreseen the contest which now threatens us.
Her journey here both saddens and worries me. I felt so sorry for my child when I read about a discovery that was so unexpected and unwanted! I've been dreading this meeting and what will come of it; acknowledging you naturally leads to claiming you. I know her personality well, and I've been anticipating the conflict that now faces us for many years.
Cruel as are the circumstances of this affair, you must not, my love, suffer it to depress your spirits: remember, that while life is lent me, I will devote it to your service; and, for future time, I will make such provisions as shall seem to me most conducive to your future happiness. Secure of my protection, and relying on my tenderness, let no apprehensions of Madame Duval disturb your peace: conduct yourself towards her with all the respect and deference due to so near a relation, remembering always, that the failure of duty on her part, can by no means justify any neglect on your’s. Indeed, the more forcibly you are struck with improprieties and misconduct in another, the greater should be your observance and diligence to avoid even the shadow of similar errors. Be careful, therefore, that no remissness of attention, no indifference of obliging, make known to her the independence I assure you of; but when she fixes the time for her leaving England, trust to me the task of refusing your attending her: disagreeable to myself, I own, it will be; yet to you it would be improper, if not impossible.
As difficult as this situation is, my love, don’t let it bring you down. Remember that as long as I’m alive, I’ll dedicate my life to you, and I’ll make plans that I believe will ensure your happiness in the future. With my protection and care, don’t let any worries about Madame Duval take away your peace: treat her with all the respect she deserves as a close relative. Always remember that her failure to act properly doesn’t excuse any neglect on your part. In fact, the more you notice someone else’s bad behavior, the more careful you should be to avoid making similar mistakes yourself. So, be careful not to let any lack of attention or indifference reveal the independence I promise you. When she sets a date to leave England, leave it to me to tell her that you won’t be going with her. I admit it will be uncomfortable for me, but it would be inappropriate, if not impossible, for you.
In regard to her opinion of me, I am more sorry than surprised at her determined blindness; the palliation which she feels the want of, for her own conduct, leads her to seek for failings in all who were concerned in those unhapppy transactions which she has so much reason to lament. And this, as it is the cause, so we must in some measure consider it as the excuse of her inveteracy.
Regarding her opinion of me, I feel more sorry than surprised by her stubborn refusal to see things clearly; her need to excuse her own behavior drives her to look for faults in everyone involved in those unfortunate events she has every reason to regret. And while this is the cause, we must also view it somewhat as the excuse for her deep-seated hostility.
How grateful to me are your wishes to return to Berry Hill! Your lengthened stay in London, and the dissipation in which I find you are involved, fill me with uneasiness. I mean not, however, that I would have you sequester yourself from the party to which you belong, since Mrs. Mirvan might thence infer a reproof which your youth and her kindness would render inexcusable. I will not, therefore, enlarge upon this subject; but content myself with telling you, that I shall heartily rejoice when I hear of your safe arrival at Howard Grove, for which place I hope you will be preparing at the time you receive this letter.
How grateful I am for your wishes to return to Berry Hill! Your extended stay in London and the distractions you're caught up in make me uneasy. However, I don't want you to isolate yourself from your group, since Mrs. Mirvan might take it as a criticism, which would be unfair given your age and her kindness. So, I won't dwell on this topic; instead, I'll just say that I will be really happy when I hear that you've arrived safely at Howard Grove, and I hope you’re getting ready for that by the time you read this letter.
I cannot too much thank you, my best Evelina, for the minuteness of your communications. Continue to me this indulgence, for I should be miserable if in ignorance of your proceedings.
I can't thank you enough, my dear Evelina, for the details you share with me. Please keep this up, as I would be really unhappy not knowing what you're up to.
How new to you is the scene of life in which you are engaged!-balls-plays-operas-ridottos!-Ah, my child! At your return hither, how will you bear the change? My heart trembles for your future tranquility.-Yet I will hope every thing from the unsullied whiteness of your soul, and the native liveliness of your disposition.
How new is the world of social life you’re a part of! Parties, plays, operas, gatherings! Ah, my child! When you come back here, how will you handle the change? I worry for your future peace of mind. Still, I will hope for everything from the pure goodness of your heart and the natural energy of your spirit.
I am sure I need not say, how much more I was pleased with the mistakes of your inexperience at the private ball, than with the attempted adoption of more fashionable manners at the ridotto. But your confusion and mortifications were such as to entirely silence all reproofs on my part.
I’m sure I don’t need to say how much more I appreciated your mistakes due to your inexperience at the private ball than your attempt to adopt more fashionable behavior at the ridotto. However, your embarrassment and discomfort were so great that it completely held me back from saying anything critical.
I hope you will see no more of Sir Clement Willoughby, whose conversation and boldness are extremely disgustful to me. I was gratified by the good nature of Lord Orville, upon your making use of his name; but I hope you will never again put it to such a trial.
I hope you won't have to deal with Sir Clement Willoughby anymore, as his conversation and arrogance really turn me off. I appreciated Lord Orville's kindness when you mentioned his name, but I hope you won't put him in that position again.
Heaven bless thee, my dear child! And grant that neither misfortune nor vice may ever rob thee of that gaiety of heart, which, resulting from innocence, while it constitutes your own, contributes also to the felicity of all who know you! ARTHUR VILLARS.
Heaven bless you, my dear child! And may neither misfortune nor wrongdoing ever take away that joyfulness of spirit, which comes from your innocence, as it not only makes you happy but also adds to the happiness of everyone who knows you! ARTHUR VILLARS.
LETTER XVI - EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS Queen Ann Street, Thursday morning,
April 14.
April 14th.
BEFORE our dinner was over yesterday Madame Duval came to tea; though it will lessen your surprise, to hear that it was near five o’clock, for we never dine till the day is almost over. She was asked into another room while the table was cleared, and then was invited to partake of the dessert.
BEFORE our dinner was over yesterday, Madame Duval came by for tea; although it might surprise you less to know that it was almost five o’clock, since we never have dinner until the day is nearly done. She was taken into another room while the table was cleared, and then she was invited to join us for dessert.
She was attended by a French gentleman, whom she introduced by the name of Monsieur Du Bois: Mrs. Mirvan received them both with her usual politeness; but the Captain looked very much displeased; and after a short silence, very sternly said to Madame Duval, “Pray who asked you to bring that there spark with you?”
She was accompanied by a French man, whom she introduced as Monsieur Du Bois. Mrs. Mirvan greeted them both with her usual politeness, but the Captain appeared quite annoyed. After a brief silence, he sternly said to Madame Duval, “Excuse me, who asked you to bring that guy with you?”
“O,” cried she, “I never go no where without him.”
“O,” she exclaimed, “I never go anywhere without him.”
Another short silence ensued, which was terminated by the Captain’s turning roughly to the foreigner, and saying, “Do you know, Monseer, that you are the first Frenchman I ever let come into my house?”
Another short silence followed, which was broken by the Captain turning abruptly to the foreigner and saying, “Do you know, Monseer, that you are the first Frenchman I've ever allowed into my house?”
Monsieur Du Bois made a profound bow. He speaks no English, and understands it so imperfectly, that he might possibly imagine he had received a compliment.
Monsieur Du Bois gave a deep bow. He doesn't speak any English and understands it so poorly that he might think he received a compliment.
Mrs. Mirvan endeavourd to divert the Captain’s ill-humour, by starting new subjects: but he left to her all the trouble of supporting them, and leant back in his chair in gloomy silence, except when any opportunity offered of uttering some sarcasm upon the French. Finding her efforts to render the evening agreeable were fruitless, Mrs. Mirvan proposed a party to Ranelagh. Madame Duval joyfully consented to it; and the Captain though he railed against the dissipation of the women, did not oppose it; and therefore Maria and I ran up stairs to dress ourselves.
Mrs. Mirvan tried to distract the Captain from his bad mood by bringing up new topics, but he left it all to her to keep the conversation going and slumped back in his chair in a gloomy silence, except when he could throw in a sarcastic comment about the French. When Mrs. Mirvan realized her attempts to make the evening enjoyable were useless, she suggested going to Ranelagh. Madame Duval happily agreed, and even though the Captain complained about the ladies' frivolity, he didn’t object to it. So, Maria and I hurried upstairs to get ready.
Before we were ready, word was brought us that Sir Clement Willoughby was in the drawing-room. He introduced himself under the pretence of inquiring after all our healths, and entered the room with the easy air of an old acquaintance; though Mrs. Mirvan confessed that he seemed embarrassed when he found how coldly he was received, not only by the Captain, but by herself.
Before we were prepared, we were informed that Sir Clement Willoughby was in the living room. He introduced himself, pretending to ask about our well-being, and walked in with the casual demeanor of a familiar friend; however, Mrs. Mirvan admitted that he appeared awkward when he realized how coolly he was welcomed, not just by the Captain, but by her as well.
I was extremely disconcerted at the thoughts of seeing this man again, and did not go downstairs till I was called to tea. He was then deeply engaged in a discourse upon French manners with Madame Duval and the Captain; and the subject seemed so entirely to engross him, that he did not, at first, observe my entrance into the room. Their conversation was supported with great vehemence; the Captain roughly maintaining the superiority of the English in every particular, and Madame Duval warmly refusing to allow of it in any; while Sir Clement exerted all his powers of argument and of ridicule, to second and strengthen whatever was advanced by the Captain: for he had the sagacity to discover, that he could take no method so effectual for making the master of the house his friend, as to make Madame Duval his enemy; and indeed, in a very short time, he had reason to congratulate himself upon his successful discernment.
I was really anxious about seeing this guy again, so I stayed upstairs until I was called for tea. When I finally went down, he was really caught up in a discussion about French manners with Madame Duval and the Captain. The topic had him so focused that he didn't even notice me walk into the room at first. Their conversation was pretty intense; the Captain was aggressively arguing that the English were superior in every way, while Madame Duval passionately disagreed. Meanwhile, Sir Clement was using all his skills in debate and mockery to back up whatever the Captain said. He realized that the best way to win over the head of the house was to make Madame Duval his enemy, and before long, he had plenty of reasons to feel pleased with his cleverness.
As soon as he saw me, he made a most respectful bow, and hoped I had not suffered from the fatigue of the ridotto: I made no other answer than a slight inclination of the head, for I was very much ashamed of that whole affair. He then returned to the disputants; where he managed the argument so skilfully, at once provoking Madame Duval, and delighting the Captain, that I could not forbear admiring his address, though I condemned his subtlety. Mrs. Mirvan, dreading such violent antagonists, attempted frequently to change the subject; and she might have succeeded, but for the interposition of Sir Clement, who would not suffer it to be given up, and supported it with such humour and satire, that he seems to have won the Captain’s heart; though their united forces so enraged and overpowered Madame Duval, that she really trembled with passion.
As soon as he saw me, he gave a respectful bow and hoped I hadn’t been too tired from the event. I only nodded slightly because I was embarrassed about the whole situation. He then went back to the people arguing, where he handled the debate so well that he annoyed Madame Duval while making the Captain happy. I couldn’t help but admire his skill, even though I disapproved of his cunning. Mrs. Mirvan, worried about such fierce opponents, often tried to change the topic; she might have succeeded if it weren’t for Sir Clement, who insisted on keeping it going and added such humor and sarcasm that he seemed to have won the Captain over. However, their combined efforts made Madame Duval so furious that she actually shook with anger.
I was very glad when Mrs. Mirvan said it was time to be gone. Sir Clement arose to take leave; but the Captain very cordially invited him to join our party: he had an engagement, he said, but would give it up to have that pleasure.
I was really happy when Mrs. Mirvan said it was time to leave. Sir Clement stood up to say goodbye, but the Captain warmly invited him to join our group: he mentioned he had plans, but he would cancel them to enjoy that time with us.
Some little confusion ensued in regard to our manner of setting off. Mrs. Mirvan offered Madame Duval a place in her coach, and proposed that we four females should go all together; however, this she rejected, declaring she would by no means go so far without a gentleman, and wondering so polite a lady could make so English a proposal. Sir Clement Willoughby said, his chariot was waiting at the door, and begged to know if it could be of any use. It was at last decided, that a hackney-coach should be called for Monsieur Du Bois and Madame Duval, in which the Captain, and, at his request, Sir Clement, went also; Mrs. and Miss Mirvan and I had a peaceful and comfortable ride by ourselves.
Some confusion arose about how we should set off. Mrs. Mirvan offered Madame Duval a spot in her coach and suggested that the four of us women should go together; however, Madame Duval declined, insisting that she wouldn’t go so far without a man and questioning how such a polite lady could make such an English suggestion. Sir Clement Willoughby said that his chariot was waiting at the door and asked if it could be of any help. In the end, it was decided that a hackney-coach would be called for Monsieur Du Bois and Madame Duval, and the Captain, along with Sir Clement at his request, joined them. Mrs. Mirvan, Miss Mirvan, and I enjoyed a peaceful and comfortable ride by ourselves.
I doubt not but they quarrelled all the way; for when we met at Ranelagh every one seemed out of humour; and though we joined parties, poor Madame Duval was avoided as much as possible by all but me.
I have no doubt they argued the whole way; because when we met at Ranelagh, everyone seemed really annoyed. Even though we grouped up, poor Madame Duval was avoided by everyone except me as much as possible.
The room was so very much crowded, that but for the uncommon assiduity of Sir Clement Willoughby, we should not have been able to procure a box (which is the name given to the arched recesses that are appropriated for tea-parties) till half the company had retired. As we were taking possession of our places, some ladies of Mrs. Mirvan’s acquaintance stopped to speak to her, and persuaded her to take a round with them. When she returned to us, what was my surprise, to see that Lord Orville had joined her party! The ladies walked on: Mrs. Mirvan seated herself, and made a slight, though respectful, invitation to Lord Orville to drink his tea with us; which, to my no small consternation, he accepted.
The room was so crowded that without the unusual persistence of Sir Clement Willoughby, we wouldn’t have been able to get a booth (that’s what they call the arched spaces set aside for tea parties) until half the guests had left. As we settled into our seats, some ladies who knew Mrs. Mirvan stopped to chat with her and convinced her to join them for a bit. When she came back, I was shocked to see that Lord Orville had joined her group! The ladies moved on, Mrs. Mirvan sat down, and gave a polite but brief invitation to Lord Orville to have tea with us, which, to my great surprise, he accepted.
I felt a confusion unspeakable at again seeing him, from the recollection of the ridotto adventure: nor did my situation lessen it; for I was seated between Madame Duval and Sir Clement, who seemed as little as myself to desire Lord Orville’s presence. Indeed, the continual wrangling and ill-breeding of Captain Mirvan and Madame Duval made me blush that I belonged to them. And poor Mrs. Mirvan and her amiable daughter had still less reason to be satisfied.
I felt an indescribable confusion at seeing him again, especially because of the memory of the ridotto incident. My situation didn't help either, as I was stuck between Madame Duval and Sir Clement, both of whom seemed as reluctant as I was to have Lord Orville around. In fact, the constant arguing and bad manners of Captain Mirvan and Madame Duval made me embarrassed to be associated with them. And poor Mrs. Mirvan and her lovely daughter had even less reason to be happy.
A general silence ensued after he was seated: his appearance, from different motives, gave an universal restraint to every body. What his own reasons were for honouring us with his company, I cannot imagine; unless, indeed, he had a curiosity to know whether I should invent any new impertinence concerning him.
A general silence followed after he sat down: his presence, for various reasons, caused everyone to hold back. I can't figure out why he chose to join us; maybe he was just curious to see if I would come up with some new nonsense about him.
The first speech was made by Madame Duval, who said, “It’s quite a shocking thing to see ladies come to so genteel a place as Ranelagh with hats on; it has a monstrous vulgar look: I can’t think what they wear them for. There is no such a thing to be seen in Paris.”
The first speech was made by Madame Duval, who said, “It’s really shocking to see ladies come to such a fancy place as Ranelagh wearing hats; it looks incredibly tacky. I can’t understand why they wear them. You never see that in Paris.”
“Indeed,” cried Sir Clement, “I must own myself no advocate for hats; I am sorry the ladies ever invented or adopted so tantalizing a fashion: for, where there is beauty, they only serve to shade it; and, where there is none, to excite a most unavailing curiosity. I fancy they were originally worn by some young and whimsical coquette.”
“Definitely,” exclaimed Sir Clement, “I have to admit I’m not a fan of hats; I regret that the ladies ever came up with or embraced such a tempting trend: because, where there is beauty, they just cover it up; and, where there isn't any, they spark a completely pointless curiosity. I imagine they were first worn by some young and playful flirt.”
“More likely,” answered the Captain, “they were invented by some wrinkled old hag, who’d a mind for to keep the young fellows in chace, let them be never so weary.”
"More likely," replied the Captain, "they were created by some wrinkled old hag who wanted to keep the young guys chasing after them, no matter how tired they might be."
“I don’t know what you may do in England,” cried Madame Duval, “but I know in Paris no woman needn’t be at such a trouble as that to be taken very genteel notice of.”
“I don’t know what you might do in England,” exclaimed Madame Duval, “but I know in Paris, no woman has to go to such lengths to be recognized as elegant.”
“Why, will you pretend for to say,” returned the Captain, “that they don’t distinguish the old from the young there as well as here?”
“Why would you pretend to say,” replied the Captain, “that they can’t tell the old from the young there just as well as here?”
“They don’t make no distinguishments at all,” said she; “they’re vastly too polite.”
“They don’t make any distinctions at all,” she said; “they’re way too polite.”
“More fools they!” cried the Captain, sneeringly.
“More fools they!” the Captain cried with a sneer.
“Would to Heaven,” cried, Sir Clement, “that, for our own sakes, we Englishmen too were blest with so accommodating a blindness!”
“Would to Heaven,” cried Sir Clement, “that, for our own sake, we Englishmen were also blessed with such convenient ignorance!”
“Why the devil do you make such a prayer as that?” demanded the Captain: “them are the first foolish words I’ve heard you speak; but I suppose you’re not much used to that sort of work. Did you ever make a prayer before, since you were a sniveler?”
“Why on earth are you making a prayer like that?” the Captain asked. “Those are the first silly words I’ve heard you say; but I guess you’re not really familiar with that kind of thing. Have you ever prayed before, since you were a crybaby?”
“Ay, now,” cried Madame Duval, “that’s another of the unpolitenesses of you English, to go to talking of such things as that: now in Paris nobody never says nothing about religion, no more than about politics.”
“Ay, now,” cried Madame Duval, “that’s just another one of the rude things you English do, talking about stuff like that: here in Paris, nobody ever talks about religion, just like they don’t talk about politics.”
“Why then,” answered he, “it’s a sign they take no more care of their souls than of their country, and so both one and t’other go to old Nick.”
“Why then,” he replied, “it’s a sign they care about their souls as little as they do about their country, and so both are heading straight to the devil.”
“Well, if they do,” said she, “who’s the worse, so long as they don’t say nothing about it? It’s the tiresomest thing in the world to be always talking of them sort of things, and nobody that’s ever been abroad troubles their heads about them.”
"Well, if they do," she said, "who cares, as long as they don't say anything about it? It's the most annoying thing in the world to always be talking about that stuff, and no one who's ever been abroad worries about it."
“Pray then,” cried the Captain, “since you know so much of the matter, be so good as to tell us what they do trouble their heads about?-Hey, Sir Clement! han’t we a right to know that much?”
“Then please,” shouted the Captain, “since you know so much about this, could you tell us what’s bothering them? Hey, Sir Clement! Don’t we have a right to know that much?”
“A very comprehensive question,” said Sir Clement, “and I expect much instruction from the lady’s answer.”
“A very thorough question,” said Sir Clement, “and I expect to learn a lot from the lady’s answer.”
“Come, Madam,” continued the Captain, “never flinch; speak at once; don’t stop for thinking.”
“Come on, ma’am,” the Captain urged, “don’t hesitate; just speak up right away; don’t take time to think.”
“I assure you I am not going,” answered she; “for as to what they do do, why they’ve enough to do, I promise you, what with one thing or another.”
“I assure you I'm not going,” she answered; “because as for what they do, they have plenty on their plate, I promise you, with one thing or another.”
“But what, what do they do, these famous Monseers?” demanded the Captain; “can’t you tell us? do they game?-or drink?-or fiddle?-or are they jockeys?-or do they spend all their time in flummering old women?”
“But what, what do these famous gentlemen do?” asked the Captain; “can’t you tell us? Do they gamble? Or drink? Or play music? Or are they horse riders? Or do they just spend all their time fooling around with old women?”
“As to that, Sir-but indeed I shan’t trouble myself to answer such a parcel of low questions, so don’t ask me no more about it.” And then, to my great vexation, turning to Lord Orville, she said, “Pray, Sir, was you ever in Paris?”
“As for that, Sir—but honestly, I won’t bother answering such a bunch of silly questions, so please don’t ask me about it anymore.” Then, to my great annoyance, she turned to Lord Orville and said, “Excuse me, Sir, have you ever been to Paris?”
He only bowed.
He just bowed.
“And pray, Sir, how did you like it?”
“And hey, sir, what did you think of it?”
This comprehensive question, as Sir Clement would have called it, though it made him smile, also made him hesitate; however, his answer was expressive of his approbation.
This in-depth question, as Sir Clement would have referred to it, even though it made him smile, also caused him to pause; however, his response clearly showed his approval.
“I thought you would like it, Sir, because you look so like a gentleman. As to the Captain, and as to that other gentleman, why they may very well not like what they don’t know: for I suppose, Sir, you was never abroad?”
“I thought you would like it, Sir, because you look so much like a gentleman. As for the Captain and that other gentleman, they might not appreciate what they don’t know: I assume, Sir, you’ve never been abroad?”
“Only three years, Ma’am,” answered Sir Clement, drily.
“Just three years, Ma’am,” Sir Clement replied dryly.
“Well, that’s very surprising! I should never have thought it: however, I dare say you only kept company with the English.”
"Well, that’s really surprising! I never would have thought that: however, I bet you only hung out with the English."
“Why, pray, who should he keep company with?” cried the Captain: “what I suppose you’d have him ashamed of his own nation, like some other people not a thousand miles off, on purpose to make his own nation ashamed of him?”
“Why, who should he hang out with?” exclaimed the Captain. “Do you want him to feel ashamed of his own country, like some other folks not too far away, just to make his own nation embarrassed of him?”
“I’m sure it would be a very good thing if you’d go abroad yourself.”
“I’m sure it would be really great if you went abroad yourself.”
“How will you make out that, hey, Madam? come, please to tell me, where would be the good of that?”
“How are you going to figure that out, ma’am? Come on, please tell me, what good would that do?”
“Where! why a great deal. They’d make quite another person of you.”
“Where! Well, a lot. They’d completely transform you into a different person.”
“What, I suppose you’d have me to learn to cut capers?-and dress like a monkey?-and palaver in French gibberish?-hey, would you?-And powder, and daub, and make myself up, like some other folks?”
“What, you want me to learn to dance around like a clown? Dress up like a monkey? Babble in French nonsense? Seriously, do you? And wear powder, and makeup, and try to look like everyone else?”
“I would have you learn to be more politer, Sir, and not to talk to ladies in such a rude, old-fashion way as this. You, Sir, as have been in Paris,” again addressing herself to Lord Orville, “can tell this English gentleman how he’d be despised, if he was to talk in such an ungenteel manner as this before any foreigners. Why, there isn’t a hairdresser, nor a shoemaker, nor nobody, that wouldn’t blush to be in your company.”
“I’d like you to learn to be more polite, Sir, and not to talk to ladies in such a rude, old-fashioned way. You, Sir, who have been in Paris,” she said again to Lord Orville, “can tell this English gentleman how he would be looked down upon if he spoke in such an uncouth manner in front of any foreigners. Honestly, there isn’t a hairdresser, a shoemaker, or anyone else who wouldn’t be embarrassed to be around you.”
“Why, look ye, Madam,” answered the Captain, “as to your hair-pinchers and shoe-blacks, you may puff off their manners, and welcome; and I am heartily glad you like ‘em so well: but as to me, since you must needs make so free of your advice, I must e’en tell you, I never kept company with any such gentry.”
“Why, look here, Madam,” the Captain replied, “feel free to show off your hair-pinchers and shoe-blacks, and I'm genuinely happy you like them so much. But as for me, since you insist on giving your advice, I must let you know that I’ve never associated with anyone like that.”
“Come, ladies and gentlemen,” said Mrs. Mirvan, “as many of you as have done tea, I invite to walk with me.” Maria and I started up instantly; Lord Orville followed; and I question whether we were not half round the room ere the angry disputants knew that we had left the box.
“Come on, everyone,” said Mrs. Mirvan, “all of you who have finished your tea, I invite you to walk with me.” Maria and I got up right away; Lord Orville followed; and I wonder if we were already halfway around the room before the angry debaters realized we had left the booth.
As the husband of Mrs. Mirvan had borne so large a share in the disagreeable altercation, Lord Orville forbore to make any comments upon it; so that the subject was immediately dropt, and the conversation became calmly sociable, and politely cheerful, and, to every body but me, must have been highly agreeable:-but, as to myself, I was so eagerly desirous of making some apology to Lord Orville, for the impertinence of which he must have thought me guilty at the ridotto, and yet so utterly unable to assume sufficient courage to speak to him, concerning an affair in which I had so terribly exposed myself, that I hardly ventured to say a word all the time we were walking. Besides, the knowledge of his contemptuous opinion haunted and dispirited me, and made me fear he might possibly misconstrue whatever I should say. So that, far from enjoying a conversation which might, at any other time, have delighted me, I continued silent, uncomfortable, and ashamed. O, Sir, shall I ever again involve myself in so foolish an embarrassment? I am sure that, if I do, I shall deserve greater mortification.
Since Mrs. Mirvan's husband had played such a big role in the unpleasant argument, Lord Orville chose not to comment on it; the topic was quickly dropped, and the conversation turned calm and sociable, politely cheerful, and, for everyone but me, it must have been very enjoyable. As for me, I was so eager to apologize to Lord Orville for the rudeness he must have thought I displayed at the ridotto, yet I felt completely unable to gather the courage to discuss a matter in which I had made such a fool of myself that I hardly spoke a word while we walked. Moreover, the thought of his disdainful opinion weighed on me and made me fear he might misinterpret anything I said. So, instead of enjoying a conversation that would have delighted me at any other time, I remained silent, uncomfortable, and ashamed. Oh, Sir, will I ever put myself in such a foolish situation again? I’m certain that if I do, I will deserve even greater embarrassment.
We were not joined by the rest of the party till we had taken three or four turns around the room; and then they were so quarrelsome, that Mrs. Mirvan complained of being fatigued and proposed going home. No one dissented. Lord Orville joined another party, having first made an offer of his services, which the gentlemen declined, and we proceeded to an outward room, where we waited for the carriages. It was settled that we should return to town in the same manner we came to Ranelagh; and, accordingly, Monsieur Du Bois handed Madame Duval into a hackney coach, and was just preparing to follow her, when she screamed, and jumped hastily out, declaring she was wet through all her clothes. Indeed, upon examination the coach was found to be in a dismal condition; for the weather proved very bad, and the rain had, though I know not how, made its way into the carriage.
We didn’t meet up with the rest of the group until we had walked around the room three or four times. When we finally did, they were so argumentative that Mrs. Mirvan said she was tired and suggested we go home. No one disagreed. Lord Orville joined another group after offering to help, which the gentlemen refused, and we moved to another room, where we waited for the carriages. It was decided that we would go back to town the same way we came to Ranelagh; so, Monsieur Du Bois helped Madame Duval into a hackney coach and was about to get in himself when she screamed and hurried out, claiming she was soaked through. Upon checking, the coach was found to be in terrible shape because the weather had turned bad, and somehow, rain had gotten inside the carriage.
Mrs. and Miss Mirvan, and myself, were already disposed of as before; but no sooner did the Captain hear this account, than, without any ceremony, he was so civil as to immediately take possession of the vacant seat in his own coach, leaving Madame Duval and Monsieur Du Bois to take care of themselves. As to Sir Clement Willoughby, his own chariot was in waiting.
Mrs. and Miss Mirvan, and I, were already settled as before; but as soon as the Captain heard this, without any hesitation, he graciously took the empty seat in his own coach, leaving Madame Duval and Monsieur Du Bois to fend for themselves. As for Sir Clement Willoughby, his own carriage was waiting.
I instantly begged permission to offer Madame Duval my own place, and made a motion to get out; but Mrs. Mirvan stopped me, saying, that I should then be obliged to return to town with only the foreigner, or Sir Clement.
I immediately asked if I could offer Madame Duval my own seat and started to get up; but Mrs. Mirvan stopped me, saying that I would have to go back to town with just the foreigner or Sir Clement.
“O never mind the old beldame,” cried the Captain, “she’s weather-proof, I’ll answer for her; and besides, as we are all, I hope, English, why she’ll meet with no worse than she expects from us.”
“O never mind the old hag,” shouted the Captain, “she’s tough, I promise you; and besides, since we’re all, I hope, English, she won’t get anything worse than what she expects from us.”
“I do not mean to defend her,” said Mrs. Mirvan; “but indeed, as she belongs to our party, we cannot, with any decency, leave the place till she is, by some means, accommodated.”
“I’m not trying to defend her,” said Mrs. Mirvan; “but really, since she’s part of our group, we can’t, in good conscience, leave until she’s, in some way, taken care of.”
“Lord, my dear,” cried the Captain, whom the distress of Madame Duval had put into very good humour, “why, she’ll break her heart if she meets with any civility from a filthy Englishman.”
“Lord, my dear,” exclaimed the Captain, whose good mood was brightened by Madame Duval's distress, “she’ll be heartbroken if she encounters any kindness from a disgusting Englishman.”
Mrs. Mirvan, however, prevailed; and we all got out of the coach, to wait till Madame Duval could meet with some better carriage. We found her, attended by Monsieur Du Bois, standing amongst the servants, and very busy in wiping her negligee, and endeavouring to save it from being stained by the wet, as she said it was a new Lyons silk. Sir Clement Willoughby offered her the use of his chariot, but she had been too much piqued by his raillery to accept it. We waited some time, but in vain; for no hackney-coach could be procured. The Captain, at last, was persuaded to accompany Sir Clement himself, and we four females were handed into Mrs. Mirvan’s carriage, though not before Madame Duval had insisted upon our making room for Monsieur Du Bois, to which the Captain only consented in preference to being incommoded by him in Sir Clement’s chariot.
Mrs. Mirvan, however, stood her ground; and we all got out of the carriage to wait until Madame Duval could find a better ride. We saw her, with Monsieur Du Bois nearby, standing among the servants, busily trying to wipe her negligee and keep it from getting stained by the wet, claiming it was a new Lyons silk. Sir Clement Willoughby offered her his chariot, but she was too annoyed by his teasing to accept it. We waited for a while, but it was futile; no hackney-coach could be found. Eventually, the Captain agreed to go with Sir Clement himself, and the four of us women were helped into Mrs. Mirvan’s carriage, though not before Madame Duval insisted we make room for Monsieur Du Bois, to which the Captain only agreed to avoid being bothered by him in Sir Clement’s chariot.
Our party drove off first. We were silent and unsociable; for the difficulties attending this arrangement had made every one languid and fatigued. Unsociable, I must own, we continued; but very short was the duration of our silence, as we had not proceeded thirty yards before every voice was heard at once-for the coach broke down! I suppose we concluded, of course, that we were all half killed, by the violent shrieks that seemed to come from every mouth. The chariot was stopped, the servants came to our assistance, and we were taken out of the carriage, without having been at all hurt. The night was dark and wet; but I had scarce touched the ground when I was lifted suddenly from it by Sir Clement Willoughby, who begged permission to assist me, though he did not wait to have it granted, but carried me in his arms back to Ranelagh.
Our group set off first. We were quiet and not very friendly; the challenges of this situation had left everyone feeling tired and worn out. I have to admit we stayed unfriendly, but our silence didn’t last long because we hadn’t even gone thirty yards before chaos erupted—the coach broke down! I guess we all assumed we were seriously hurt because everyone was screaming at once. The carriage stopped, and the servants came to help us, pulling us out without anyone being injured. It was dark and rainy, but as soon as I touched the ground, Sir Clement Willoughby suddenly lifted me up, asking if he could help me, though he didn’t wait for an answer and carried me back to Ranelagh in his arms.
He enquired very earnestly if I was not hurt by the accident? I assured him I was perfectly safe, and free from injury; and desired he would leave me, and return to the rest of the party, for I was very uneasy to know whether they had been equally fortunate. He told me he was happy in being honoured with my commands, and would joyfully execute them; but insisted upon first conducting me to a warm room, as I had not wholly escaped being wet. He did not regard my objections; but made me follow him to an apartment, where we found an excellent fire, and some company waiting for carriages. I readily accepted a seat, and then begged he would go.
He asked very seriously if I was hurt in the accident. I assured him I was perfectly fine and uninjured, and I asked him to leave me and go back to the rest of the group, as I was quite anxious to know if they had fared as well. He said he was happy to follow my instructions and would gladly do so, but insisted on first taking me to a warm room since I had gotten a bit wet. He didn’t listen to my objections and made me follow him to a room where we found a nice fire and some people waiting for their rides. I gladly took a seat and then asked him to go.
And go, indeed, he did; but he returned in a moment, telling me that the rain was more violent than ever, and that he had sent his servants to offer their assistance, and acquaint the Mirvans of my situation. I was very mad that he would not go himself; but as my acquaintance with him was so very slight, I did not think proper to urge him contrary to his inclination.
And he went, indeed, but he came back quickly, telling me that the rain was worse than ever, and that he had sent his servants to offer their help and inform the Mirvans about my situation. I was really angry that he wouldn’t go himself, but since I didn’t know him well, I thought it best not to push him against his will.
Well, he drew a chair close to mine; and, after again enquiring how I did, said, in a low voice, “You will pardon me, Miss Anville, if the eagerness I feel to vindicate myself, induces me to snatch this opportunity of making sincere acknowledgments for the impertinence with which I tormented you at the last ridotto. I can assure you, Madam, I have been a true and sorrowful penitent ever since; but-shall I tell you honestly what encouraged me to-”
Well, he pulled a chair close to mine, and after asking how I was doing again, he said in a low voice, “Please forgive me, Miss Anville, if my eagerness to clear my name makes me take this chance to sincerely apologize for the rudeness with which I bothered you at the last party. I can assure you, Madam, I have truly regretted my actions ever since; but—can I be honest about what encouraged me to—”
He stopt, but I said nothing; for I thought instantly of the conversation Miss Mirvan had overheard, and supposed he was going to tell me himself what part Lord Orville had borne in it; and really I did not wish to hear it repeated. Indeed, the rest of his speech convinces me that such was his intention; with what view I know not, except to make a merit of his defending me.
He stopped, but I didn’t say anything; I immediately thought of the conversation Miss Mirvan had overheard and assumed he was going to tell me what role Lord Orville played in it; honestly, I didn’t want to hear it again. In fact, the rest of his speech convinced me that this was his intention; for what reason, I don’t know, unless it was to make himself look good for defending me.
“And yet,” he continued, “my excuse may only expose my own credulity, and want of judgment and penetration. I will, therefore, merely beseech your pardon, and hope that some future time-”
“And yet,” he continued, “my excuse might just reveal my own gullibility and lack of judgment and insight. So, I will simply ask for your forgiveness and hope that at some point in the future-”
Just then the door was opened by Sir Clement’s servant, and I had the pleasure of seeing the Captain, Mrs. and Miss Mirvan, enter the room.
Just then, Sir Clement’s servant opened the door, and I was happy to see the Captain, Mrs. Mirvan, and Miss Mirvan walk into the room.
“O ho!” cried the former, “you have got a good warm berth here; but we shall beat up your quarters. Here, Lucy, Moll, come to the fire, and dry your trumpery. But, hey-day-why, where’s old Madame French?”
“O ho!” shouted the former, “you have a nice, warm spot here; but we’ll invade your space. Here, Lucy, Moll, come to the fire and dry your things. But, wait—where’s old Madame French?”
“Good God,” cried I, “is not Madame Duval then with you?”
“Good God,” I exclaimed, “isn’t Madame Duval with you?”
“With me! No,-thank God.”
"With me! No, thank goodness."
I was very uneasy to know what might have become of her; and, if they would have suffered me, I should have gone in search of her myself; but all the servants were dispatched to find her; and the Captain said, we might be very sure her French beau would take care of her.
I was really anxious about what might have happened to her; and if they would have let me, I would have gone to look for her myself; but all the staff were sent out to find her; and the Captain said we could be pretty sure her French boyfriend would take care of her.
We waited some time without any tidings, and were soon the only party in the room. My uneasiness increased so much that Sir Clement now made a voluntary offer of seeking her. However, the same moment that he opened the door with this design, she presented herself at it, attended by Monsieur Du Bois.
We waited for a while without any news, and soon we were the only ones in the room. My anxiety grew so much that Sir Clement offered to go look for her. However, at the exact moment he opened the door to do so, she showed up at the door with Monsieur Du Bois.
“I was this instant, Madam,” said he, “coming to see for you.”
“I was just about to come see you, Madam,” he said.
“You are mighty good, truly,” cried she, “to come when all the mischief’s over.”
“You're really great, honestly,” she exclaimed, “to show up after all the trouble is done.”
She then entered,-in such a condition!-entirely covered with mud, and in so great a rage, it was with difficulty she could speak. We all expressed our concern, and offered our assistance-except the Captain, who no sooner beheld her than he burst out into a loud laugh.
She then walked in—what a sight!—completely covered in mud, and so furious that it was hard for her to speak. We all showed our concern and offered to help her—except for the Captain, who couldn't help but burst out laughing the moment he saw her.
We endeavoured, by our enquiries and condolements, to prevent her attending to him; and she was for some time so wholly engrossed by her anger and her distress, that we succeeded without much trouble. We begged her to inform us how this accident happened. “How!” repeated she,-“why it was all along of your all going away,-and there poor Monsieur Du Bois-but it wasn’t his fault,-for he’s as bad off as me.”
We tried, with our questions and sympathies, to keep her from focusing on him; and for a while, she was so wrapped up in her anger and sadness that we had little trouble. We asked her to tell us how this accident occurred. “How?” she echoed, “It was because you all left—and there poor Monsieur Du Bois—but it wasn’t his fault—he’s just as bad off as I am.”
All eyes were then turned to Monsieur Du Bois, whose clothes were in the same miserable plight with those of Madame Duval; and who, wet, shivering, and disconsolate, had crept to the fire.
All eyes then turned to Monsieur Du Bois, whose clothes were just as tattered as Madame Duval's; and who, wet, shivering, and miserable, had huddled by the fire.
The Captain laughed yet more heartily; while Mrs. Mirvan, ashamed of his rudeness, repeated her inquiries to Madame Duval; who answered, “Why, as we were a-coming along, all in the rain, Monsieur Du Bois was so obliging, though I’m sure it was an unlucky obligingness for me, as to lift me up in his arms to carry me over a place that was ankle-deep in mud; but instead of my being ever the better for it, just as we were in the worst part,-I’m sure I wish we had been fifty miles off,-for somehow or other his foot slipt,-at least, I suppose so,-though I can’t think how it happened, for I’m so such great weight;-but, however that was, down we both came, together, all in the mud; and the more we tried to get up, the more deeper we got covered with the nastiness-and my new Lyons negligee, too, quite spoilt!-however, it’s well we got up at all, for we might have laid there till now, for aught you all cared; nobody never came near us.”
The Captain laughed even harder, while Mrs. Mirvan, embarrassed by his rudeness, asked Madame Duval again. She replied, “Well, as we were making our way here in the rain, Monsieur Du Bois was so nice, though I’m sure it was an unfortunate kindness for me, that he lifted me up in his arms to carry me over a spot that was ankle-deep in mud. But instead of it helping me, just when we were in the worst part—I really wish we had been fifty miles away—somehow his foot slipped, or at least I think it did. I can’t figure out how it happened since I’m not that heavy. But anyway, down we both went, right into the mud; and the more we tried to get up, the more we got covered in the mess—and my new Lyons negligee is totally ruined! But it’s good we managed to get up at all, because we could have stayed there forever if no one cared; nobody ever came near us.”
This recital put the Captain into an ecstasy; he went from the lady to the gentleman, and from the gentleman to the lady, to enjoy alternately the sight of their distress. He really shouted with pleasure; and, shaking Monsieur Du Bois strenuously by the hand, wished him joy of having touched English ground; and then he held a candle to Madame Duval, that he might have a more complete view of her disaster, declaring repeatedly, that he had never been better pleased in his life.
This performance thrilled the Captain; he moved from the lady to the gentleman and back, relishing the sight of their discomfort. He actually cheered with delight, vigorously shaking Monsieur Du Bois's hand, congratulating him on setting foot on English soil. Then, he held a candle up to Madame Duval to get a clearer look at her misfortune, repeatedly saying that he had never been happier in his life.
The rage of poor Madame Duval was unspeakable; she dashed the candle out of his hand, stamping upon the floor, and, at last, spat in his face.
The anger of poor Madame Duval was beyond words; she knocked the candle out of his hand, stomped on the floor, and finally, spat in his face.
This action seemed immediately to calm them both, as the joy of the Captain was converted into resentment, and the wrath of Madame Duval into fear: for he put his hands upon her shoulders, and gave her so violent a shake, that she screamed out for help; assuring her, at the same time, that if she had been one ounce less old, or less ugly, she should have had it all returned in her own face.
This action instantly calmed them both, as the Captain's joy turned into resentment, and Madame Duval's anger turned into fear. He put his hands on her shoulders and shook her so vigorously that she screamed for help, while assuring her that if she had been even a little younger or less unattractive, she would have gotten it all back in her own face.
Monsieur Du Bois, who had seated himself very quietly at the fire, approached them, and expostulated very warmly with the Captain; but he was neither understood nor regarded; and Madame Duval was not released till she quite sobbed with passion.
Monsieur Du Bois, who had quietly taken a seat by the fire, approached them and passionately tried to reason with the Captain; however, he was neither understood nor acknowledged, and Madame Duval was not let go until she was sobbing with emotion.
When they were parted, I intreated her to permit the woman who has charge of the ladies’ cloaks to assist in drying her clothes; she consented, and we did what was possible to save her from catching cold. We were obliged to wait in this disagreeable situation near an hour before a hackney-coach could be found; and then we were disposed in the same manner as before our accident.
When they separated, I asked her to let the woman in charge of the ladies’ cloaks help dry her clothes; she agreed, and we did everything we could to keep her from getting cold. We had to wait in this uncomfortable situation for almost an hour before we could find a cab; then we were arranged just like we were before the accident.
I am going this morning to see poor Madame Duval, and to inquire after her health, which I think must have suffered by her last night’s misfortunes; though, indeed, she seems to be naturally strong and hearty.
I’m going this morning to visit poor Madame Duval and check on her health, which I believe has been affected by the misfortunes she encountered last night. Still, she does seem to be naturally strong and hearty.
Adieu, my dear Sir, till to-morrow.
Goodbye, my dear Sir, until tomorrow.
LETTER XVII - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION Friday Morning, April 15.
SIR CLEMENT WILLOUGHBY called here yesterday at noon, and Captain Mirvan invited him to dinner. For my part I spent the day in a manner the most uncomfortable imaginable.
SIR CLEMENT WILLOUGHBY dropped by yesterday at noon, and Captain Mirvan asked him to dinner. As for me, I passed the day in the most uncomfortable way possible.
I found Madame Duval at breakfast in bed, though Monsieur Du Bois was in the chamber; which so much astonished me, that I was, involuntarily, retiring, without considering how odd an appearance my retreat would have, when Madame Duval called me back, and laughed very heartily at my ignorance of foreign customs.
I found Madame Duval having breakfast in bed, even though Monsieur Du Bois was in the room; this surprised me so much that I started to leave without realizing how strange my exit would look. Madame Duval called me back and laughed heartily at my lack of knowledge about foreign customs.
The conversation, however, very soon took a more serious turn; for she began, with great bitterness, to inveigh against the barbarous brutality of that fellow the Captain, and the horrible ill-breeding of the English in general, declaring, she should make her escape with all expedition from so beastly a nation. But nothing can be more strangely absurd, than to hear politeness recommended in language so repugnant to it as that of Madame Duval.
The conversation quickly became more serious as she began, with deep bitterness, to complain about the brutal behavior of that guy, the Captain, and the terrible manners of the English in general, insisting that she would escape from such a horrible nation as fast as possible. However, it’s incredibly ironic to hear someone advocate for politeness using language that is so contrary to it as Madame Duval’s.
She lamented, very mournfully, the fate of her Lyons silk; and protested she had rather have parted with all the rest of her wardrobe, because it was the first gown she had bought to wear upon leaving off her weeds. She has a very bad cold, and Monsieur Du Bois is so hoarse, he can hardly speak.
She sadly complained about the fate of her Lyons silk and insisted that she would rather give up all her other clothes, because it was the first dress she bought after taking off her mourning attire. She has a terrible cold, and Monsieur Du Bois is so hoarse that he can barely speak.
She insisted upon my staying with her all day; as she intended, she said, to introduce me to some of my own relations. I would very fain have excused myself, but she did not allow me any choice.
She insisted that I stay with her all day because she wanted to introduce me to some of my relatives. I really would have liked to decline, but she didn’t give me any choice.
Till the arrival of these relations, one continued series of questions on her side, and of answers on mine, filled up all the time we passed together. Her curiosity was insatiable; she inquired into every action of my life, and every particular that had fallen under my observation in the lives of all I knew. Again, she was so cruel as to avow the most inveterate rancour against the sole benefactor her deserted child and grand-child have met with; and such was the indignation her ingratitude raised, that I would actually have quitted her presence and house, had she not, in a manner the most peremptory, absolutely forbid me. But what, good Heaven! can induce her to such shocking injustice? O, my friend and father! I have no command of myself when this subject is started.
Until the arrival of these relatives, we spent all our time together with her asking a constant stream of questions and me providing answers. Her curiosity was endless; she wanted to know about every aspect of my life and every detail I had observed about everyone I knew. To make matters worse, she openly expressed deep resentment towards the only person who had ever helped her abandoned child and grandchild. Her ingratitude stirred such anger in me that I seriously considered leaving her and her home, but she firmly insisted that I stay. But what on earth could lead her to such shocking injustice? Oh, my friend and father! I lose control when this topic comes up.
She talked very much of taking me to Paris, and said I greatly wanted the polish of a French education. She lamented that I had been brought up in the country, which, she observed, had given me a very bumpkinish air. However, she bid me not despair, for she had known many girls much worse than me, who had become very fine ladies after a few years residence abroad; and she particularly instanced a Miss Polly Moore, daughter of a chandler’s-shop woman, who, by an accident not worth relating, happened to be sent to Paris, where, from an awkward ill-bred girl, she so much improved, that she has since been taken for a woman of quality.
She talked a lot about taking me to Paris and said I really needed the refinement of a French education. She complained that I had been raised in the countryside, which, she noted, gave me a pretty rustic vibe. However, she told me not to lose hope, because she had seen many girls much worse than me who transformed into elegant ladies after spending a few years abroad. She specifically mentioned a Miss Polly Moore, the daughter of a woman who ran a candle shop, who, through a random twist of fate, ended up in Paris. From being an awkward, poorly-mannered girl, she improved so much that people now mistake her for a woman of high status.
The relations to whom she was pleased to introduce me, consisted of a Mr. Branghton, who is her nephew, and three of his children, the eldest of which is a son, and the two younger are daughters.
The relatives she was happy to introduce me to included Mr. Branghton, her nephew, and three of his kids. The oldest is a son, and the two younger ones are daughters.
Mr. Branghton appears about forty years of age. He does not seem to want a common understanding, though he is very contracted and prejudiced: he has spent his whole time in the city, and I believe feels a great contempt for all who reside elsewhere.
Mr. Branghton seems to be around forty years old. He doesn’t appear to want a typical understanding, even though he is quite narrow-minded and biased: he has spent his entire life in the city, and I believe he holds a strong disdain for anyone living outside of it.
His son seems weaker in his understanding, and more gay in his temper; but his gaiety is that of a foolish, overgrown school-boy, whose mirth consists in noise and disturbance. He disdains his father for his close attention to business, and love of money; though he seems himself to have no talents, spirit, or generosity, to make him superior to either. His chief delight appears to be tormenting and ridiculing his sisters; who, in return, most heartily despise him.
His son seems less understanding and more cheerful in his demeanor; but his cheerfulness is that of a foolish, grown-up schoolboy, whose amusement consists of noise and chaos. He looks down on his father for being so focused on work and money; yet he himself lacks any talent, ambition, or kindness that would make him better than that. His main enjoyment seems to come from teasing and mocking his sisters, who, in turn, really can’t stand him.
Miss Branghton, the eldest daughter, is by no means ugly; but looks proud, ill-tempered, and conceited. She hates the city, though without knowing why; for it is easy to discover she has lived no where else.
Miss Branghton, the oldest daughter, isn’t ugly at all; she just comes off as proud, moody, and self-important. She dislikes the city, even though she can’t really explain why; it’s clear that she has never lived anywhere else.
Miss Polly Branghton is rather pretty, very foolish, very ignorant, very giddy, and, I believe, very good-natured.
Miss Polly Branghton is quite pretty, really silly, very clueless, pretty flighty, and, I think, quite kind-hearted.
The first half-hour was allotted to making themselves comfortable; for they complained of having had a very dirty walk, as they came on foot from Snow Hill, where Mr. Branghton keeps a silversmith’s shop; and the young ladies had not only their coats to brush, and shoes to dry, but to adjust their head-dress, which their bonnets had totally discomposed.
The first half hour was spent getting comfortable because they complained about having a very dirty walk after arriving on foot from Snow Hill, where Mr. Branghton runs a silversmith shop. The young ladies not only had to brush off their coats and dry their shoes, but they also had to fix their hair, which their bonnets had completely messed up.
The manner in which Madame Duval was pleased to introduce me to this family extremely shocked me. “Here, my dears,” said she, “here’s a relation you little thought of; but you must know, my poor daughter Caroline had this child after she run away from me,-though I never knew nothing of it, not I, for a long while after; for they took care to keep it a secret from me, though the poor child has never a friend in the world besides.”
The way Madame Duval was happy to introduce me to this family really shocked me. “Here, my dears,” she said, “here’s a relative you never expected; but you should know, my poor daughter Caroline had this child after she ran away from me—though I had no idea about it for quite a while; they made sure to keep it a secret from me, even though the poor child has no friend in the world except for me.”
“Miss seems very tender-hearted, aunt,” said Miss Polly; “and to be sure she’s not to blame for her mama’s undutifulness, for she couldn’t help it.”
“Miss seems really sweet, aunt,” said Miss Polly; “and she’s definitely not at fault for her mom’s lack of respect, since she couldn’t control it.”
“Lord, no,” answered she, “and I never took no notice of it to her: for, indeed, as to that, my own poor daughter wasn’t so much to blame as you may think; for she’d never have gone astray, if it had not been for that meddling old parson I told you of.”
“God, no,” she replied, “and I never mentioned it to her: because, honestly, my poor daughter wasn’t as at fault as you might think; she wouldn’t have gone off course if it hadn’t been for that nosy old pastor I told you about.”
“If aunt pleases,” said young Mr. Branghton, “we’ll talk o’ somewhat else, for Miss looks very uneasy-like.”
“If it’s okay with you, Aunt,” said young Mr. Branghton, “let’s talk about something else, because Miss looks really uncomfortable.”
The next subject that was chosen was the age of the three young Branghtons and myself. The son is twenty; the daughters upon hearing that I was seventeen, said that was just the age of Miss Polly; but their brother, after a long dispute, proved that she was two years older, to the great anger of both sisters, who agreed that he was very ill-natured and spiteful.
The next topic we discussed was the ages of the three young Branghtons and me. The son is twenty; when the daughters learned that I'm seventeen, they said that was exactly Miss Polly's age. However, their brother, after a long debate, showed that she’s actually two years older, which really upset both sisters, who agreed he was being very mean and spiteful.
When this point was settled, the question was put, Which was tallest?-We were desired to measure, as the Branghtons were all of different opinions. None of them, however, disputed my being the tallest in the company; but, in regard to one another, they were extremely quarrelsome: the brother insisted upon their measuring fair, and not with heads and heels; but they would by no means consent to lose those privileges of our sex; and therefore the young man was cast, as shortest; though he appealed to all present upon the injustice of the decree.
When this was decided, the question was raised: Who was the tallest? We were asked to measure because the Branghtons all had different opinions. None of them disputed that I was the tallest in the group; however, they were very argumentative about their own heights. The brother insisted they should measure properly, not just by heads and heels, but they refused to give up those advantages of our gender. So, the young man ended up being declared the shortest, even though he appealed to everyone there about the unfairness of the decision.
This ceremony over, the young ladies begun, very freely, to examine my dress, and to interrogate me concerning it. “This apron’s your own work, I suppose, Miss? but these sprigs a’n’t in fashion now. Pray, if it is not impertinent, what might you give a yard for this lutestring?-Do you make your own caps, Miss?” and many other questions equally interesting and well-bred.
This ceremony finished, the young ladies started eagerly examining my dress and asking me about it. “This apron’s your own work, I assume, Miss? But these designs aren’t in style anymore. If it’s not too forward, how much do you pay per yard for this fabric? Do you make your own caps, Miss?”—and many other questions that were just as interesting and polite.
Then they asked me how I liked London? and whether I should not think the country a very dull place, when I returned thither? “Miss must try if she can’t get a good husband,” said Mr. Branghton, “and then she may stay and live here.”
Then they asked me how I liked London and whether I thought the countryside would be a really boring place when I went back there. “Miss should see if she can find a good husband,” said Mr. Branghton, “and then she can stay and live here.”
The next topic was public places, or rather the theatres, for they knew of no other; and the merits and defects of all the actors and actresses were discussed: the young man here took the lead, and seemed to be very conversant on the subject. But during this time, what was my concern, and, suffer me to add, my indignation, when I found, by some words I occasionally heard, that Madame Duval was entertaining Mr. Branghton with all the most secret and cruel particulars of my situation! The eldest daughter was soon drawn to them by the recital; the youngest and the son still kept their places; intending, I believe, to divert me, though the conversation was all their own.
The next topic was public places, specifically the theaters, since they didn’t know of any others; they discussed the pros and cons of all the actors and actresses. The young man took the lead in this conversation and seemed to know a lot about it. But during this time, I was deeply concerned and, let me add, outraged when I realized, from some words I caught, that Madame Duval was sharing all the most private and harsh details of my situation with Mr. Branghton! The oldest daughter quickly joined them to listen to the recounting, while the youngest and the son stayed in their seats, probably trying to cheer me up, even though the conversation was entirely theirs.
In a few minutes, Miss Branghton coming suddenly up to her sister, exclaimed, “Lord, Polly, only think! Miss never saw her papa!”
In a few minutes, Miss Branghton suddenly approached her sister and exclaimed, “Oh my God, Polly, can you believe it? Miss has never seen her dad!”
“Lord, how odd!” cried the other; “why, then, Miss, I suppose you wouldn’t know him?”
“Wow, that's strange!” exclaimed the other person; “so, Miss, I take it you don’t know him?”
This was quite too much for me; I rose hastily, and ran out of the room: but I soon regretted I had so little command of myself; for the two sisters both followed, and insisted upon comforting me, notwithstanding my earnest intreaties to be left alone.
This was way too much for me; I quickly got up and ran out of the room. But I soon regretted not being able to control myself, because both sisters followed me and insisted on comforting me, despite my sincere pleas to be left alone.
As soon as I returned to the company, Madame Duval said, “Why, my dear, what was the matter with you? why did you run away so?”
As soon as I got back to the company, Madame Duval said, “Oh my dear, what was wrong with you? Why did you run away like that?”
This question almost made me run again, for I knew not how to answer it. But, is it not very extraordinary, that she can put me in situations so shocking, and then wonder to find me sensible of any concern?
This question almost made me run away again because I didn't know how to answer it. But isn't it pretty amazing that she can put me in such shocking situations and then be surprised that I actually care?
Mr. Branghton junior now inquired of me, whether I had seen the Tower, or St. Paul’s church? and upon my answering in the negative, they proposed making a party to shew them to me. Among other questions, they also asked, if I had ever seen such a thing as an opera? I told them I had. “Well,” said Mr. Branghton, “I never saw one in my life, so long as I’ve lived in London; and I never desire to see one, if I live here as much longer.”
Mr. Branghton Jr. asked me if I had seen the Tower or St. Paul's Cathedral. When I said no, they suggested we form a group to show them to me. They also wanted to know if I had ever seen an opera. I told them I had. “Well,” said Mr. Branghton, “I've never seen one in my entire life living in London, and I don’t want to see one if I stay here much longer.”
“Lord, papa,” cried Miss Polly, “why not? you might as well for once, for the curiosity of the thing: besides, Miss Pomfret saw one, and she says it was very pretty.”
“Lord, Dad,” cried Miss Polly, “why not? You might as well this once, just out of curiosity: plus, Miss Pomfret saw one, and she says it was really pretty.”
“Miss will think us very vulgar,” said Miss Branghton, “to live in London, and never have been to an opera; but it’s no fault of mine, I assure you, Miss, only papa don’t like to go.”
“Miss will think we’re very tacky,” said Miss Branghton, “to live in London and never have been to an opera; but it’s not my fault, I promise you, Miss, it’s just that dad doesn’t like to go.”
The result was, that a party was proposed, and agreed to, for some early opportunity. I did not dare contradict them; but I said that my time, while I remained in town, was at the disposal of Mrs. Mirvan. However, I am sure I will not attend them, if I can possibly avoid doing so.
The outcome was that a party was suggested and agreed upon for an early date. I didn't dare disagree with them, but I mentioned that my time, while I was still in town, was at Mrs. Mirvan's disposal. However, I am certain that I will avoid attending if at all possible.
When we parted, Madame Duval desired to see me the next day; and the Branghtons told me, that the first time I went towards Snow Hill, they should be very glad if I would call upon them.
When we said goodbye, Madame Duval wanted to see me the next day; and the Branghtons told me that the next time I headed towards Snow Hill, they would be really happy if I would stop by to visit them.
I wish we may not meet again till that time arrives.
I hope we don’t see each other again until that time comes.
I am sure I shall not be very ambitious of being known to any more of my relations, if they have any resemblance to those whose acquaintance I have been introduced to already.
I bet I won't be very eager to meet any more of my relatives if they're anything like the ones I've already met.
LETTER XVIII - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION
I HAD just finished my letter to you this morning, when a violent rapping at the door made me run down stairs; and who should I see in the drawing room, but-Lord Orville!
I had just finished my letter to you this morning when a loud knock at the door made me rush downstairs; and who should I see in the living room but Lord Orville!
He was quite alone, for the family had not assembled to breakfast. He inquired first of mine, then of the health of Mrs. and Miss Mirvan, with a degree of concern that rather surprised me, till he said he had just been informed of the accident we had met with at Ranelagh. He expressed his sorrow upon the occasion with utmost politeness, and lamented that he had not been so fortunate as to hear of it in time to offer his services. “But I think,” he added, “Sir Clement Willoughby had the honour of assisting you?”
He was completely alone, as the family hadn’t gathered for breakfast. He first asked about my well-being, then inquired about Mrs. and Miss Mirvan’s health with a level of concern that surprised me. It wasn’t until he mentioned he had just heard about the accident we had at Ranelagh that it made sense. He expressed his condolences with great politeness and regretted not hearing about it sooner so he could offer his help. “But I believe,” he added, “Sir Clement Willoughby had the honor of assisting you?”
“He was with Captain Mirvan, my Lord.”
“He was with Captain Mirvan, my Lord.”
“I had heard of his being of your party.”
“I heard he was part of your group.”
I hope that flighty man has not been telling Lord Orville he only assisted me! however, he did not pursue the subject: but said, “This accident though extremely unfortunate, will not, I hope, be the means of frightening you from gracing Ranelagh with your presence in future?”
I hope that unreliable guy hasn’t been telling Lord Orville that he only helped me! Still, he didn’t continue the topic: instead, he said, “This unfortunate accident, while regrettable, won’t scare you away from making future appearances at Ranelagh, right?”
“Our time, my Lord, for London, is almost expired already.”
“Our time in London, my Lord, is almost up already.”
“Indeed! do you leave town so very soon?”
“Really! Are you leaving town so soon?”
“O yes, my Lord, our stay has already exceeded our intentions.”
“O yes, my Lord, we've already stayed longer than we meant to.”
“Are you, then, so particularly partial to the country?”
“Are you really that fond of the countryside?”
“We merely came to town, my Lord, to meet Captain Mirvan.”
“We just came to town, my Lord, to meet Captain Mirvan.”
“And does Miss Anville feel no concern at the idea of the many mourners her absence will occasion?”
“And doesn’t Miss Anville care at all about the many mourners her absence will cause?”
“O, my Lord,-I’m sure you don’t think-” I stopt there; for, indeed, I hardly knew what I was going to say. My foolish embarrassment, I suppose, was the cause of what followed; for he came to me, and took my hand saying, “I do think, that whoever has once seen Miss Anville, must receive an impression never to be forgotten.”
“O, my Lord, I’m sure you don’t think—” I stopped there because I honestly wasn’t sure what I was going to say. My ridiculous embarrassment was probably the reason for what happened next; he came over to me, took my hand, and said, “I really believe that anyone who has seen Miss Anville will never forget the impression she leaves.”
This compliment,-from Lord Orville,-so surprised me, that I could not speak; but felt myself change colour, and stood for some moments silent, and looking down: however, the instant I recollected my situation, I withdrew my hand, and told him that I would see if Mrs. Mirvan was not dressed. He did not oppose me-so away I went.
This compliment—from Lord Orville—caught me off guard so much that I couldn't speak; I felt myself blush and stood there silent for a moment, looking down. However, as soon as I remembered my situation, I pulled my hand away and told him that I would check if Mrs. Mirvan was ready. He didn’t stop me—so off I went.
I met them all on the stairs, and returned with them to breakfast.
I saw them all on the stairs and went back to breakfast with them.
I have since been extremely angry with myself for neglecting so excellent an opportunity of apologizing for my behaviour at the ridotto: but, to own the truth, that affair never once occurred to me during the short tete-e-tete which we had together. But, if ever we should happen to be so situated again, I will certainly mention it; for I am inexpressibly concerned at the thought of his harbouring an opinion that I am bold or impertinent, and I could almost kill myself for having given him the shadow of a reason for so shocking an idea.
I've been really mad at myself for missing such a great chance to apologize for my behavior at the party. Honestly, I didn't even think about it during our brief moment together. But if we ever find ourselves in a similar situation again, I will definitely bring it up; I'm incredibly worried at the thought of him believing that I'm rude or disrespectful, and I could almost kick myself for giving him even the slightest reason to think that way.
But was not it very odd that he should make me such a compliment? I expected it not from him;-but gallantry, I believe, is common to all men, whatever other qualities they may have in particular.
But wasn’t it really strange that he would give me such a compliment? I didn’t expect it from him; but I think flirtation is something all men have in common, no matter what other qualities they might possess.
Our breakfast was the most agreeable meal, if it may be called a meal, that we have had since we came to town. Indeed, but for Madame Duval, I should like London extremely.
Our breakfast was the most enjoyable meal, if it can be called a meal, that we've had since we came to the city. Honestly, if it weren't for Madame Duval, I would really like London.
The conversation of Lord Orville is really delightful. His manners are so elegant, so gentle, so unassuming, that they at once engage esteem, and diffuse complacence. Far from being indolently satisfied with his own accomplishments, as I have already observed many men here are, though without any pretensions to his merit, he is most assiduously attentive to please and to serve all who are in his company, and, though his success is invariable, he never manifests the smallest degree of consciousness.
The way Lord Orville talks is truly charming. His demeanor is so graceful, gentle, and unpretentious that it naturally earns respect and creates a pleasant atmosphere. Unlike many men I've noticed here, who are lazily content with their own abilities even if they don't have his level of talent, he is always eager to please and help everyone around him. Even though he always succeeds, he never shows the slightest hint of being aware of it.
I could wish that you, my dearest Sir, knew Lord Orville, because I am sure you would love him; and I have felt that wish for no other person I have seen since I came to London. I sometimes imagine, that when his youth is flown, his vivacity abated, and his life is devoted to retirement, he will, perhaps, resemble him whom I most love and honour. His present sweetness, politeness, and diffidence, seem to promise in future the same benevolence, dignity, and goodness. But I must not expatiate upon this subject.
I wish you, my dearest Sir, knew Lord Orville because I'm sure you would love him; I've felt that way about no one else since I came to London. Sometimes I imagine that when his youth is gone, his energy toned down, and his life focuses on retirement, he might resemble the person I love and respect the most. His current kindness, politeness, and humility seem to promise that he will carry the same generosity, dignity, and goodness in the future. But I shouldn’t go on about this topic.
When Lord Orville was gone,-and he made but a very short visit,-I was preparing, most reluctantly, to wait upon Madame Duval; but Mrs. Mirvan proposed to the Captain, that she should be invited to dinner in Queen Ann Street; and he readily consented, for he said he wished to ask after her Lyons negligee.
When Lord Orville left—and his visit was really short—I was getting ready, quite reluctantly, to go see Madame Duval. But Mrs. Mirvan suggested to the Captain that she should be invited to dinner in Queen Ann Street; he agreed quickly, saying he wanted to ask about her Lyons negligee.
The invitation is accepted, and we expect her every moment. But to me, it is very strange, that a woman who is the uncontrolled mistress of her time, fortune, and actions, should choose to expose herself voluntarily to the rudeness of a man who is openly determined to make her his sport. But she has very few acquaintance; and, I fancy, scarce knows how to employ herself.
The invitation is accepted, and we expect her any moment now. But to me, it feels very strange that a woman who has complete control over her time, money, and choices would choose to put herself in the way of a man who is clearly set on making her the target of his amusement. However, she has very few acquaintances, and I think she hardly knows how to occupy herself.
How great is my obligation to Mrs. Mirvan, for bestowing her time in a manner so disagreeable to herself, merely to promote my happiness! Every dispute in which her undeserving husband engages, is productive of pain and uneasiness to herself; of this I am so sensible, that I even besought her not to send to Madame Duval; but she declared she could not bear to have me pass all my time, while in town, with her only. Indeed she could not be more kind to me, were she your daughter.
How grateful am I to Mrs. Mirvan for spending her time in a way that’s so uncomfortable for her, just to make me happy! Every argument her ungrateful husband gets into causes her pain and anxiety; I’m so aware of this that I even asked her not to reach out to Madame Duval. But she said she couldn’t stand having me spend all my time in town only with her. Honestly, she couldn’t be more caring towards me if she were your daughter.
LETTER XIX - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION Saturday Morning, April 16.
MADAM DUVAL was accompanied by Monsieur Du Bois. I am surprised that she should choose to introduce him where he is so unwelcome: and, indeed, it is strange that they should be so constantly together, though I believe I should have taken notice of it, but that Captain Mirvan is perpetually rallying me upon my grandmama’s beau.
MADAM DUVAL was with Monsieur Du Bois. I'm surprised she would bring him to a place where he's so unwelcome; it's odd that they spend so much time together. I think I would have noticed it if Captain Mirvan didn't keep teasing me about my grandmother’s boyfriend.
They were both received by Mrs. Mirvan with her usual good-breeding; but the Captain, most provokingly, attacked her immediately, saying, “Now, Madame, you that have lived abroad, please to tell me this here: Which did you like best, the warm room at Ranelagh, or the cold bath you went into afterwards? though I assure you, you look so well, that I should advise you to take another dip.”
They were both welcomed by Mrs. Mirvan with her usual grace; but the Captain, quite annoyingly, challenged her right away, saying, “Now, Madame, since you've lived abroad, please tell me this: Which did you prefer, the warm room at Ranelagh or the cold bath you went into afterwards? Although I must say, you look so good that I’d suggest you take another dip.”
“Ma foi, Sir,” cried she, “nobody asked for your advice, so you may as well keep it to yourself: besides, it’s no such great joke to be splashed, and to catch cold, and spoil all one’s things, whatever you may think of it.”
“Honestly, Sir,” she exclaimed, “no one asked for your advice, so you might as well keep it to yourself. Besides, it’s not that funny to get splashed, catch a cold, and ruin all your stuff, no matter what you think.”
“Splashed, quoth-a!-why I thought you were soused all over.-Come, come, don’t mince the matter, never spoil a good story; you know you hadn’t a dry thread about you-’Fore George, I shall never think on’t without hollooing! such a poor forlorn draggle-tailed-gentlewoman! and poor Monseer French, here, like a drowned rat, by your side!-”
“Splashing around, I thought you were soaked through! Come on, don’t beat around the bush, never ruin a good story; you know you were completely drenched—honestly, I’ll never think of it without laughing! Such a sad, messy lady! And poor Monsieur French, here, looking like a drowned rat next to you!”
“Well, the worse pickle we was in, so much the worser in you not to help us; for you knowed where we were fast enough, because, while I laid in the mud, I’m pretty sure I heard you snigger: so it’s like enough you jostled us down yourself; for Monsieur Du Bois says, that he is sure he had a great jolt given him, or he shouldn’t have fell.”
“Well, the worse situation we were in, the worse it was for you not to help us; because you knew exactly where we were, since while I was lying in the mud, I’m pretty sure I heard you. So it’s likely that you knocked us down yourself; because Monsieur Du Bois says he's sure he got a big jolt, or he wouldn’t have fallen.”
The Captain laughed so immoderately, that he really gave me also a suspicion that he was not entirely innocent of the charge: however, he disclaimed it very peremptorily.
The Captain laughed so hard that it made me suspect he might not be completely innocent of the accusation; however, he denied it quite forcefully.
“Why then,” continued she, “if you didn’t do that, why didn’t you come to help us?”
“Then why,” she went on, “if you didn’t do that, why didn’t you come to help us?”
“Who, I?-what, do you suppose I had forgot I was an Englishman, a filthy, beastly Englishman?”
“Who, me? Do you think I forgot I was an Englishman, a disgusting, filthy Englishman?”
“Very well, Sir, very well; but I was a fool to expect any better, for it’s all of a piece with the rest; you know, you wanted to fling me out of the coach-window, the very first time ever I see you: but I’ll never go to Ranelagh with you no more, that I’m resolved; for I dare say, if the horses had runn’d over me, as I laid in that nastiness, you’d never have stirred a step to save me.”
“Alright, Sir, alright; but I was naive to think it would be any different, since it’s all the same as before; you know, you wanted to throw me out of the coach window the first time I saw you: but I’m determined I won’t go to Ranelagh with you again; because I bet if the horses had run over me while I was lying there in that mess, you wouldn’t have moved a finger to help me.”
“Lord, no, to be sure, Ma’am, not for the world! I know your opinion of our nation too well, to affront you by supposing a Frenchman would want my assistance to protect you. Did you think that Monseer here, and I had changed characters, and that he should pop you into the mud, and I help you out of it? Ha, ha, ha!”
“Lord, no, of course not, Ma’am, not for anything! I know your views on our country too well to insult you by thinking a Frenchman would want my help to protect you. Did you really think that Monseer and I had switched roles, and that he would throw you into the mud while I helped pull you out? Ha, ha, ha!”
“O very well, Sir, laugh on, it’s like your manners; however, if poor Monsieur Du Bois hadn’t met with that unlucky accident himself I shouldn’t have wanted nobody’s help.”
“O very well, Sir, laugh all you want, it fits your manners; however, if poor Monsieur Du Bois hadn’t had that unfortunate accident himself, I wouldn’t have needed anyone’s help.”
“O, I promise you, Madame, you’d never have had mine; I knew my distance better: and as to your being a little ducked, or so, why, to be sure, Monseer and you settled that between yourselves; so it was no business of mine.”
“O, I promise you, Madame, you would never have had mine; I knew my place better. And as for you being a little wet or whatever, that was something you and Monseer sorted out between yourselves; it was none of my business.”
“What, then, I suppose you want to make me believe as Monsieur Du Bois served me that trick o’purpose?”
“What, do you expect me to believe that trick was done on purpose like Monsieur Du Bois served me?”
“O’ purpose! ay, certainly; whoever doubted that? Do you think a Frenchman ever made a blunder? If he had been some clumsy-footed English fellow, indeed, it might have been accidental: but what the devil signifies all your hopping and capering with your dancing-masters, if you can’t balance yourselves upright?”
“O’ purpose! Yeah, of course; who wouldn’t doubt that? Do you really think a Frenchman ever makes a mistake? If he were some awkward English guy, maybe it could’ve been by accident: but what’s the point of all your hopping and prancing with your dance teachers if you can’t even stand up straight?”
In the midst of this dialogue, Sir Clement Willoughby made his appearance. He affects to enter the house with the freedom of an old acquaintance; and this very easiness, which, to me, is astonishing, is what most particularly recommends him to the Captain. Indeed, he seems very successfully to study all the humours of that gentleman.
In the middle of this conversation, Sir Clement Willoughby showed up. He acts like he’s entering the house as if he’s an old friend, and this casualness, which I find surprising, is exactly what the Captain appreciates most about him. In fact, he seems to really understand all the quirks of that guy.
After having heartily welcomed him, “You are just come in time, my boy,” said he, “to settle a little matter of a dispute between this here gentlewoman and I; do you know she has been trying to persuade me, that she did not above half like the ducking Monseer gave her t’other night.”
After warmly welcoming him, “You’ve arrived just in time, my boy,” he said, “to help settle a small disagreement between this lady and me; do you know she has been trying to convince me that she didn’t like the dunking Monsieur gave her the other night?”
“I should have hoped,” said Sir Clement, with the utmost gravity, “that the friendship subsisting between that lady and gentleman would have guarded them against any actions professed disagreeable to each other: but, probably, they might not have discussed the matter previously; in which case the gentleman, I must own, seems to have been guilty of inattention, since, in my humble opinion, it was his business first to have inquired whether the lady preferred soft or hard ground, before he dropt her.”
“I should have expected,” said Sir Clement seriously, “that the friendship between that lady and gentleman would have protected them from any actions that they found unpleasant toward each other. But, they probably didn’t talk about it beforehand; in which case, I must admit, the gentleman appears to have been inattentive, since, in my opinion, it was his responsibility to ask whether the lady preferred soft or hard ground before he let her down.”
“O very fine, gentlemen, very fine,” cried Madame Duval, “you may try to set us together by the ears as much as you will; but I’m not such an ignorant person as to be made a fool of so easily; so you needn’t talk no more about it, for I sees into your designs.”
“O very fine, gentlemen, very fine,” cried Madame Duval, “you can try as much as you want to pit us against each other, but I’m not so naive as to be fooled that easily; so you don’t need to talk about it anymore, because I see right through your plans.”
Monsieur Du Bois, who was just able to discover the subject upon which the conversation turned, made his defence, in French, with great solemnity: he hoped, he said, that the company would at least acknowledge he did not come from a nation of brutes; and consequently, that to wilfully offend any lady, was, to him, utterly impossible; but that, on the contrary, in endeavouring, as was his duty, to save and guard her, he had himself suffered, in a manner which he would forbear to relate, but which, he greatly apprehended, he should feel the ill effects of for many months: and then, with a countenance exceedingly lengthened, he added, that he hoped it would not be attributed to him as national prejudice, when he owned that he must, to the best of his memory, aver, that his unfortunate fall was owing to a sudden but violent push, which, he was shocked to say, some malevolent person, with a design to his injury, must certainly have given him; but whether with a view to mortify him, by making him let the lady fall, or whether merely to spoil his clothes, he could not pretend to determine.
Monsieur Du Bois, who had just figured out what the conversation was about, spoke in French with great seriousness. He expressed his hope that the group would at least recognize that he did not come from a nation of brutes. Therefore, he stated it was completely impossible for him to purposely offend any lady. Instead, he was simply trying, as was his duty, to protect her, and in doing so, he had suffered in a way he preferred not to detail, but he feared he would feel the effects for many months. With a notably somber expression, he added that he hoped it wouldn't be seen as a national bias when he admitted that, to the best of his recollection, his unfortunate fall was due to a sudden but forceful shove. He was appalled to say that some malicious individual, who must have intended to harm him, had evidently given it. Whether the intention was to embarrass him by causing him to let the lady fall or just to ruin his clothes, he couldn't say for sure.
This disputation was, at last, concluded by Mrs. Mirvan’s proposing that we should all go to Cox’s Museum. Nobody objected, and carriages were immediately ordered.
This discussion finally came to an end when Mrs. Mirvan suggested that we all go to Cox’s Museum. Nobody disagreed, and carriages were quickly arranged.
In our way down stairs, Madame Duval, in a very passionate manner, said, “Ma foi, if I wouldn’t give fifty guineas only to know who gave us that shove!”
On our way down the stairs, Madame Duval, quite passionately, said, “Honestly, I would give fifty guineas just to find out who pushed us!”
This Museum is very astonishing, and very superb; yet if afforded me but little pleasure, for it is a mere show, though a wonderful one.
This museum is quite amazing and really impressive; however, it gave me only a little joy, as it's just a display, even if it's a magnificent one.
Sir Clement Willoughby, in our walk round the room, asked me what my opinion was of this brilliant spectacle!
Sir Clement Willoughby, during our stroll around the room, asked me what I thought of this dazzling display!
“It is a very fine, and very ingenious,” answered I; “and yet-I don’t know how it is-but I seem to miss something.”
“It’s really clever and well done,” I replied, “but for some reason, I feel like something is missing.”
“Excellently answered!” cried he; “you have exactly defined my own feelings, though in a manner I should never have arrived at. But I was certain your taste was too well formed, to be pleased at the expense of your understanding.”
“Perfectly said!” he exclaimed; “you've articulated exactly how I feel, even though I would never have expressed it this way. But I knew your taste was too refined to find satisfaction at the cost of your understanding.”
“Pardi,” cried Madame Duval, “I hope you two is difficult enough! I’m sure if you don’t like this you like nothing; for it’s the grandest, prettiest, finest sight that ever I see in England.”
“Pardi,” exclaimed Madame Duval, “I hope you both are difficult enough! I’m sure if you don't like this, you don’t like anything; because it’s the grandest, prettiest, finest sight I’ve ever seen in England.”
“What,” cried the Captain with a sneer, “I suppose this may be in your French taste? it’s like enough, for it’s all kickshaw work. But pr’ythee, friend,” turning to the person who explained the devices, “will you tell me the use of all this? for I’m not enough of a conjuror to find it out.”
“What,” exclaimed the Captain with a smirk, “I assume this is to your French liking? It sure seems like it, since it’s all just fancy nonsense. But please, my friend,” he said, turning to the person who explained the tricks, “can you tell me what all this is for? Because I’m not skilled enough to figure it out myself.”
“Use, indeed!” repeated Madame Duval, disdainfully; “Lord if every thing’s to be useful!-”
“Use, really!” Madame Duval repeated, looking down her nose; “Seriously, if everything has to be useful!”
“Why, Sir, as to that, Sir,” said our conductor, “the ingenuity of the mechanism-the beauty of the workmanship-the-undoubtedly, Sir, any person of taste may easily discern the utility of such extraordinary performances.”
“Why, sir, as for that, sir,” said our conductor, “the cleverness of the mechanism—the beauty of the craftsmanship—undoubtedly, sir, anyone with good taste can easily see the usefulness of such remarkable creations.”
“Why then, Sir,” answered the Captain, “your person of taste must be either a coxcomb, or a Frenchman; though, for the matter of that, ?tis the same thing.”
“Why then, Sir,” replied the Captain, “your person of taste must either be a show-off or a Frenchman; though, really, they might as well be the same thing.”
Just then our attention was attracted by a pine-apple; which, suddenly opening, discovered a nest of birds, which immediately began to sing. “Well,” cried Madame Duval, “this is prettier than all the rest! I declare, in all my travels, I never see nothing eleganter.”
Just then, something caught our eye: a pineapple that suddenly opened up to reveal a nest of birds, which immediately started singing. “Well,” exclaimed Madame Duval, “this is nicer than everything else! I swear, in all my travels, I've never seen anything more elegant.”
“Hark ye, friend,” said the Captain, “hast never another pine-apple?”
“Hear me, friend,” said the Captain, “do you not have another pineapple?”
“Sir?-”
"Excuse me?"
“Because, if thou hast, pr’ythee give it us without the birds; for, d’ye see, I’m no Frenchman, and should relish something more substantial.”
“Because, if you have it, please give it to us without the birds; for, you see, I’m not French, and I’d prefer something more substantial.”
This entertainment concluded with a concert of mechanical music: I cannot explain how it was produced, but the effect was pleasing. Madame Duval was in ecstasies; and the Captain flung himself into so many ridiculous distortions, by way of mimicking her, that he engaged the attention of all the company; and, in the midst of the performance of the Coronation Anthem, while Madame Duval was affecting to beat time, and uttering many expressions of delight, he called suddenly for salts, which a lady, apprehending some distress, politely handed to him, and which, instantly applying to the nostrils of poor Madame Duval, she involuntarily snuffed up such a quantity, that the pain and surprise made her scream aloud. When she recovered, she reproached him with her usual vehemence; but he protested he had taken that measure out of pure friendship, as he concluded, from her raptures, that she was going into hysterics. This excuse by no means appeased her, and they had a violent quarrel; but the only effect her anger had on the Captain, was to increase his diversion. Indeed, he laughs and talks so terribly loud in public, that he frequently makes us ashamed of belonging to him.
This entertainment ended with a concert of mechanical music: I can’t explain how it was made, but it sounded great. Madame Duval was ecstatic; and the Captain made so many silly faces to mimic her that he caught everyone’s attention. In the middle of performing the Coronation Anthem, while Madame Duval pretended to keep time and expressed her joy, he suddenly called for salts, which a lady, thinking he was in distress, kindly handed to him. He then quickly held it to Madame Duval’s nostrils, and she inhaled so much that the surprise and pain made her scream. Once she calmed down, she scolded him passionately, but he insisted he acted out of friendship, thinking her excitement meant she was going into hysterics. This didn’t calm her down at all, and they ended up in a heated argument; however, her anger only made the Captain laugh more. In fact, he laughs and talks so loudly in public that we often feel embarrassed to be associated with him.
Madame Duval, notwithstanding her wrath, made no scruple of returning to dine in Queen Ann Street. Mrs. Mirvan had secured places for the play at Drury-Lane Theatre, and, though ever uneasy in her company, she very politely invited Madame Duval to be of our party; however, she had a bad cold and chose to nurse it. I was sorry for her indisposition; but I knew not how to be sorry she did not accompany us, for she is-I must not say what, but very unlike other people.
Madame Duval, despite her anger, had no problem returning to dinner on Queen Ann Street. Mrs. Mirvan had gotten tickets for the play at Drury-Lane Theatre, and even though she always felt uneasy around Madame Duval, she politely invited her to join us. However, Madame Duval had a bad cold and decided to stay home to recover. I felt bad for her being unwell, but I wasn’t sure how to feel bad that she didn’t come with us, because she is—I can't say what, but she's really unlike anyone else.
LETTER XX - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION
OUR places were in the front row of a side-box. Sir Clement Willoughby, who knew our intention, was at the door of the theatre, and handed us from the carriage.
OUR places were in the front row of a side box. Sir Clement Willoughby, who knew what we were planning, was at the theater door and helped us out of the carriage.
We had not been seated five minutes before Lord Orville, whom we saw in the stage-box, came to us; and he honoured us with his company all the evening; Miss Mirvan and I both rejoiced that Madam Duval was absent, as we hoped for the enjoyment of some conversation, uninterrupted by her quarrels with the Captain: but I soon found that her presence would have made very little alteration; for as far was I from daring to speak, that I knew not where even to look.
We had barely been seated five minutes when Lord Orville, whom we spotted in the stage-box, came over to us; and he kept us company all evening. Miss Mirvan and I were both glad that Madam Duval wasn't there, as we hoped to enjoy some conversation without her fighting with the Captain. However, I quickly realized that her presence wouldn't have changed much; I was so far from feeling brave enough to speak that I didn't even know where to look.
The play was Love for Love; and though it is fraught with wit and entertainment I hope I shall never see it represented again; for it is so extremely indelicate-to use the softest word I can-that Miss Mirvan and I were perpetually out of countenance, and could neither make any observations ourselves, nor venture to listen to those of others. This was the most provoking, as Lord Orville was in excellent spirits, and exceedingly entertaining.
The play was Love for Love, and while it's full of wit and entertainment, I really hope I never see it performed again. It's so incredibly inappropriate—using the mildest term I can think of—that Miss Mirvan and I were constantly embarrassed and couldn't make any comments ourselves or even bear to listen to what others said. This was especially frustrating because Lord Orville was in great spirits and very entertaining.
When the play was over, I flattered myself I should be able to look about me with less restraint, as we intended to stay the farce; but the curtain had hardly dropped, when the box-door opened, and in came Mr. Lovel, the man by whose foppery and impertinence I was so much teased at the ball where I first saw Lord Orville.
When the play ended, I thought I could relax a bit since we planned to stay for the farce. But as soon as the curtain fell, the box door opened, and in walked Mr. Lovel, the guy whose arrogance and annoying behavior had bothered me at the ball where I first met Lord Orville.
I turned away my head, and began talking to Miss Mirvan; for I was desirous to avoid speaking to him-but in vain; for, as soon as he had made his compliments to Lord Orville and Sir Clement Willoughby, who returned them very coldly, he bent his head forward and said to me, “I hope, Ma’am, you have enjoyed your health since I had the honour-I beg ten thousand pardons, but, I protest I was going to say the honour of dancing with you-however, I mean the honour of seeing you dance?”
I turned my head away and started talking to Miss Mirvan because I wanted to avoid speaking to him, but it was pointless. As soon as he finished complimenting Lord Orville and Sir Clement Willoughby, who responded rather coldly, he leaned in and said to me, “I hope you’ve been well since I had the honor—I’m so sorry, but I was actually going to say the honor of dancing with you—anyway, I mean the honor of watching you dance?”
He spoke with a self-complacency that convinced me that he had studied this address, by way of making reprisals for my conduct at the ball; I therefore bowed slightly, but made no answer.
He talked with a smugness that made me think he had practiced this speech to get back at me for how I acted at the party; so, I gave a slight nod but didn't say anything.
After a short silence he again called my attention, by saying, in an easy, negligent way, “I think, Ma’am, you was never in town before?”
After a brief silence, he casually drew my attention again by saying, "I think, ma'am, you’ve never been to town before?"
“No, Sir.”
“No, Sir.”
“So I did presume. Doubtless, Ma’am, every thing must be infinitely novel to you. Our customs, our manners, and les etiquettes de nous autres, can have little very resemblance to those you have been used to. I imagine, Ma’am, your retirement is at no very small distance from the capital?”
“So I thought. Certainly, Ma’am, everything must be completely new to you. Our customs, our manners, and the etiquette we have are probably quite different from what you’re used to. I assume, Ma’am, that your home is not very far from the capital?”
I was so much disconcerted at this sneering speech, that I said not a word; though I have since thought my vexation both stimulated and delighted him.
I was so thrown off by this mocking comment that I didn't say anything; although I've since realized that my frustration both stirred and amused him.
“The air we breathe here, however, Ma’am,” continued he, very conceitedly, “though foreign to that you have been accustomed to, has not I hope been at variance with your health?”
“The air we breathe here, though different from what you’re used to, hasn't, I hope, been bad for your health?”
“Mr. Lovel,” said Lord Orville, “could not your eye have spared that question?”
“Mr. Lovel,” Lord Orville said, “couldn't you have held back that question?”
“O, my Lord,” answered he, “if health were the only cause of a lady’s bloom, my eye, I grant, had been infallible from the first glance; but-”
“O, my Lord,” he replied, “if health were the only reason for a woman’s beauty, my eye would have been spot-on from the very first glance; but-”
“Come, come,” cried Mrs. Mirvan, “I must beg no insinuations of that sort: Miss Anville’s colour, as you have successfully tried, may, you see, be heightened; but, I assure you, it would be past your skill to lessen it.”
“Come on,” Mrs. Mirvan exclaimed, “I must insist you drop those kinds of hints: Miss Anville’s blush, as you’ve already demonstrated, can be intensified; but I assure you, it would be beyond your ability to diminish it.”
“‘Pon honour, Madam,” returned he, “you wrong me; I presumed not to infer that rouge was the only succedaneum for health; but, really, I have known so many different causes for a lady’s colour, such as flushing-anger-mauvaise honte-and so forth, that I never dare decide to which it may be owing.”
“On my honor, Madam,” he replied, “you're mistaken; I didn’t mean to suggest that blush is the only substitute for health. But honestly, I've seen so many different reasons for a woman’s color, like flushing from anger, embarrassment, and so on, that I never dare to say what might be causing it.”
“As to such causes as them there,” cried the Captain, “they must belong to those that they keep company with.”
“As for causes like those,” shouted the Captain, “they must belong to those they associate with.”
“Very true, Captain,” said Sir Clement; “the natural complexion has nothing to do with the occasional sallies of the passions, or any accidental causes.”
“Very true, Captain,” said Sir Clement; “natural complexion has nothing to do with the occasional outbursts of emotions, or any random factors.”
“No, truly,” returned the Captain: “for now here’s me, why I look like any other man; just now; and yet, if you were to put me in a passion, ?fore George, you’d soon see me have as fine a high colour as any painted Jezebel in all this place, be she never so bedaubed.”
“No, really,” the Captain replied, “because here I am, looking just like any other guy; at this moment, that is; but if you were to get me worked up, I swear, you’d quickly see me turn as red as any painted woman in this place, no matter how much makeup she’s wearing.”
“But,” said Lord Orville, “the difference of natural and of artificial colour seems to me very easily discerned; that of nature is mottled and varying; that of art set, and too smooth; it wants that animation, that glow, that indescribable something, which, even now that I see it, wholly surpasses all my powers of expression.”
“But,” said Lord Orville, “the difference between natural and artificial color seems very easy to see; nature’s color is mottled and varied; art's is flat and too perfect; it lacks that vibrancy, that glow, that indescribable something, which, even now that I see it, completely exceeds my ability to describe.”
“Your Lordship,” said Sir Clement, “is universally acknowledged to be a connoisseur in beauty.”
“Your Lordship,” said Sir Clement, “is widely recognized as an expert in beauty.”
“And you, Sir Clement,” returned he, “an enthusiast.”
“And you, Sir Clement,” he replied, “an enthusiast.”
“I am proud to own it,” cried Sir Clement; “in such a cause, and before such objects, enthusiasm is simply the consequence of not being blind.”
“I’m proud to own it,” Sir Clement exclaimed; “in such a cause, and before such things, enthusiasm is just a natural response to not being blind.”
“Pr’ythee, a truce with all this palavering,” cried the Captain: “the women are vain enough already; no need for to puff ‘em up more.”
“Come on, let’s stop with all this chatting,” shouted the Captain. “The women are already vain enough; no need to boost their egos even more.”
“We must all submit to the commanding officer,” said Sir Clement: “therefore, let us call another subject. Pray, ladies, how have you been entertained with the play?”
“We all have to follow the commanding officer,” said Sir Clement. “So, let’s change the topic. Please, ladies, how did you enjoy the play?”
“Want of entertainment,” said Mrs. Mirvan, “is its least fault; but I own there are objections to it, which I should be glad to see removed.”
“Lack of entertainment,” said Mrs. Mirvan, “is its least issue; but I admit there are problems with it that I would be happy to see fixed.”
“I could have ventured to answer for the ladies,” said Lord Orville, “since I am sure this is not a play that can be honoured with their approbation.”
“I could have taken a guess on behalf of the ladies,” said Lord Orville, “since I’m sure this is not a play that would earn their approval.”
“What, I suppose it is not sentimental enough!” cried the Captain, “or else it is too good for them; for I’ll maintain it’s one of the best comedies in our language, and has more wit in one scene than there is in all the new plays put together.”
“What, I guess it’s not sentimental enough!” shouted the Captain, “or maybe it’s just too good for them; because I’ll argue it’s one of the best comedies in our language, and has more wit in one scene than all the new plays combined.”
“For my part,” said Mr. Lovel, “I confess I seldom listen to the players: one has so much to do, in looking about and finding out one’s acquaintance, that, really, one has no time to mind the stage. Pray,” most affectedly fixing his eyes upon a diamond ring on his little finger, “pray-what was the play to-night?”
"For my part," said Mr. Lovel, "I admit I hardly ever pay attention to the performers: there's so much to do, looking around and figuring out who's here, that honestly, I just don't have time to focus on the stage. Please," he said, dramatically fixing his gaze on the diamond ring on his little finger, "what was the play tonight?"
“Why, what the D-l,” cried the Captain, “do you come to the play without knowing what it is?”
“Why, what the hell,” shouted the Captain, “do you come to the play without knowing what it is?”
“O yes, Sir, yes, very frequently: I have no time to read play-bills; one merely comes to meet one’s friends, and shew that one’s alive.”
“Oh yes, Sir, yes, all the time: I don’t have time to read playbills; people just come to meet their friends and show that they’re alive.”
“Ha, ha, ha!-and so,” cried the Captain, “it costs you five shillings a-night just to shew you’re alive! Well, faith, my friends should all think me dead and underground before I’d be at that expense for ?em. Howsomever-this here you may take from me-they’ll find you out fast enough if you have anything to give ‘em.-And so you’ve been here all this time, and don’t know what the play was?”
“Ha, ha, ha! – and so,” shouted the Captain, “it costs you five shillings a night just to prove you're alive! Well, honestly, my friends would have to think I'm dead and buried before I'd spend that kind of money on them. However, you can take this from me – they’ll figure you out pretty quickly if you have anything to offer them. – And so you’ve been here all this time and don’t know what the show was?”
“Why, really Sir, a play requires so much attention,-it is scarce possible to keep awake if one listens;-for, indeed, by the time it is evening, one has been so fatigued with dining,-or wine,-or the house,-or studying,-that it is-it is perfectly an impossibility. But, now I think of it, I believe I have a bill in my pocket; O, ay, here it is-Love for Love, ay,-true, ha, ha!-how could I be so stupid!”
“Why, really, Sir, a play needs so much focus—it's hardly possible to stay awake if you’re listening—because, by the evening, you’re so worn out from dinner—or wine—or the house—or studying—that it’s just completely impossible. But now that I think of it, I believe I have a ticket in my pocket; oh, yes, here it is—Love for Love, right—how could I be so dumb!”
“O, easily enough, as to that, I warrant you,” said the Captain; “but, by my soul, this is one of the best jokes I ever heard!-Come to a play, and not know what it is!-Why, I suppose you wouldn’t have found it out, if they had fob’d you off with a scraping of fiddlers, or an opera?-Ha, ha, ha!-Why, now, I should have thought you might have taken some notice of one Mr. Tattle, that is in this play!”
“Oh, that's easy enough, I assure you,” said the Captain. “But honestly, this is one of the funniest things I've ever heard! You come to a play and have no idea what it's about! I mean, I guess you wouldn't have figured it out if they had just stuck you with a bunch of fiddlers or an opera? Ha, ha, ha! I would have thought you might have noticed one Mr. Tattle, who is in this play!”
This sarcasm, which caused a general smile, made him colour: but, turning to the Captain with a look of conceit, which implied that he had a retort ready, he said, “Pray, Sir, give me leave to ask-What do you think of one Mr. Ben, who is also in this play?”
This sarcasm, which brought out a collective smile, made him blush; but, turning to the Captain with an air of arrogance that suggested he was prepared with a comeback, he said, “Please, Sir, may I ask—What do you think of one Mr. Ben, who is also in this play?”
The Captain, regarding him with the utmost contempt, answered in a loud voice, “Think of him!-why, I think he is a man!” And then, staring full in his face, he struck his cane on the ground with a violence that made him start. He did not however, choose to take any notice of this: but, having bit his nails some time in manifest confusion, he turned very quick to me, and in a sneering tone of voice, said, “For my part, I was most struck with the country young lady, Miss Prue; pray what do you think of her, Ma’am?”
The Captain looked at him with complete disdain and replied loudly, “Think of him! I think he’s a man!” Then, staring directly at his face, he slammed his cane against the ground with such force that it made him jump. He didn’t, however, want to acknowledge it; after nervously biting his nails for a bit, he quickly turned to me and said with a sarcastic tone, “Personally, I was really impressed by the country girl, Miss Prue; what do you think of her, Ma’am?”
“Indeed, Sir,” cried I, very much provoked, “I think-that is, I do not think any thing about her.”
“Sure, Sir,” I exclaimed, feeling quite irritated, “I mean—I don’t think anything about her.”
“Well, really, Ma’am, you prodigiously surprise me!-mais, apparemment ce n’est qu’une facon de parler? -though I should beg your pardon, for probably you do not understand French?”
“Well, really, Ma’am, you greatly surprise me! – but, apparently it’s just a way of speaking? – though I should apologize, as you probably don’t understand French?”
I made no answer, for I thought his rudeness intolerable; but Sir Clement, with great warmth, said, “I am surprised that you can suppose such an object as Miss Prue would engage the attention of Miss Anville even for a moment.”
I didn’t answer because I found his rudeness unacceptable; but Sir Clement, quite passionately, said, “I’m shocked that you could think someone like Miss Prue would catch Miss Anville's interest, even for a second.”
“O, Sir,” returned this fop, “’tis the first character in the piece!-so well drawn!-so much the thing!-such true country breeding-such rural ignorance! ha, ha, ha!-’tis most admirably hit off, ‘pon honour!”
“O, Sir,” said this fop, “it’s the first character in the play! So well done! So spot on! Such genuine country manners—such rural ignorance! Ha, ha, ha! It’s most brilliantly captured, I swear!”
I could almost have cried, that such impertinence should be leveled at me; and yet, chagrined as I was, I could never behold Lord Orville and this man at the same time, and feel any regret for the cause I had given of displeasure.
I could almost cry that such disrespect was directed at me; and yet, as annoyed as I was, I could never look at Lord Orville and this man at the same time and feel any regret for the reason I had caused discontent.
“The only female in the play,” said Lord Orville, “worthy of being mentioned to these ladies is Angelica.”
“The only woman in the play,” said Lord Orville, “who deserves to be mentioned to these ladies is Angelica.”
“Angelica,” cried Sir Clement, “is a noble girl; she tries her lover severely, but she rewards him generously.”
“Angelica,” shouted Sir Clement, “is an incredible girl; she tests her lover thoroughly, but she rewards him richly.”
“Yet, in a trial so long,” said Mrs. Mirvan, “there seems rather too much consciousness of her power.”
“Yet, in such a lengthy trial,” Mrs. Mirvan said, “there seems to be an excessive awareness of her power.”
“Since my opinion has the sanction of Mrs. Mirvan,” added Lord Orville, “I will venture to say, that Angelica bestows her hand rather with the air of a benefactress, than with the tenderness of a mistress. Generosity without delicacy, like wit without judgment, generally gives as much pain as pleasure. The uncertainty in which she keeps Valentine, and her manner of trifling with his temper, give no very favourable idea of her own.”
“Since Mrs. Mirvan supports my opinion,” Lord Orville added, “I’ll say that Angelica offers her hand more like a benefactor than with the affection of a lover. Generosity without sensitivity, like humor without wisdom, often causes just as much pain as joy. The uncertainty she creates for Valentine and her playful attitude towards his feelings don’t reflect well on her character.”
“Well, my Lord,” said Mr. Lovel, “it must, however, be owned, that uncertainty is not the ton among our ladies at present; nay, indeed, I think they say,-though faith,” taking a pinch of snuff, “I hope it is not true-but they say, that we now are most shy and backward.”
“Well, my Lord,” said Mr. Lovel, “I have to admit that uncertainty isn’t exactly in style with the ladies these days; in fact, I think they’re saying—though honestly,” he paused to take a pinch of snuff, “I hope it’s not true—but they say that we are now quite shy and hesitant.”
The curtain then drew up, and our conversation ceased. Mr. Lovel, finding we chose to attend to the players, left the box. How strange it is, Sir, that this man, not contented with the large share of foppery and nonsense which he has from nature, should think proper to affect yet more! for what he said of Tattle and of Miss Prue, convinced me that he really had listened to the play, though he was so ridiculous and foolish as to pretend ignorance.
The curtain then went up, and our conversation stopped. Mr. Lovel, noticing that we preferred to focus on the performance, left the box. How strange it is, Sir, that this man, not satisfied with his natural amount of vanity and nonsense, feels the need to put on more! Because what he said about Tattle and Miss Prue made me realize he actually had been paying attention to the play, even though he was acting so absurd and foolish, pretending he didn’t know anything.
But how malicious and impertinent is this creature to talk to me in such a manner! I am sure I hope I shall never see him again. I should have despised him heartily as a fop, had he never spoken to me at all; but now, that he thinks proper to resent his supposed ill-usage, I am really quite afraid of him.
But how rude and disrespectful is this person to talk to me like that! I really hope I never see him again. I would have totally looked down on him as a fool if he had never spoken to me at all; but now, since he thinks it's right to react to his imagined mistreatment, I'm honestly quite scared of him.
The entertainment was, The Duece is in Him; which Lord Orville observed to be the most finished and elegant petit piece that was ever written in English.
The entertainment was, The Duece is in Him; which Lord Orville noted to be the most polished and elegant short piece ever written in English.
In our way home, Mrs. Mirvan put me into some consternation by saying, it was evident, from the resentment which this Mr. Lovel harbours of my conduct, that he would think it a provocation sufficiently important for a duel, if his courage equaled his wrath.
On our way home, Mrs. Mirvan worried me by saying that it was clear from the anger that Mr. Lovel felt about my actions that he would consider it a serious enough insult to challenge me to a duel, if his bravery matched his fury.
I am terrified at the very idea. Good Heaven! that a man so weak and frivolous should be so revengeful! However, if bravery would have excited him to affront Lord Orville, how much reason have I to rejoice that cowardice makes him contended with venting his spleen upon me! But we shall leave town soon, and, I hope, see him no more.
I’m really scared just thinking about it. Good heavens! That someone so weak and trivial could be so vengeful! But if bravery had pushed him to confront Lord Orville, I have plenty of reasons to be glad that his cowardice keeps him satisfied with taking it out on me! But we’ll be leaving town soon, and I hope we won’t have to see him again.
It was some consolation to me to hear from Miss Mirvan, that, while he was speaking to me so cavalierly, Lord Orville regarded him with great indignation.
It was somewhat comforting for me to hear from Miss Mirvan that, while he was talking to me so disrespectfully, Lord Orville was looking at him with a lot of anger.
But, really, I think there ought to be a book of the laws and customs -e;-la-mode, presented to all young people upon their first introduction into public company.
But honestly, I think there should be a book of the rules and customs -e;-la-mode, given to all young people when they first enter public social circles.
To-night we go to the opera, where I expect very great pleasure. We shall have the same party as at the play, for Lord Orville said he should be there, and would look for us.
Tonight we’re going to the opera, which I expect will be a great pleasure. We're going with the same group as at the play, since Lord Orville said he would be there and would be looking for us.
LETTER XXI - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION
I HAVE a volume to write of the adventures of yesterday. In the afternoon,-at Berry Hill I should have said the evening, for it was almost six o’clock,-while Miss Mirvan and I were dressing for the opera, and in high spirits from the expectation of great entertainment and pleasure, we heard a carriage stop at the door, and concluded that Sir Clement Willoughby, with his usual assiduity, was come to attend us to the Haymarket; but, in a few moments, what was our surprise to see our chamber door flung open, and the two Miss Branghtons enter the room! They advanced to me with great familiarity, saying, “How do you do, Cousin?-so we’ve caught you at the glass!-well, I’m determined I’ll tell my brother of that!”
I have a story to tell about the adventures of yesterday. In the afternoon—actually, it was almost six o’clock in the evening—while Miss Mirvan and I were getting ready for the opera, excited about the fun we were going to have, we heard a carriage pull up outside. We thought it was Sir Clement Willoughby, who always makes a point to bring us to the Haymarket; but to our surprise, the chamber door swung open, and the two Miss Branghtons walked in! They approached me with a casual familiarity, saying, “Hey, Cousin! Caught you at the mirror! Well, I’m definitely going to tell my brother about this!”
Miss Mirvan, who had never before seen them, and could not at first imagine who they were, looked so much astonished, that I was ready to laugh myself, till the eldest said, “We’re come to take you to the opera, Miss; papa and my brother are below, and we are to call for your grand-mama as we go along.”
Miss Mirvan, who had never seen them before and couldn't initially figure out who they were, looked so surprised that I almost laughed. Then the oldest one said, “We’re here to take you to the opera, Miss; Dad and my brother are downstairs, and we’re supposed to pick up your grandma on the way.”
“I am very sorry,” answered I, “that you should have taken so much trouble, as I am engaged already.”
“I’m really sorry,” I replied, “that you went to so much trouble, but I’m already committed.”
“Engaged! Lord, Miss, never mind that,” cried the youngest; “this young lady will make your excuses I dare say; it’s only doing as one would be done by, you know.”
“Engaged! Oh, come on, Miss,” exclaimed the youngest; “this young lady will handle your excuses, I’m sure; it’s just treating others the way you want to be treated, you know.”
“Indeed Ma’am,” said Miss Mirvan, “I shall myself be very sorry to be deprived of Miss Anville’s company this evening.”
“Of course, Ma’am,” said Miss Mirvan, “I will be really sad to miss out on Miss Anville’s company tonight.”
“Well, Miss, that is not so very good-natured in you,” said Miss Branghton, “considering we only come to give our cousin pleasure; it’s no good to us; it’s all upon her account; for we came, I don’t know how much round about to take her up.”
“Well, Miss, that’s not very nice of you,” said Miss Branghton, “especially since we only came to make our cousin happy; it doesn't benefit us at all; it’s all for her sake because we went, I don’t know how far out of our way, to pick her up.”
“I am extremely obliged to you,” said I, “and very sorry you have lost so much time; but I cannot possibly help it, for I engaged myself without knowing you would call.”
“I really appreciate what you've done,” I said, “and I’m really sorry you spent so much time on this; but I can’t do anything about it, because I committed myself without knowing you would come by.”
“Lord, what signifies that?” said Miss Polly, “you’re no old maid, and so you needn’t be so very formal: besides I dare say those you are engaged to a’n’t half so near related to you as we are.”
“Lord, what does that even mean?” Miss Polly said, “you’re not an old maid, so you don’t have to be so formal: besides, I bet those you’re engaged to aren’t even half as related to you as we are.”
“I must beg you not to press me any further, for I assure you it is not in my power to attend you.”
"I really need you to stop pushing me, because I promise you I can't help you."
“Why, we came all out of the city on purpose: besides, your grand-mama expects you;-and, pray, what are we to say to her?”
“Why, we came all the way out of the city on purpose: plus, your grandma is expecting you; and, seriously, what are we supposed to tell her?”
“Tell her, if you please, that I am much concerned,-but that I am pre-engaged.”
“Please tell her that I'm very concerned, but I'm already tied up.”
“And who to?” demanded the abrupt Miss Branghton.
“And who to?” demanded the blunt Miss Branghton.
“To Mrs. Mirvan,-and a large party.”
“To Mrs. Mirvan, -and a large group.”
“And, pray, what are you all going to do, that it would be such a mighty matter for you to come along with us?”
"And, please, what are all of you going to do that makes it such a big deal for you to come with us?"
“We are all going to-to the opera.”
“We are all going to the opera.”
“O dear, if that be all, why can’t we go altogether?”
“O dear, if that's all it is, why can't we all go together?”
I was extremely disconcerted at this forward and ignorant behaviour, and yet their rudeness very much lessened my concern at refusing them. Indeed, their dress was such as would have rendered their scheme of accompanying our party impracticable, even if I had desired it; and this, as they did not themselves find it out, I was obliged, in terms the least mortifying I could think of, to tell them.
I was really upset by their bold and clueless behavior, but their rudeness made it much easier for me to refuse them. In fact, their outfits were so inappropriate that joining our group wouldn’t have worked out anyway, even if I wanted to. Since they didn’t realize this themselves, I had to explain it to them in the least embarrassing way I could think of.
They were very much chagrined, and asked where I should sit.
They were quite embarrassed and asked where I should sit.
“In the pit,” answered I.
“In the pit,” I said.
“In the pit,” repeated Miss Branghton; “well, really, I must own, I should never have supposed that my gown was not good enough for the pit: but come, Polly, let’s go; if Miss does not think us fine enough for her, why to be sure she may choose.”
“In the pit,” repeated Miss Branghton; “well, I honestly never would have thought my dress wasn't good enough for the pit: but come on, Polly, let’s go; if she doesn’t think we look fancy enough for her, then she can just choose.”
Surprised at this ignorance, I would have explained to them, that the pit at the opera required the same dress as the boxes; but they were so much affronted they would not hear me; and, in great displeasure, left the room, saying, they would not have troubled me, only they thought I should not be proud with my own relations, and that they had at least as good a right to my company as strangers.
Surprised by their ignorance, I would have told them that the pit at the opera required the same attire as the boxes; but they were so offended they wouldn’t listen to me and, in great frustration, left the room, saying they wouldn’t have bothered me, but they thought I shouldn’t be snobby with my own family and that they had at least as much right to my company as strangers did.
I endeavoured to apologize, and would have sent a long message to Madame Duval: but they hastened away without listening to me; and I could not follow them down stairs, because I was not dressed. The last words I heard them say were, “Well, her grandmama will be in a fine passion, that’s one good thing.”
I tried to apologize and thought about sending a long message to Madame Duval, but they rushed off without hearing me out, and I couldn't go after them downstairs because I wasn't dressed. The last thing I heard them say was, "Well, her grandma is going to be really upset, so that’s one good thing."
Though I was extremely mad at this visit, yet I so heartily rejoiced at their going, that I would not suffer myself to think gravely about it.
Though I was really angry about this visit, I was so genuinely happy they were leaving that I wouldn’t let myself think too seriously about it.
Soon after, Sir Clement actually came, and we all went down stairs. Mrs. Mirvan ordered tea; and we were engaged in a very lively conversation, when the servant announced Madame Duval, who instantly followed him into the room.
Soon after, Sir Clement actually arrived, and we all went downstairs. Mrs. Mirvan ordered tea, and we were having a lively conversation when the servant announced Madame Duval, who immediately followed him into the room.
Her face was the colour of scarlet, and her eyes sparkled with fury. She came up to me with a hasty step, saying, “So, Miss, you refuses to come to me, do you? And pray who are you, to dare to disobey me?”
Her face was bright red, and her eyes shone with anger. She rushed up to me and said, “So, Miss, you refuse to come to me, do you? And who do you think you are, to disobey me?”
I was quite frightened;-I made no answer;-I even attempted to rise, and could not, but sat still, mute and motionless.
I was really scared; I didn't respond; I even tried to get up but couldn't, so I just sat there, silent and still.
Everybody but Miss Mirvan seemed in the utmost astonishment; and the Captain rising and approaching Madame Duval, with a voice of authority, said, “Why, how now, Mrs. Turkey-cock, what’s put you into this here fluster?”
Everyone except Miss Mirvan looked completely shocked; and the Captain stood up and walked over to Madame Duval, speaking with authority, said, “Well, what’s got you all flustered, Mrs. Turkey-cock?”
“It’s nothing to you,” answered she, “so you may as well hold your tongue; for I shan’t be called to no account by you, I assure you.”
“It’s nothing to you,” she replied, “so you might as well be quiet; because I won’t be held accountable by you, I promise.”
“There you’re out, Madame Fury,” returned he; “for you must know, I never suffer anybody to be in a passion in my house, but myself.”
“There you go, Madame Fury,” he replied; “just so you know, I never allow anyone to be angry in my house except for myself.”
“But you shall,” cried she, in a great rage; “for I’ll be in as great a passion as ever I please, without asking your leave: so don’t give yourself no more airs about it. And as for you Miss,” again advancing to me, “I order you to follow me this moment, or else I’ll make you repent it all your life.” And, with these words, she flung out of the room.
“But you will,” she shouted, really angry; “because I’m going to be as mad as I want without asking for your permission: so don’t act all high and mighty about it. And as for you, Miss,” she said, stepping toward me again, “I command you to follow me right now, or I’ll make you regret it for the rest of your life.” With that, she stormed out of the room.
I was in such extreme terror, at being addressed and threatened in a manner to which I am so wholly unused, that I almost thought I should have fainted.
I was so completely terrified by being spoken to and threatened in a way I'm not at all familiar with that I almost thought I would faint.
“Don’t be alarmed, my love,” cried Mrs. Mirvan, “but stay where you are, and I will follow Madame Duval, and try to bring her to reason.”
“Don’t worry, my love,” exclaimed Mrs. Mirvan, “but stay where you are, and I’ll go after Madame Duval and try to talk some sense into her.”
Miss Mirvan took my hand, and most kindly endeavoured to raise my spirits. Sir Clement, too, approached me, with an air so interested in my distress, that I could not but feel myself obliged to him; and, taking my other hand, said, “For Heaven’s sake, my dear Madam, compose yourself: surely the violence of such a wretch ought merely to move your contempt; she can have no right, I imagine, to lay her commands upon you, and I only wish that you would allow me to speak to her.”
Miss Mirvan took my hand and kindly tried to lift my spirits. Sir Clement also came over, looking so concerned about my distress that I couldn't help but feel grateful to him. Taking my other hand, he said, “For heaven's sake, my dear Madam, please calm down. Surely the actions of such a wretch should only make you feel disdain; I don’t think she has any right to give you orders, and I only wish you'd let me talk to her.”
“O no! not for the world!-indeed, I believe,-I am afraid-I had better follow her.”
“O no! Not for anything! Honestly, I think—I’m worried—I should probably go after her.”
“Follow her! Good God, my dear Miss Anville, would you trust yourself with a mad woman? for what else can you call a creature whose passions are so insolent? No, no; send her word at once to leave the house, and tell her you desire that she will never see you again.”
“Follow her! Oh my God, dear Miss Anville, would you really trust yourself with a crazy person? What else can you call someone whose emotions are so out of control? No, no; tell her right now to leave the house, and let her know you never want to see her again.”
“O, Sir! you don’t know who you talk of!-it would ill become me to send Madame Duval such a message.”
“O, Sir! you don’t know who you’re talking about! It wouldn’t be right for me to send Madame Duval such a message.”
“But why,” cried he, (looking very inquisitive,) “why should you scruple to treat her as she deserves?”
“But why,” he exclaimed, looking very curious, “why should you hesitate to treat her the way she deserves?”
I then found that his aim was to discover the nature of her connection with me; but I felt so much ashamed of my near relationship to her, that I could not persuade myself to answer him, and only intreated that he would leave her to Mrs. Mirvan, who just then entered the room.
I then realized that he wanted to figure out the nature of her connection with me; but I felt so embarrassed about my close relationship with her that I couldn't bring myself to respond, and I just pleaded with him to leave her to Mrs. Mirvan, who had just walked into the room.
Before she could speak to me, the Captain, called out, “Well, Goody, what have you done with Madame French? is she cooled a little? cause if she ben’t, I’ve just thought of a most excellent device to bring her to.”
Before she could talk to me, the Captain called out, “Well, Goody, what have you done with Madame French? Has she calmed down a bit? Because if she hasn't, I've just come up with a fantastic idea to handle her.”
“My dear Evelina,” said Mrs. Mirvan, “I have been vainly endeavouring to appease her; I pleaded your engagement, and promised your future attendance: but I am sorry to say, my love, that I fear her rage will end in a total breach (which I think you had better avoid) if she is any further opposed.”
“My dear Evelina,” said Mrs. Mirvan, “I have been trying in vain to calm her down; I mentioned your plans and promised you would be there in the future. But I regret to inform you, my love, that I’m afraid her anger will lead to a complete falling out (which I think you should try to avoid) if she is confronted any more.”
“Then I will go to her, Madam,” cried I; “and, indeed, it is now no matter, for I should not be able to recover my spirits sufficiently to enjoy much pleasure any where this evening.”
“Then I’ll go to her, ma’am,” I said; “and honestly, it doesn’t even matter now, because I wouldn’t be able to lift my spirits enough to enjoy much of anything tonight.”
Sir Clement began a very warm expostulation and intreaty, that I would not go; but I begged him to desist, and told him, very honestly, that, if my compliance were not indispensably necessary I should require no persuasion to stay. He then took my hand, to lead me down stairs; but the Captain desired him to be quiet, saying he would ‘squire me himself, “because” he added, (exultingly rubbing his hands) “I have a wipe ready for the old lady, which may serve her to chew as she goes along.”
Sir Clement started a really heartfelt plea and begged me not to leave; but I insisted he stop and told him candidly that if my staying wasn't absolutely necessary, I wouldn't need any convincing to remain. He then took my hand to guide me downstairs, but the Captain asked him to hold on, saying he would "escort me himself," because, as he added with glee while rubbing his hands, "I have a little surprise ready for the old lady that she can think about as she goes."
We found her in the parlour, “O you’re come at last, Miss, are you?-fine airs you give yourself, indeed!-ma foi, if you hadn’t come, you might have staid, I assure you, and have been a beggar, for your pains.”
We found her in the living room, “Oh, you've finally arrived, Miss, have you? - what a show you put on for yourself, really! - I swear, if you hadn't come, you might as well have stayed and ended up a beggar for it.”
“Heyday, Madam,” cried the Captain, (prancing forward, with a look of great glee) “what, a’n’t you got out of that there passion yet? why then, I’ll tell you what to do to cool yourself; call upon your old friend, Monseer Slippery, who was with you at Ranelagh, and give my service to him, and tell him, if he sets any store by your health, that I desire he’ll give you such another souse as he did before: he’ll know what I mean, and I’ll warrant you he’ll do’t for my sake.”
“Hey there, ma'am,” the Captain exclaimed, (prancing forward with a huge grin) “haven't you gotten over that passion yet? Well, here’s what you should do to calm down; visit your old friend, Monsieur Slippery, who was with you at Ranelagh, and send my regards to him. Tell him, if he cares about your health, that I hope he’ll give you another good soaking like he did before: he’ll know what I mean, and I guarantee he’ll do it for my sake.”
“Let him, if he dares!” cried Madame Duval; “but I shan’t stay to answer you no more; you are a vulgar fellow;-and so, child, let us leave him to himself.”
“Let him, if he dares!” shouted Madame Duval; “but I’m not going to stick around to respond to you anymore; you’re a rude guy—and so, kid, let’s leave him alone.”
“Hark ye, Madam,” cried the Captain, “you’d best not call names; because, d’ye see, if you do, I shall make bold to shew you the door.”
“Hear me out, Madam,” yelled the Captain, “you’d better not call names; because, you see, if you do, I’ll have to show you the door.”
She changed colour, and saying, “Pardi, I can shew it myself,” hurried out of the room, and I followed her into a hackney-coach. But, before we drove off, the Captain, looking out of the parlour window, called out “D’ye hear, Madam, don’t forget my message to Monseer.”
She changed color and said, “I can show it myself,” then quickly left the room. I followed her into a cab. But just before we drove off, the Captain, looking out from the living room window, called out, “Hey, Madam, don’t forget my message to Monseer.”
You will believe our ride was not the most agreeable in the world; indeed, it would be difficult to say which was least pleased, Madame Duval or me, though the reasons of our discontent were so different: however, Madame Duval soon got the start of me; for we had hardly turned out of Queen Ann Street, when a man, running full speed, stopt the coach. He came up to the window, and I saw he was the Captain’s servant. He had a broad grin on his face, and panted for breath. Madame Duval demanded his business: “Madam,” answered he, “my master desires his compliments to you, and-and-and he says he wishes it well over with you. He! he! he!-”
You would think our ride was one of the worst ever; honestly, it's hard to tell who was more unhappy, Madame Duval or me, even though our reasons for being upset were completely different. But Madame Duval quickly took the lead; as soon as we had barely turned off Queen Ann Street, a man sprinting full speed stopped the coach. He came up to the window, and I recognized him as the Captain’s servant. He had a wide grin on his face and was out of breath. Madame Duval asked what he wanted: “Ma’am,” he said, “my master sends his regards to you, and-and-and he hopes you’re doing well. He! he! he!”
Madame Duval instantly darted forward, and gave him a violent blow on the face; “Take that back for your answer, sirrah,” cried she, “and learn not to grin at your betters another time. Coachman, drive on!”
Madame Duval quickly moved forward and hit him hard in the face. “Take that back for your response, you rascal,” she shouted, “and remember not to smirk at your superiors next time. Driver, move on!”
The servant was in a violent passion, and swore terribly; but we were soon out of hearing.
The servant was in a rage and cursed loudly, but we quickly got out of earshot.
The rage of Madame Duval was greater than ever; and she inveighed against the Captain with such fury, that I was even apprehensive she would have returned to his house, purposely to reproach him, which she repeatedly threatened to do; nor would she, I believe, have hesitated a moment, but that, notwithstanding her violence, he has really made her afraid of him.
Madame Duval was angrier than ever, and she shouted at the Captain with such intensity that I worried she might actually go back to his house just to confront him, which she kept saying she would do. However, I don’t think she would have acted on it, because despite her fury, he had genuinely made her afraid of him.
When we came to her lodgings we found all the Branghtons in the passage, impatiently waiting for us with the door open.
When we arrived at her place, we found all the Branghtons in the hallway, eagerly waiting for us with the door wide open.
“Only see, here’s Miss!” cried the brother.
“Look, here’s Miss!” yelled the brother.
“Well, I declare I thought as much!” said the younger sister.
“Well, I knew it!” said the younger sister.
“Why, Miss,” said Mr. Branghton, “I think you might as well have come with your cousins at once; it’s throwing money in the dirt, to pay two coaches for one fare.”
“Why, Miss,” said Mr. Branghton, “I think you might as well have come with your cousins right away; paying for two carriages for one trip is just a waste of money.”
“Lord, father,” cried the son, “make no words about that; for I’ll pay for the coach that Miss had.”
“Lord, father,” the son shouted, “let's not talk about that; I’ll cover the cost of the coach that Miss had.”
“O, I know very well,” answered Mr. Branghton, “that you’re always more ready to spend than to earn.”
“O, I know very well,” replied Mr. Branghton, “that you’re always quicker to spend than to earn.”
I then interfered, and begged that I might myself be allowed to pay the fare, as the expense was incurred upon my account; they all said no, and proposed that the same coach should carry us to the opera.
I then stepped in and asked if I could pay the fare myself since the cost was on my account; they all said no and suggested that the same coach take us to the opera.
While this passed the Miss Branghtons were examining my dress, which, indeed, was very improper for my company; and, as I was extremely unwilling to be so conspicuous amongst them, I requested Madame Duval to borrow a hat or bonnet for me of the people of the house. But she never wears either herself, and thinks them very English and barbarous; therefore she insisted that I should go full dressed, as I had prepared myself for the pit, though I made many objections.
While this was happening, Miss Branghtons were checking out my dress, which was actually very inappropriate for the people I was with. Not wanting to stand out too much among them, I asked Madame Duval to borrow a hat or bonnet from the people in the house. However, she never wears either herself and thinks they’re very English and barbaric. So she insisted that I should go as I was, fully dressed as I had prepared myself for the theater, even though I raised several objections.
We were then all crowded into the same carriage; but when we arrived at the opera-house, I contrived to pay the coachman. They made a great many speeches; but Mr. Branghton’s reflection had determined me not to be indebted to him.
We were all packed into the same carriage, but when we got to the opera house, I managed to pay the driver. They gave a lot of speeches, but Mr. Branghton’s comment had made me decide not to rely on him.
If I had not been too much chagrined to laugh, I should have been extremely diverted at their ignorance of whatever belongs to an opera. In the first place they could not tell at what door we ought to enter, and we wandered about for some time, without knowing which way to turn: they did not choose to apply to me, though I was the only person of the party who had ever before been at an opera; because they were unwilling to suppose that their country counsin, as they were pleased to call me, should be better acquainted with any London public place than themselves. I was very indifferent and careless upon this subject; but not a little uneasy at finding that my dress, so different from that of the company to which I belonged, attracted general notice and observation.
If I hadn’t been too embarrassed to laugh, I would have found their complete lack of knowledge about how to navigate an opera really amusing. First off, they couldn’t figure out which entrance we should use, and we ended up wandering around for a while, not knowing where to go. They didn’t want to ask me for help, even though I was the only one in the group who had been to an opera before, because they couldn’t believe that their country cousin, as they liked to call me, would know more about any public place in London than they did. I didn’t really care about that, but I was a bit uncomfortable realizing that my outfit, which was so different from what everyone else was wearing, was attracting a lot of attention.
In a short time, however, we arrived at one of the door-keeper’s bars. Mr. Branghton demanded for what part of the house they took money? They answered, the pit; and regarded us all with great earnestness. The son then advancing, said “Sir, if you please, I beg that I may treat Miss.”
In a little while, we reached one of the ticket booths. Mr. Branghton asked which part of the house required an entrance fee. They replied, the pit, and looked at us all very seriously. Then the son stepped forward and said, "Sir, if you don’t mind, I’d like to treat Miss."
“We’ll settle that another time,” answered Mr. Branghton, and put down a guinea.
“We’ll deal with that later,” Mr. Branghton replied, placing a guinea on the table.
Two tickets of admission were given to him.
He was given two admission tickets.
Mr. Branghton, in his turn, now stared at the door-keeper, and demanded what he meant by giving him only two tickets for a guinea.
Mr. Branghton stared at the doorman and asked what he meant by giving him only two tickets for a guinea.
“Only two, Sir!” said the man; “why, don’t you know that the tickets are half-a guinea each?”
“Only two, sir!” said the man. “Don’t you know that the tickets are half a guinea each?”
“Half-a-guinea each!” repeated Mr. Branghton, “why, I never heard of such a thing in my life! And pray, Sir, how many will they admit?”
"Half a guinea each!" Mr. Branghton exclaimed. "I've never heard of such a thing in my life! And may I ask, sir, how many will they let in?"
“Just as usual, Sir, one person each.”
“Just like always, Sir, one person each.”
“But one person for half-a-guinea!-why, I only want to sit in the pit, friend.”
"But one person for half a guinea? I just want to sit in the pit, my friend."
“Had not the ladies better sit in the gallery, Sir; for they’ll hardly choose to go into the pit with their hats on?”
“Shouldn’t the ladies sit in the gallery, Sir? They probably won’t want to go into the pit with their hats on.”
“O, as to that,” cried Miss Branghton, “if our hats are too high we’ll take them off when we get in. I sha’n’t mind, it, for I did my hair on purpose.”
“Oh, about that,” exclaimed Miss Branghton, “if our hats are too tall, we’ll take them off when we get inside. I don’t mind, though, because I did my hair for this occasion.”
Another party then approaching, the door-keeper could no longer attend to Mr. Branghton; who, taking up the guinea, told him it should be long enough before he’d see it again, and walked away.
Another party then arriving, the doorkeeper could no longer pay attention to Mr. Branghton; who, picking up the guinea, told him it would be a long time before he’d see it again, and walked away.
The young ladies, in some confusion, expressed their surprise that their papa should not know the opera prices, which, for their parts, they had read in the papers a thousand times.
The young ladies, a bit confused, expressed their surprise that their dad didn't know the opera prices, which they had read about in the papers countless times.
“The price of stocks,” said he, “is enough for me to see after; and I took it for granted it was the same thing here as at the playhouse.”
“The price of stocks,” he said, “is enough for me to handle; and I assumed it was the same here as at the theater.”
“I knew well enough what the price was,” said the son; “but I would not speak, because I thought perhaps they’d take less, as we’re such a large party.”
“I knew exactly what the cost was,” said the son; “but I didn’t say anything, because I thought maybe they’d charge less since we were such a big group.”
The sisters both laughed very contemptuously at this idea, and asked him if he ever heard of people’s abating any thing at a public place? I don’t know whether I have or not,” answered he; “but I am sure if they would, you’d like it so much the worse.”
The sisters both laughed mockingly at this idea and asked him if he had ever heard of people backing down in a public place. “I’m not sure if I have or not,” he replied, “but I know if they did, you’d like it even less.”
“Very true, Tom,” cried Mr. Branghton; “tell a woman that any thing is reasonable, and she’ll be sure to hate it.”
“Very true, Tom,” said Mr. Branghton; “tell a woman that anything is reasonable, and she’ll definitely hate it.”
“Well,” said Miss Polly, “I hope that aunt and Miss will be of our side, for papa always takes part with Tom.”
“Well,” said Miss Polly, “I hope that Aunt and Miss will be on our side, because Dad always sides with Tom.”
“Come, come,” cried Madame Duval, “if you stand talking here, we shan’t get no place at all.”
“Come on, come on,” yelled Madame Duval, “if you keep chatting here, we won’t get anywhere at all.”
Mr. Branghton then enquired the way to the gallery; and, when we came to the door-keeper, demanded what was to pay.
Mr. Branghton then asked for directions to the gallery; and when we reached the door attendant, he wanted to know the admission fee.
“The usual price, Sir,” said the man.
“The usual price, sir,” said the man.
“Then give me change,” cried Mr. Branghton, again putting down his guinea.
“Then give me change,” shouted Mr. Branghton, putting down his guinea again.
“For how many, Sir?”
"How many, Sir?"
“Why-let’s see,-for six.”
"Why, let’s see, for six."
“For six, Sir? why, you’re given me but a guinea.”
“For six, Sir? Well, you’ve only given me a guinea.”
“But a guinea! why, how much would you have? I suppose it is’n’t half-a-guinea a piece here too?”
“But a guinea! How much do you want? I assume it's not half a guinea each here too?”
“No, Sir, only five shillings.”
“No, sir, only five bucks.”
Mr. Branghton again took up his unfortunate guinea, and protested he would not submit to no such imposition. I then proposed that we should return home, but Madame Duval would not consent; and we were conducted, by a woman who sells books of the opera, to another gallery-door, where, after some disputing, Mr. Branghton at last paid, and we all went up stairs.
Mr. Branghton picked up his unfortunate guinea again and insisted he wouldn't put up with such a scam. I suggested we go home, but Madame Duval wouldn't agree; instead, a woman selling opera books led us to another gallery door, where after a bit of arguing, Mr. Branghton finally paid, and we all went upstairs.
Madame Duval complained very much of the trouble of going so high: but Mr. Branghton desired her not to hold the place too cheap; “for, whatever you think,” cried he, “I assure you I paid pit price; so don’t suppose I come here to save my money.”
Madame Duval complained a lot about the hassle of going so high up: but Mr. Branghton urged her not to underestimate the place; “because, no matter what you think,” he exclaimed, “I assure you I paid full price for the tickets; so don’t think I’m here just to save some cash.”
“Well, to be sure,” said Miss Branghton, “there’s no judging of a place by the outside, else, I must needs say, there’s nothing very extraordinary in the stair-case.”
“Well, for sure,” said Miss Branghton, “you can’t judge a place by its exterior; otherwise, I have to say, there’s nothing very remarkable about the staircase.”
But, when we entered the gallery their amazement and disappointment became general. For a few instants, they looked at one another without speaking, and then they all broke silence at once.
But when we walked into the gallery, their amazement and disappointment turned into a shared experience. For a moment, they looked at each other in silence, and then they all started talking at the same time.
“Lord, papa,” exclaimed Miss Polly, “why, you have brought us to the one-shilling gallery!”
“Dad, oh my gosh,” Miss Polly exclaimed, “you brought us to the one-pound gallery!”
“I’ll be glad to give you two shillings, though,” answered he, “to pay. I was never so fooled out of my money before, since the house of my birth. Either the door-keeper’s a knave, or this is the greatest imposition that ever was put upon the public.”
“I’ll be happy to give you two shillings, though,” he replied, “to pay. I've never been so tricked out of my money before, since I was born. Either the doorman's a crook, or this is the biggest scam that's ever been pulled on the public.”
“Ma foi,” cried Madame Duval, “I never sat in such a mean place in all my life;-why, it’s as high-we shan’t see nothing.”
“Wow,” exclaimed Madame Duval, “I’ve never sat in such a terrible spot in my whole life—it's so high we won’t see anything.”
“I thought at the time,” said Mr. Branghton, “that three shillings was an exorbitant price for a place in the gallery: but as we’d been asked so much at the other doors, why I paid it without many words; but, then, to be sure, thinks I, it can never be like any other gallery, we shall see some crinkum-crankum or other for our money; but I find it’s as arrant a take-in as ever I met with.”
“I thought at the time,” said Mr. Branghton, “that three shillings was an outrageous price for a spot in the gallery. But since other places were asking so much more, I paid it without much fuss. Still, I figured it couldn’t be like any other gallery; we’d surely see something interesting for our money. But I find it’s as much of a rip-off as I’ve ever encountered.”
“Why, it’s as like the twelve-penny gallery at Drury Lane,” cried the son, “as two peas are to one another. I never knew father so bit before.”
“Wow, it’s just like the twelve-penny gallery at Drury Lane,” the son exclaimed, “just like two peas in a pod. I’ve never seen dad so angry before.”
“Lord,” said Miss Branghton, “I thought it would have been quite a fine place,-all over, I don’t know what,-and done quite in taste.”
“Lord,” said Miss Branghton, “I thought it would be a really nice place—full of who knows what—and decorated with style.”
In this manner they continued to express their dissatisfaction till the curtain drew up; after which their observations were very curious.
They kept expressing their dissatisfaction until the curtain went up; after that, their comments were really interesting.
They made no allowance for the customs, or even for the language, of another country; but formed all their remarks upon comparisons with the English theatre.
They didn’t take into account the customs or even the language of another country; instead, they based all their comments on comparisons with the English theater.
Notwithstanding my vexation at having been forced into a party so very disagreeable, and that, too, from one so much-so very much the contrary-yet, would they have suffered me to listen, I should have forgotten every thing unpleasant, and felt nothing but delight in hearing the sweet voice of Signor Millico, the first singer; but they tormented me with continual talking.
Notwithstanding my frustration at being stuck in such an unpleasant gathering, especially coming from someone who was quite the opposite, if they had let me listen, I would have forgotten all the bad stuff and felt nothing but joy in hearing the sweet voice of Signor Millico, the lead singer; but they kept bothering me with endless chatter.
“What a jabbering they make!” cried Mr. Branghton, “there’s no knowing a word they say. Pray, what’s the reason they can’t as well sing in English?-but I suppose the fine folks would not like it, if they could understand it.”
“What a racket they make!” shouted Mr. Branghton, “you can’t understand a word they’re saying. Why can’t they just sing in English? But I guess the fancy people wouldn’t appreciate it if they could understand.”
“How unnatural their action is!” said the son: “why, now, who ever saw an Englishman put himself in such out-of-the-way postures?”
“How weird their behavior is!” said the son. “I mean, who has ever seen an Englishman position himself in such strange ways?”
“For my part,” said Miss Polly, “I think it’s very pretty, only I don’t know what it means.”
"For my part," said Miss Polly, "I think it's really pretty, but I have no idea what it means."
“Lord, what does that signify,” cried her sister; “mayn’t one like a thing without being so very particular?-You may see that Miss likes it, and I don’t suppose she knows more of the matter than we do.”
“Lord, what does that even mean,” her sister exclaimed; “can’t someone like something without being so picky? You can see that Miss likes it, and I doubt she knows any more about it than we do.”
A gentleman, soon after, was so obliging as to make room in the front row for Miss Branghton and me. We had no sooner seated ourselves, than Miss Branghton exclaimed, “Good gracious! only see!-why, Polly, all the people in the pit are without hats, dressed like anything!”
A guy soon after was kind enough to make space in the front row for Miss Branghton and me. As soon as we sat down, Miss Branghton exclaimed, “Goodness! Just look! - Polly, everyone in the pit is without hats, dressed in all sorts of ways!”
“Lord, so they are,” cried Miss Polly; “well, I never saw the like!-it’s worth coming to the opera, if one saw nothing else.”
“Lord, they really are,” exclaimed Miss Polly; “I’ve never seen anything like it! It’s worth going to the opera just to see this.”
I was then able to distinguish the happy party I had left; and I saw that Lord Orville had seated himself next to Mrs. Mirvan. Sir Clement had his eyes perpetually cast towards the five-shilling gallery, where I suppose he concluded that we were seated; however, before the opera was over, I have reason to believe that he had discovered me, high and distant as I was from him. Probably he distinguished me by my head-dress.
I could then see the cheerful group I had left behind, and I noticed that Lord Orville was sitting next to Mrs. Mirvan. Sir Clement kept glancing up at the cheap seats, where he probably thought we were sitting; however, before the opera ended, I believe he figured out where I was, even though I was far away from him. He probably recognized me by my hairstyle.
At the end of the first act, as the green curtain dropped to prepare for the dance, they imagined that the opera was done; and Mr. Branghton expressed great indignation that he had been tricked out of his money with so little trouble. “Now, if any Englishman was to do such an impudent thing as this,” said he, “why, he’d be pelted;-but here, one of these outlandish gentry may do just what he pleases, and come on, and squeak out a song or two, and then pocket your money without further ceremony.”
At the end of the first act, as the green curtain fell to set up for the dance, they thought the opera was over; and Mr. Branghton voiced his frustration that he had been swindled out of his money with so little effort. “Now, if any Englishman did something as outrageous as this,” he said, “he’d be pelted; but here, one of these foreign types can do whatever they want, come out, squeak out a song or two, and then take your money without any shame.”
However, so determined he was to be dissatisfied, that, before the conclusion of the third act, he found still more fault with the opera for being too long; and wondered whether they thought their singing good enough to serve us for supper.
However, he was so set on being unhappy that, before the end of the third act, he complained even more about the opera being too long and wondered if they thought their singing was good enough to entertain us for dinner.
During the symphony of a song of Signor Millico’s, in the second act, young Mr. Branghton said, “It’s my belief that that fellow’s going to sing another song!-why, there’s nothing but singing!-I wonder when they’ll speak.”
During the symphony of a song by Signor Millico in the second act, young Mr. Branghton said, “I believe that guy is going to sing another song! There’s nothing but singing! I wonder when they’ll start talking.”
This song, which was slow and pathetic, caught all my attention, and I leaned my head forward to avoid hearing their observations, that I might listen without interruption: but, upon turning round, when the song was over, I found that I was the object of general diversion to the whole party; for the Miss Branghtons were tittering, and the two gentlemen making signs and faces at me, implying their contempt of my affectation.
This slow, sad song grabbed my full attention, and I leaned forward to ignore their comments so I could listen without distraction. However, when I turned around after the song ended, I realized I was the center of amusement for everyone there. The Miss Branghtons were giggling, and the two guys were making gestures and faces at me, showing their disdain for my pretentiousness.
This discovery determined me to appear as inattentive as themselves; but I was very much provoked at being thus prevented enjoying the only pleasure, which, in such a party, was within my power.
This discovery made me decide to act just as distracted as they were; but I was really annoyed at being stopped from enjoying the only pleasure that I could have in such a gathering.
“So Miss,” said Mr. Branghton, “you’re quite in the fashion, I see-so you like operas? Well, I’m not so polite; I can’t like nonsense, let it be never so much the taste.”
“So, Miss,” said Mr. Branghton, “you’re really in style, I see—so you enjoy operas? Well, I’m not so refined; I can’t like nonsense, no matter how much it’s in vogue.”
“But pray, Miss,” said the son, “what makes that fellow look so doleful while he is singing?”
“But please, Miss,” said the son, “why does that guy look so sad while he’s singing?”
“Probably because the character he performs is in distress.”
"Probably because the character he's playing is in trouble."
“Why, then, I think he might as well let alone singing till he’s in better cue: it’s out of all nature for a man to be piping when he’s in distress. For my part, I never sing but when I’m merry; yet I love a song as well as most people.”
“Why, then, I think he might as well stop singing until he’s feeling better: it’s completely unnatural for someone to be singing when they’re in distress. Personally, I only sing when I’m happy; still, I enjoy a song just as much as anyone else.”
When the curtain dropt they all rejoiced.
When the curtain fell, they all celebrated.
“How do you like it?"-and “How do you like it?” passed from one to another with looks of the utmost contempt. “As for me,” said Mr. Branghton, “they’ve caught me once; but if ever they do again, I’ll give ‘em leave to sing me to Bedlam for my pains: for such a heap of stuff never did I hear: there isn’t one ounce of sense in the whole opera, nothing but one continued squeaking and squalling from beginning to end.”
“How do you like it?”—and “How do you like it?” was exchanged between them with utter disdain. “As for me,” said Mr. Branghton, “they got me once; but if they ever do again, I’ll let them sing me to a mental hospital for my troubles: because I’ve never heard such a load of nonsense. There isn't a single bit of sense in the whole opera, just a constant screeching and wailing from start to finish.”
“If I had been in the pit,” said Madame Duval, “I should have liked it vastly, for music is my passion; but sitting in such a place as this, is quite unbearable.”
“If I had been in the pit,” said Madame Duval, “I would have loved it, because music is my passion; but sitting in a place like this is completely unbearable.”
Miss Branghton, looking at me, declared, that she was not genteel enough to admire it.
Miss Branghton, looking at me, said that she wasn't classy enough to appreciate it.
Miss Polly confessed, that, if they would but sing English, she would like it very well.
Miss Polly admitted that if they would just sing in English, she would really enjoy it.
The brother wished he could raise a riot in the house, because then he might get his money again.
The brother wished he could start a commotion in the house, because then he might get his money back.
And, finally, they all agreed that it was monstrous dear.
And, in the end, they all agreed that it was incredibly expensive.
During the last dance, I perceived standing near the gallery-door, Sir Clement Willoughby. I was extremely vexed, and would have given the world to have avoided being seen by him: my chief objection was, from the apprehension that he would hear Miss Branghton call me cousin.-I fear you will think this London journey has made me grow very proud; but indeed this family is so low-bred and vulgar, that I should be equally ashamed of such a connection in the country, or anywhere. And really I had already been so much chagrined that Sir Clement had been a witness of Madame Duval’s power over me, that I could not bear to be exposed to any further mortification.
During the last dance, I noticed Sir Clement Willoughby standing near the gallery door. I was really annoyed and would have done anything to avoid being seen by him. My main concern was that he would hear Miss Branghton call me cousin. I’m afraid you’ll think this trip to London has made me very snobbish, but honestly, this family is so poorly bred and common that I would be embarrassed about that connection anywhere, not just in the country. I had already felt so upset that Sir Clement had witnessed Madame Duval’s influence over me that I couldn’t handle any more embarrassment.
As the seats cleared, by parties going away, Sir Clement approached nearer to us. The Miss Branghtons observed with surprise, what a fine gentleman was come into the gallery; and they gave me great reason to expect, that they would endeavour to attract his notice, by familiarity with me, whenever he should join us; and so I formed a sort of plan to prevent any conversation. I’m afraid you will think it wrong; and so I do myself now;-but, at the time, I only considered how I might avoid immediate humiliation.
As the seats cleared out with people leaving, Sir Clement moved closer to us. The Miss Branghtons noticed with surprise what a dapper gentleman had entered the gallery, and they gave me plenty of reasons to believe they would try to get his attention by acting friendly with me whenever he joined us. So, I came up with a plan to avoid any conversation. I’m worried you’ll think that’s wrong, and I do too now; but at the time, I just focused on how to avoid immediate embarrassment.
As soon as he was within two seats of us, he spoke to me: “I am very happy, Miss Anville, to have found you, for the ladies below have each an humble attendant, and therefore I am come to offer my services here.”
As soon as he was two seats away from us, he said to me, “I’m really happy to have found you, Miss Anville, because the ladies downstairs each have a humble attendant, and that’s why I’m here to offer my services.”
“Why then,” cried I, (not without hesitating) “if you please,-I will join them.”
“Why then,” I exclaimed, (after a moment of hesitation) “if it’s alright with you, I’ll join them.”
“Will you allow me the honour of conducting you?” cried he eagerly; and, instantly taking my hand, he would have marched away with me: but I turned to Madame Duval, and said, “As our party is so large, Madame, if you will give me leave, I will go down to Mrs. Mirvan, that I may not crowd you in the coach.”
“Will you let me have the honor of escorting you?” he exclaimed eagerly; and, immediately taking my hand, he tried to lead me away: but I turned to Madame Duval and said, “Since our group is so large, Madame, if you permit me, I’ll go see Mrs. Mirvan so I don’t crowd you in the coach.”
And then, without waiting for an answer, I suffered Sir Clement to hand me out of the gallery.
And then, without waiting for a response, I let Sir Clement help me out of the gallery.
Madame Duval, I doubt not, will be very angry; and so I am with myself now, and therefore I cannot be surprised: but Mr. Branghton, I am sure, will easily comfort himself, in having escaped the additional coach-expense of carrying me to Queen Ann Street; as to his daughters, they had no time to speak; but I saw they were in utter amazement.
Madame Duval will probably be really mad, and honestly, I’m feeling pretty upset with myself too, so I can’t say I’m surprised. However, Mr. Branghton will definitely be able to cheer himself up since he avoided the extra cost of taking me to Queen Ann Street. As for his daughters, they didn’t have a chance to say anything, but I could tell they were completely astonished.
My intention was to join Mrs. Mirvan, and accompany her home. Sir Clement was in high spirits and good humour; and all the way he went, I was fool enough to rejoice in secret at the success of my plan; nor was it till I got down stairs, and amidst the servants, that any difficulty occurred to me of meeting with my friends.
My plan was to join Mrs. Mirvan and go home with her. Sir Clement was in a great mood; all the while, I foolishly felt secretly happy about how well my plan was going. It wasn’t until I got downstairs and was among the servants that I realized I might have trouble meeting up with my friends.
I then asked Sir Clement, how I should contrive to acquaint Mrs. Mirvan that I had left Madame Duval?
I then asked Sir Clement how I should manage to let Mrs. Mirvan know that I had left Madame Duval.
“I fear it will be almost impossible to find her,” answered he; “but you can have no objection to permitting me to see you safe home.”
“I’m afraid it will be nearly impossible to find her,” he said; “but you wouldn’t mind letting me see you home safely.”
He then desired his servant, who was waiting, to order his chariot to draw up.
He then asked his servant, who was waiting, to have his chariot come to a stop.
This quite startled me; I turned to him hastily, and said that I could not think of going away without Mrs. Mirvan.
This really surprised me; I turned to him quickly and said that I couldn't even consider leaving without Mrs. Mirvan.
“But how can we meet with her?” cried he; “you will not choose to go into the pit yourself; I cannot send a servant there; and it is impossible for me to go and leave you alone.”
“But how can we meet her?” he shouted. “You won’t want to go into the pit yourself; I can’t send a servant there; and it’s impossible for me to go and leave you alone.”
The truth of this was indisputable, and totally silenced me. Yet, as soon as I could recollect myself, I determined not to go into his chariot, and told him I believed I had best return to my party up stairs.
The truth of this was undeniable, and it completely silenced me. However, as soon as I could collect my thoughts, I decided not to get into his chariot and told him I thought it was best to go back to my friends upstairs.
He would not hear of this; and earnestly intreated me not to withdraw the trust I had reposed in him.
He wouldn't accept this and earnestly begged me not to take back the trust I had placed in him.
While he was speaking, I saw Lord Orville, with several ladies and gentlemen, coming from the pit passage: unfortunately he saw me too, and, leaving his company, advanced instantly towards me, and with an air and voice of surprise, said, “Good God, do I see Miss Anville!”
While he was talking, I noticed Lord Orville, along with a few ladies and gentlemen, coming from the pit passage: unfortunately, he noticed me too and quickly left his group, walking straight towards me. With a look and tone of surprise, he said, “Good God, is that Miss Anville!”
I now most severely felt the folly of my plan, and the awkwardness of my situation: however, I hastened to tell him, though in a hesitating manner, that I was waiting for Mrs. Mirvan; but what was my disappointment, when he acquainted me that she was already gone home!
I now truly felt the foolishness of my plan and the awkwardness of my situation. However, I quickly told him, though hesitantly, that I was waiting for Mrs. Mirvan; but I was so disappointed when he informed me that she had already gone home!
I was inexpressibly distressed; to suffer Lord Orville to think me satisfied with the single protection of Sir Clement Willoughby, I could not bear; yet I was more than ever averse to returning to a party which I dreaded his seeing. I stood some moments in suspense, and could not help exclaiming, “Good Heaven, what can I do!”
I was incredibly upset; I couldn’t stand the thought of Lord Orville thinking I was okay with only Sir Clement Willoughby for protection. However, I was even more reluctant to go back to a group where I was afraid he would see me. I stood there for a moment, unsure of what to do, and couldn’t help but exclaim, “Good heavens, what can I do!”
“Why, my dear madam,” cried Sir Clement, “should you be thus uneasy?-you will reach Queen Ann Street almost as soon as Mrs. Mirvan, and I am sure you cannot doubt being as safe.”
“Why, my dear madam,” exclaimed Sir Clement, “are you so anxious? You’ll get to Queen Ann Street nearly as quickly as Mrs. Mirvan, and I’m sure you can’t doubt that you’ll be just as safe.”
I made no answer, and Lord Orville then said, “My coach is here; and my servants are ready to take any commands Miss Anville will honour me with for them. I shall myself go home in a chair, and therefore-”
I didn't respond, and Lord Orville then said, “My coach is here, and my staff is ready to take any requests Miss Anville would like to give them. I'm going to head home in a chair, so—”
How grateful did I feel for a proposal so considerate, and made with so much delicacy! I should gladly have accepted it, had I been permitted, but Sir Clement would not let him even finish his speech; he interrupted him with evident displeasure, and said, “My Lord, my own chariot is now at the door.”
How grateful I was for such a thoughtful proposal, presented with so much care! I would have happily accepted it if I had the chance, but Sir Clement wouldn't even let him finish his words; he interrupted him with clear annoyance and said, “My Lord, my carriage is waiting at the door.”
And just then the servant came, and told him the carriage was ready. He begged to have the honour of conducting me to it, and would have taken my hand; but I drew it back, saying, “I can’t-I can’t indeed! pray go by yourself-and as to me, let me have a chair.”
And just then the servant arrived and informed him that the carriage was ready. He offered to escort me to it and attempted to take my hand, but I pulled it back and said, “I can’t—I really can’t! Please go ahead without me, and as for myself, just let me have a chair.”
“Impossible,” cried he with vehemence, “I cannot think of trusting you with strange chairmen,-I cannot answer it to Mrs. Mirvan;-come, dear Madam, we shall be home in five minutes.”
“Impossible,” he exclaimed passionately, “I can’t imagine trusting you with unfamiliar chairmen – I can’t explain that to Mrs. Mirvan – come on, dear Madam, we’ll be home in five minutes.”
Again I stood suspended. With what joy would I then have compromised with my pride, to have been once more with Madame Duval and the Branghtons, provided I had not met with Lord Orville! However, I flatter myself that he not only saw but pitied my embarrassment; for he said in a tone of voice unusually softened, “To offer my services in the presence of Sir Clement Willoughby would be superfluous; but I hope I need not assure Miss Anville how happy it would make me to be of the least use to her.”
Again, I found myself frozen in place. How gladly I would have set aside my pride to be with Madame Duval and the Branghtons again, if only I hadn't met Lord Orville! Still, I like to think he not only noticed but also felt sympathy for my awkwardness; he spoke to me in a surprisingly gentle tone, saying, “It would be unnecessary for me to offer my assistance in the presence of Sir Clement Willoughby, but I hope I don’t need to tell Miss Anville how happy I would be to be of any help to her.”
I courtsied my thanks. Sir Clement, with great earnestness, pressed me to go; and while I was thus uneasily deliberating what to do, the dance, I suppose, finished, for the people crowded down stairs. Had Lord Orville then repeated his offer, I would have accepted it notwithstanding Sir Clement’s repugnance; but I fancy he thought it would be impertinent. In a very few minutes I heard Madame Duval’s voice, as she descended from the gallery. “Well,” cried I hastily, “if I must go-” I stopt; but Sir Clement immediately handed me into his chariot, called out, “Queen Ann Street,” and then jumped in himself. Lord Orville, with a bow and a half smile, wished me good night.
I curtsied to show my thanks. Sir Clement, looking very serious, insisted that I go; and while I was anxiously trying to decide what to do, I guess the dance ended, because people started crowding downstairs. If Lord Orville had repeated his offer at that moment, I would have taken it despite Sir Clement’s opposition; but I think he thought it would be rude to bring it up again. In just a few minutes, I heard Madame Duval’s voice as she came down from the gallery. “Well,” I exclaimed quickly, “if I have to go—” I stopped, but Sir Clement immediately helped me into his carriage, called out, “Queen Ann Street,” and then jumped in next to me. Lord Orville, with a slight bow and a half smile, wished me good night.
My concern was so great at being seen and left by Lord Orville in so strange a situation, that I should have been best pleased to have remained wholly silent during our ride home; but Sir Clement took care to prevent that.
My worry about being seen and left by Lord Orville in such an awkward situation was so intense that I would have preferred to stay completely silent during our ride home; however, Sir Clement made sure that wouldn't happen.
He began by making many complaints of my unwillingness to trust myself with him, and begged to know what could be the reason? This question so much embarrassed me, that I could not tell what to answer; but only said, that I was sorry to have taken up so much of his time.
He started by expressing many complaints about my reluctance to trust myself with him and asked what the reason could be. This question made me so uncomfortable that I didn't know how to respond; all I could say was that I was sorry for taking up so much of his time.
“O Miss Anville,” cried he, taking my hand, “if you knew with what transport I would dedicate to you not only the present but all the future time allotted to me, you would not injure me by making such an apology.”
“O Miss Anville,” he exclaimed, taking my hand, “if you knew how passionately I would dedicate not just this moment but all the time I have left to you, you wouldn’t hurt me by saying such an apology.”
I could not think of a word to say to this, nor to a great many other equally fine speeches with which he ran on; though I would fain have withdrawn my hand, and made almost continual attempts; but in vain, for he actually grasped it between both his, without any regard to my resistance.
I couldn’t think of anything to say in response to this, or to many other great speeches he kept going on about; I really wanted to pull my hand away and tried repeatedly, but it was useless, as he firmly held it with both of his, ignoring my attempts to resist.
Soon after, he said that he believed the coachman was going the wrong way; and he called to his servant, and gave him directions. Then again addressing himself to me, “How often, how assiduously have I sought an opportunity of speaking to you, without the presence of that brute, Captain Mirvan! Fortune has now kindly favoured me with one; and permit me,” again seizing my hand, “permit me to use it in telling you that I adore you.”
Soon after, he mentioned that he thought the coachman was going the wrong way; and he called to his servant to give him directions. Then, turning to me, he said, “How many times have I tried so hard to find a chance to talk to you without that brute, Captain Mirvan, around! Fortune has finally granted me that chance; and please,” grabbing my hand again, “let me tell you that I adore you.”
I was quite thunderstruck at this abrupt and unexpected declaration. For some moments I was silent; but when I recovered from my surprise, I said, “Indeed, Sir, if you were determined to make me repent leaving my own party so foolishly, you have very well succeeded.”
I was totally shocked by this sudden and unexpected statement. For a few moments, I was silent; but when I got over my surprise, I said, “Honestly, Sir, if you were set on making me regret leaving my own group so foolishly, you’ve definitely succeeded.”
“My dearest life,” cried he, “is it possible you can be so cruel? Can your nature and your countenance be so totally opposite? Can the sweet bloom upon those charming cheeks, which appears as much the result of good-humour as of beauty-”
“My dearest life,” he cried, “is it really possible for you to be so cruel? Can your nature and your expression be so completely different? Can the lovely blush on those beautiful cheeks, which seems to come from both good humor and beauty—”
“O, Sir,” cried I, interrupting him, “this is very fine; but I had hoped we had had enough of this sort of conversation at the ridotto, and I did not expect you would so soon resume it.”
“O, Sir,” I exclaimed, cutting him off, “this is very nice; but I thought we had wrapped up this kind of conversation at the ridotto, and I didn’t expect you’d pick it up again so quickly.”
“What I then said, my sweet reproacher, was the effect of a mistaken, a profane idea, that your understanding held no competition with your beauty; but now, now that I find you equally incomparable in both, all words, all powers of speech, are too feeble to express the admiration I feel of your excellencies.”
“What I said then, my dear critic, came from a misguided and disrespectful thought that your intelligence couldn’t match your beauty; but now, now that I see you’re equally unmatched in both, all words, all forms of expression, are too weak to convey the admiration I have for your greatness.”
“Indeed,” cried I, “if your thoughts had any connection with your language, you would never suppose that I could give credit to praise so very much above my desert.”
“Seriously,” I exclaimed, “if your thoughts were really in sync with your words, you wouldn’t think that I could believe such high praise is deserved.”
This speech, which I made very gravely, occasioned still stronger protestations; which he continued to pour forth, and I continued to disclaim, till I began to wonder that we were not in Queen Ann Street, and begged he would desire the coachman to drive faster.
This speech, which I delivered very seriously, led to even more strong objections from him; he kept expressing them, and I kept denying them, until I started to question why we weren't on Queen Ann Street, and I asked him to tell the driver to go faster.
“And does this little moment,” cried he, “which is the first of happiness I have ever known, does it already appear so very long to you?”
“And does this little moment,” he exclaimed, “which is the first happiness I’ve ever experienced, already feel so very long to you?”
“I am afraid the man has mistaken the way,” answered I, “or else we should ere now have been at our journey’s end. I must beg you will speak to him.”
“I think the man has taken a wrong turn,” I replied, “or else we would have reached our destination by now. I need to ask you to talk to him.”
“And can you think me so much my own enemy?-if my good genius has inspired the man with a desire of prolonging my happiness, can you expect that I should counteract its indulgence?”
“And can you really think I’m such my own enemy? If my good spirit has inspired him to want to extend my happiness, can you expect me to go against that?”
I now began to apprehend that he had himself ordered the man to go a wrong way; and I was so much alarmed at the idea, that, the very instant it occurred to me, I let down the glass, and made a sudden effort to open the chariot-door myself, with a view of jumping into the street; but he caught hold of me, exclaiming, “For Heaven’s sake, what is the matter?”
I started to realize that he had actually told the man to go the wrong way; and I was so worried by this thought that, as soon as it hit me, I lowered the window and tried to open the car door myself, wanting to jump into the street. But he grabbed me, exclaiming, “For Heaven’s sake, what’s wrong?”
“I-I don’t know,” cried I (quite out of breath), “but I am sure the man goes wrong; and if you will not speak to him, I am determined I will get out myself.”
“I-I don’t know,” I said, breathing heavily, “but I’m sure the guy is messing up; and if you won’t talk to him, I’m set on getting out myself.”
“You amaze me,” answered he (still holding me), “I cannot imagine what you apprehend. Surely you can have no doubts of my honour?”
"You amaze me," he replied (still holding me), "I can't imagine what you're thinking. Surely you don't doubt my honor?"
He drew me towards him as he spoke. I was frightened dreadfully, and could hardly say, “No, Sir, no,-none at all: only Mrs. Mirvan,-I think she will be uneasy.”
He pulled me closer as he spoke. I was incredibly scared and could barely say, “No, Sir, no—none at all: just Mrs. Mirvan—I think she’ll be worried.”
“Whence this alarm, my dearest angel?-What can you fear?-my life is at your devotion, and can you, then, doubt my protection?”
“Where is this alarm coming from, my dearest angel? What can you be afraid of? My life is devoted to you, so how can you doubt my protection?”
And so saying, he passionately kissed my hand.
And with that, he kissed my hand deeply.
Never, in my whole life, have I been so terrified. I broke forcibly from him, and, putting my head out of the window, called aloud to the man to stop. Where we then were, I know not; but I saw not a human being, or I should have called for help.
Never in my life have I been so scared. I pulled away from him and, sticking my head out of the window, shouted at the man to stop. I don’t know where we were, but I didn’t see anyone around, or I would have called for help.
Sir Clement, with great earnestness, endeavoured to appease and compose me: “If you do not intend to murder me,” cried I, “for mercy’s, for pity’s sake, let me get out!”
Sir Clement, very seriously, tried to calm me down: “If you're not planning to kill me,” I shouted, “for the sake of mercy, for pity, just let me out!”
“Compose your spirits, my dearest life,” cried he, “and I will do everything you would have me.” And then he called to the man himself, and bid him make haste to Queen Ann Street. “This stupid fellow,” continued he, “has certainly mistaken my orders; but I hope you are now fully satisfied.”
“Calm down, my dearest,” he exclaimed, “and I’ll do everything you want me to.” Then he called out to the man and told him to hurry to Queen Ann Street. “This ridiculous guy,” he went on, “has clearly misunderstood my instructions; but I hope you’re now completely satisfied.”
I made no answer, but kept my head at the window watching which way he drove, but without any comfort to myself, as I was quite unacquainted with either the right or the wrong.
I didn't say anything, but I stayed at the window, watching which way he drove, without feeling any better, since I had no idea what was right or wrong.
Sir Clement now poured forth abundant protestations of honour, and assurances of respect, intreating my pardon for having offended me, and beseeching my good opinion: but I was quite silent, having too much apprehension to make reproaches, and too much anger to speak without.
Sir Clement now offered plenty of declarations of honor and reassurances of respect, begging for my forgiveness for having offended me and pleading for my good opinion. But I remained silent, feeling too much anxiety to make accusations and too much anger to speak at all.
In this manner we went through several streets, till at last, to my great terror, he suddenly ordered the man to stop, and said, “Miss Anville, we are now within twenty yards of your house; but I cannot bear to part with you, till you generously forgive me for the offence you have taken, and promise not to make it known to the Mirvan’s.”
In this way, we passed through several streets until, to my great fear, he abruptly told the driver to stop and said, “Miss Anville, we are now just twenty yards from your house; but I can’t bear to say goodbye until you kindly forgive me for the trouble I've caused and promise not to tell the Mirvans.”
I hesitated between fear and indignation.
I was torn between fear and anger.
“Your reluctance to speak redoubles my contrition for having displeased you, since it shews the reliance I might have on a promise which you will not give without consideration.”
“Your hesitation to speak increases my regret for upsetting you, as it shows the trust I could have in a promise that you won’t make without careful thought.”
“I am very, very much distressed,” cried I; “you ask a promise which you must be sensible I ought not to grant, and yet dare not refuse.”
“I am really, really upset,” I exclaimed; “you’re asking for a promise that you know I shouldn’t give, and yet I can’t bring myself to say no.”
“Drive on!” cried he to the coachman;-“Miss Anville, I will not compel you; I will exact no promise, but trust wholly to your generosity.”
“Keep going!” he shouted to the driver. “Miss Anville, I won’t force you; I won’t require any promises, but I’m completely relying on your kindness.”
This rather softened me; which advantage he no sooner received, than he determined to avail himself of; for he flung himself on his knees, and pleaded with so much submission, that I was really obliged to forgive him, because his humiliation made me quite ashamed: and, after that, he would not let me rest till I gave him my word that I would not complain of him to Mrs. Mirvan.
This really softened me; as soon as he noticed it, he decided to take advantage of it. He dropped to his knees and begged with so much humility that I felt I had to forgive him, as his shame made me feel quite embarrassed. After that, he wouldn’t let me relax until I promised I wouldn’t tell Mrs. Mirvan about him.
My own folly and pride, which had put me in his power, were pleas which I could not but attend to in his favour. However, I shall take very particular care never to be again alone with him.
My own foolishness and pride, which had given him control over me, were reasons I couldn’t ignore in his favor. However, I will make sure to never be alone with him again.
When, at last, we arrived at our house, I was so overjoyed, that I should certainly have pardoned him then, if I had not before. As he handed me up stairs, he scolded his servant aloud, and very angrily, for having gone so much out of the way. Miss Mirvan ran out to meet me; -and who should I see behind her, but Lord Orville!
When we finally got to our house, I was so happy that I definitely would have forgiven him then, if I hadn’t already. As he helped me upstairs, he loudly and angrily yelled at his servant for taking such a long detour. Miss Mirvan came out to greet me; and who did I see behind her but Lord Orville!
All my joy now vanished, and gave place to shame and confusion; for I could not endure that he should know how long a time Sir Clement and I had been together, since I was not at liberty to assign any reason for it.
All my happiness just disappeared, replaced by shame and confusion; I couldn't stand the thought of him knowing how long Sir Clement and I had been together, especially since I couldn't explain why.
They all expressed great satisfaction at seeing me; and said they had been extremely uneasy and surprised that I was so long coming home, as they had heard from Lord Orville that I was not with Madame Duval. Sir Clement, in an affected passion, said, that his booby of a servant had misunderstood his orders, and was driving us to the upper end of Piccadilly. For my part, I only coloured; for though I would not forfeit my word, I yet disdained to confirm a tale in which I had myself no belief.
They all seemed really happy to see me and said they had been very worried and surprised that I took so long to come home since they had heard from Lord Orville that I wasn't with Madame Duval. Sir Clement, pretending to be angry, said that his foolish servant misunderstood his instructions and was taking us to the far end of Piccadilly. As for me, I just blushed because, while I didn't want to go back on my word, I also didn't want to support a story I didn't believe in.
Lord Orville, with great politeness, congratulated me, that the troubles of the evening had so happily ended; and said, that he had found it impossible to return home, before he enquired after my safety.
Lord Orville, very politely, congratulated me that the troubles of the evening had ended so well; and he said that he had found it impossible to go home before checking on my safety.
In a very short time he took his leave, and Sir Clement followed him. As soon as they were gone, Mrs. Mirvan, though with great softness, blamed me for having quitted Madame Duval. I assured her, and with truth, that for the future I would be more prudent.
In no time, he said his goodbyes, and Sir Clement went after him. Once they were gone, Mrs. Mirvan gently criticized me for leaving Madame Duval. I assured her, truthfully, that I would be more careful in the future.
The adventures of the evening so much disconcerted me, that I could not sleep all night. I am under the most cruel apprehensions lest Lord Orville should suppose my being on the gallery-stairs with Sir Clement was a concerted scheme, and even that our continuing so long together in his chariot was with my approbation, since I did not say a word on the subject, nor express my dissatisfaction at the coachman’s pretended blunder.
The events of the evening upset me so much that I couldn't sleep at all that night. I'm really worried that Lord Orville might think my presence on the gallery stairs with Sir Clement was planned, and that our long ride together in his carriage was approved by me since I didn’t say anything about it or show my dissatisfaction with the coachman’s supposed mistake.
Yet his coming hither to wait our arrival though it seems to imply some doubt, shews also some anxiety. Indeed, Miss Mirvan says, that he appeared extremely anxious, nay, uneasy and impatient for my return. If I did not fear to flatter myself, I should think it not impossible but that he had a suspicion of Sir Clement’s design, and was therefore concerned for my safety.
Yet his coming here to wait for us, although it seems to suggest some doubt, also shows some anxiety. In fact, Miss Mirvan says he seemed really anxious, even uneasy and impatient for my return. If I didn't fear getting my hopes up, I'd think it might not be impossible that he suspected Sir Clement's intentions and was therefore worried about my safety.
What a long letter is this! however, I shall not write many more from London; for the Captain said this morning, that he would leave town on Tuesday next. Madame Duval will dine here to-day, and then she is to be told his intention.
What a long letter this is! However, I won't write many more from London; the Captain said this morning that he would be leaving town next Tuesday. Madame Duval is coming here for dinner today, and then she'll be told about his plans.
I am very much amazed that she accepted Mrs. Mirvan’s invitation, as she was in such wrath yesterday. I fear that to-day I shall myself be the principal object of her displeasure; but I must submit patiently, for I cannot defend myself.
I’m really surprised she accepted Mrs. Mirvan’s invitation since she was so angry yesterday. I’m worried that today I’ll be the main target of her frustration; but I guess I have to endure it patiently because I can’t defend myself.
Adieu, my dearest Sir. Should this letter be productive of any uneasiness to you, more than ever shall I repent the heedless imprudence which it recites.
Goodbye, my dearest Sir. If this letter causes you any discomfort, I will regret even more the careless foolishness that it describes.
LETTER XXII - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION Monday Morning, April 18.
MRS. MIRVAN has just communicated to me an anecdote concerning Lord Orville, which has much surprised, half pleased, and half pained me.
MRS. MIRVAN just shared a story with me about Lord Orville that has surprised me, half pleased me, and half upset me.
While they were sitting together during the opera, he told her that he had been greatly concerned at the impertinence which the young lady under her protection had suffered from Mr. Lovel; but that he had the pleasure of assuring her, she had no future disturbance to apprehend from him.
While they were sitting together at the opera, he told her that he had been really worried about the disrespect that the young lady she was looking after had faced from Mr. Lovel; but he was glad to assure her that she wouldn’t have to worry about any future trouble from him.
Mrs. Mirvan, with great eagerness, begged he would explain himself; and said she hoped he had not thought so insignificant an affair worthy his serious attention.
Mrs. Mirvan, really eager, begged him to clarify himself; and said she hoped he hadn't considered such a minor issue worthy of his serious attention.
“There is nothing,” answered he, “which requires more immediate notice than impertinence, for it ever encroaches when it is tolerated.” He then added, that he believed he ought to apologize for the liberty he had taken in interfering; but that, as he regarded himself in the light of a party concerned, from having had the honour of dancing with Miss Anville, he could not possibly reconcile to himself a patient neutrality.
“There’s nothing,” he replied, “that needs more immediate attention than rudeness, because it just keeps creeping in when it’s allowed.” He then added that he felt he should apologize for overstepping, but since he saw himself as personally involved after having the honor of dancing with Miss Anville, he couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.
He then proceeded to tell her, that he had waited upon Mr. Lovel the morning after the play; that the visit had proved an amicable one, but the particulars were neither entertaining nor necessary: he only assured her, Miss Anville might be perfectly easy, since Mr. Lovel had engaged his honour never more to mention, or even to hint at what had passed at Mrs. Stanley’s assembly.
He then went on to tell her that he had met with Mr. Lovel the morning after the play. The visit had been friendly, but the details were neither interesting nor needed. He just assured her that Miss Anville could feel completely at ease since Mr. Lovel had promised not to mention or even hint at what happened at Mrs. Stanley’s gathering again.
Mrs. Mirvan expressed her satisfaction at this conclusion, and thanked him for his polite attention to her young friend.
Mrs. Mirvan expressed her happiness with this outcome and thanked him for being so considerate to her young friend.
“It would be needless,” said he, “to request that this affair may never transpire, since Mrs. Mirvan cannot but see the necessity of keeping it inviolably secret; but I thought it incumbent upon me, as the young lady is under your protection, to assure both you and her of Mr. Lovel’s future respect.”
"It would be unnecessary," he said, "to ask that this matter never come to light, since Mrs. Mirvan understands the importance of keeping it strictly confidential; however, I felt it was my duty, considering the young lady is in your care, to assure both you and her of Mr. Lovel’s future respect."
Had I known of this visit previous to Lord Orville’s making it, what dreadful uneasiness would it have cost me! Yet that he should so much interest himself in securing me from offence, gives me, I must own, an internal pleasure, greater than I can express; for I feared he had too contemptuous an opinion of me, to take any trouble upon my account. Though, after all, this interference might rather be to satisfy his own delicacy, than from thinking well of me.
If I had known about this visit before Lord Orville made it, I would have felt terrible anxiety! Yet the fact that he cares so much about protecting me from being offended gives me, I have to admit, a deep sense of pleasure that I can't put into words; I was afraid he thought too little of me to bother with my well-being. However, after all, this involvement might be more about his own sense of delicacy than about him thinking highly of me.
But how cool, how quiet is true courage! Who, from seeing Lord Orville at the play, would have imagined his resentment would have hazarded his life? yet his displeasure was evident, though his real bravery and his politeness equally guarded him from entering into any discussion in our presence.
But how impressive, how calm is true courage! Who would have guessed, just by seeing Lord Orville at the play, that his anger could have put his life at risk? Yet his frustration was clear, even though his genuine bravery and his politeness kept him from getting into any arguments in front of us.
Madame Duval, as I expected, was most terribly angry yesterday: she scolded me for, I believe, two hours, on account of having left her; and protested she had been so much surprised at my going, without giving her time to answer, that she hardly knew whether she was awake or asleep. But she assured me that if ever I did so again, she would never more take me into public. And she expressed an equal degree of displeasure against Sir Clement, because he had not even spoken to her, and because he was always of the Captain’s side in an argument. The Captain, as bound in honour, warmly defended him, and then followed a dispute in the usual style.
Madame Duval, just as I expected, was really furious yesterday: she scolded me for what felt like two hours for leaving her, and insisted she was so shocked by my departure, without letting her respond, that she could hardly tell if she was awake or dreaming. But she made it clear that if I ever did that again, she would never take me out in public again. She was equally upset with Sir Clement for not even speaking to her and for always siding with the Captain in arguments. The Captain, out of loyalty, defended him passionately, and then they had a typical argument.
After dinner, Mrs. Mirvan introduced the subject of our leaving London. Madame Duval said she would stay a month or two longer. The Captain told her she was welcome, but that he and his family should go into the country on Tuesday morning.
After dinner, Mrs. Mirvan brought up the topic of us leaving London. Madame Duval mentioned that she would stay for another month or two. The Captain told her she was welcome to do so, but he and his family would be heading to the countryside on Tuesday morning.
A most disagreeable scene followed. Madame Duval insisted upon keeping me with her; but Mrs. Mirvan said, that as I was actually engaged on a visit to Lady Howard, who had only consented to my leaving her for a few days, she could not think of returning without me.
A really unpleasant situation unfolded. Madame Duval insisted on keeping me with her, but Mrs. Mirvan said that since I was actually visiting Lady Howard, who had only agreed to let me leave her for a few days, she couldn't consider going back without me.
Perhaps, if the Captain had not interfered, the good-breeding and mildness of Mrs. Mirvan might have had some effect upon Madame Duval; but he passes no opportunity of provoking her; and therefore made so many gross and rude speeches, all of which she retorted, that, in conclusion, she vowed she would sooner go to law in right of her relationship, than that I should be taken away from her.
Perhaps, if the Captain hadn't butted in, Mrs. Mirvan's good manners and gentle nature might have had some impact on Madame Duval; but he never missed a chance to annoy her, making so many offensive and rude remarks that she eventually swore she would rather go to court for her rights as a relative than let me be taken away from her.
I heard this account from Mrs. Mirvan, who was so kindly considerate as to give me a pretence for quitting the room as soon as this dispute began, lest Madame Duval should refer to me, and insist on my obedience.
I heard this story from Mrs. Mirvan, who was so kind to give me an excuse to leave the room as soon as this argument started, so that Madame Duval wouldn't call on me and demand my compliance.
The final result of the conversation was, that, to soften matters for the present, Madame Duval should make one in the party to Howard Grove, whither we are positively to go next Wednesday. And though we are none of us satisfied with this plan, we know not how to form a better.
The final result of the conversation was that, to ease things for now, Madame Duval should join the group heading to Howard Grove, where we are definitely going next Wednesday. And even though none of us are happy with this plan, we don't know how to come up with a better one.
Mrs. Mirvan is now writing to Lady Howard, to excuse bringing this unexpected guest, and prevent the disagreeable surprise which must otherwise attend her reception. This dear lady seems eternally studying my happiness and advantage.
Mrs. Mirvan is now writing to Lady Howard to explain the arrival of this unexpected guest and to avoid the unpleasant surprise that would come with her reception. This dear lady always seems to be focused on my happiness and well-being.
To-night we go to the Pantheon, which is the last diversion we shall partake of in London; for to-morrow- * * * * *
To night we go to the Pantheon, which is the last entertainment we will enjoy in London; for tomorrow- * * * * *
This moment, my dearest Sir, I have received your kind letter.
This moment, my dear Sir, I have received your thoughtful letter.
If you thought us too dissipated the first week, I almost fear to know what you will think of us this second;-however, the Pantheon this evening will probably be the last public place which I shall ever see.
If you thought we were too wild during the first week, I’m almost afraid to find out what you’ll think of us this second week; however, the Pantheon this evening will probably be the last public place I’ll ever see.
The assurance of your support and protection in regard to Madame Duval, though what I never doubted, excites my utmost gratitude. How, indeed, cherished under your roof, the happy object of your constant indulgence, how could I have borne to become the slave of her tyrannical humours? -Pardon me that I speak so hardly of her; but whenever the idea of passing my days with her occurs to me, the comparison which naturally follows, takes from me all that forbearance which, I believe, I owe her.
The reassurance of your support and protection regarding Madame Duval, which I never doubted, fills me with deep gratitude. How could I have endured becoming the victim of her tyrannical behavior, cherished under your roof as the happy recipient of your constant kindness? -Please forgive me for speaking so harshly about her; but whenever I think about spending my days with her, the comparison that inevitably arises drains me of all the patience I believe I owe her.
You are already displeased with Sir Clement: to be sure, then, his behaviour after the opera will not make his peace with you. Indeed the more I reflect upon it, the more angry I am. I was entirely in his power, and it was cruel in him to cause me so much terror.
You’re already unhappy with Sir Clement, so it's clear that his actions after the opera won't help improve things between you. In fact, the more I think about it, the angrier I get. I was completely at his mercy, and it was really harsh of him to frighten me so much.
O, my dearest Sir, were I but worthy the prayers and the wishes you offer for me, the utmost ambition of my heart would be fully satisfied! but I greatly fear you will find me, now that I am out of the reach of your assisting prudence, more weak and imperfect than you could have expected.
O, my dearest Sir, if I were truly deserving of the prayers and wishes you have for me, my deepest ambition would be completely fulfilled! But I’m very afraid you will find me, now that I’m out of the reach of your guiding wisdom, weaker and more flawed than you could have anticipated.
I have not now time to write another word, for I must immediately hasten to dress for the evening.
I don't have time to write another word right now because I need to hurry and get ready for the evening.
LETTER XXIII - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION Queen Ann Street, Tuesday, April 19.
THERE is something to me half melancholy in writing an account of our last adventures in London. However, as this day is merely appropriated to packing and preparations for our journey, and as I shall shortly have no more adventures to write, I think I may as well complete my town journal at once: and, when you have it all together, I hope, my dear Sir, you will send me your observations and thoughts upon it to Howard Grove.
THERE is something a bit sad about writing down our last adventures in London. However, since today is just about packing and getting ready for our trip, and soon I won’t have any more adventures to write about, I might as well finish my city journal now. When you have everything compiled, I hope, my dear Sir, you’ll send me your thoughts and comments on it to Howard Grove.
About eight o’clock we went to the Pantheon. I was extremely struck with the beauty of the building, which greatly surpassed whatever I could have expected or imagined. Yet it has more the appearance of a chapel than of a place of diversion; and, though I was quite charmed with the magnificence of the room, I felt that I could not be as gay and thoughtless there as at Ranelagh; for there is something in it which rather inspires awe and solemnity, than mirth and pleasure. However, perhaps it may only have this effect upon such a novice as myself.
Around eight o’clock, we headed to the Pantheon. I was really impressed by the beauty of the building, which far exceeded anything I could have expected or imagined. Still, it feels more like a chapel than a place for entertainment; and while I was completely taken by the grandeur of the room, I sensed that I couldn’t be as carefree and lighthearted there as I would be at Ranelagh. There’s something about it that inspires more awe and solemnity rather than fun and joy. However, maybe this is just how it feels to a novice like me.
I should have said, that our party consisted only of Captain, Mrs. and Miss Mirvan, as Madame Duval spent the day in the city;-which I own I could not lament.
I should have mentioned that our group was made up of the Captain, Mrs. Mirvan, and Miss Mirvan, since Madame Duval spent the day in the city—which I honestly couldn't regret.
There was a great deal of company; but the first person we saw was Sir Clement Willoughby. He addressed us with his usual ease, and joined us for the whole evening. I felt myself very uneasy in his presence; for I could not look at him, nor hear him speak, without recollecting the chariot adventure; but, to my great amazement, I observed that he looked at me without the least apparent discomposure, though, certainly, he ought not to think of his behaviour without blushing. I really wish I had not forgiven him, and then he could not have ventured to speak to me any more.
There were a lot of people around, but the first person we spotted was Sir Clement Willoughby. He greeted us with his usual charm and stayed with us for the whole evening. I felt really uncomfortable around him; I couldn’t look at him or listen to him without thinking about the chariot incident. To my surprise, though, he looked at me without any visible awkwardness, even though he definitely should feel embarrassed about his actions. Honestly, I wish I hadn’t forgiven him, then he wouldn’t have dared to talk to me again.
There was an exceeding good concert, but too much talking to hear it well. Indeed I am quite astonished to find how little music is attended to in silence; for, though every body seems to admire, hardly any body listens.
There was an incredibly good concert, but there was too much talking to hear it properly. I’m really surprised to see how little attention people pay to the music in silence; because, even though everyone seems to admire it, hardly anyone actually listens.
We did not see Lord Orville till we went into the tea-room, which is large, low, and under ground, and serves merely as a foil to the apartments above; he then sat next to us. He seemed to belong to a large party, chiefly of ladies; but, among the gentlemen attending them, I perceived Mr. Lovel.
We didn't see Lord Orville until we went into the tea room, which is big, cozy, and underground, serving mainly to contrast with the rooms above; he then sat next to us. He appeared to be part of a large group, primarily of women; however, among the men accompanying them, I noticed Mr. Lovel.
I was extremely irresolute whether or not I ought to make any acknowledgments to Lord Orville for his generous conduct in securing me from the future impertinence of that man; and I thought, that, as he had seemed to allow Mrs. Mirvan to acquaint me, though no one else, of the measures which he had taken, he might perhaps suppose me ungrateful if silent: however, I might have spared myself the trouble of deliberating, as I never once had the shadow of an opportunity of speaking unheard by Sir Clement. On the contrary, he was so exceedingly officious and forward, that I could not say a word to any body but instantly he bent his head forward, with an air of profound attention, as if I had addressed myself wholly to him; and yet I never once looked at him, and would not have spoken to him on any account.
I was really unsure whether I should thank Lord Orville for his kind actions in protecting me from that man's future rudeness. I thought that since he had allowed Mrs. Mirvan to inform me, when no one else could, about the steps he had taken, he might think I was ungrateful if I didn't say anything. However, I could have saved myself the trouble of thinking it over, since I never had the slightest chance to speak without Sir Clement overhearing me. In fact, he was so overly eager and intrusive that whenever I tried to talk to anyone, he would lean in with this serious expression, as if I was talking directly to him. Yet, I never looked at him and wouldn't have spoken to him under any circumstances.
Indeed, Mrs. Mirvan herself, though unacquainted with the behaviour of Sir Clement after the opera, says it is not right for a young woman to be seen so frequently in public with the same gentleman; and, if our stay in town was to be lengthened, she would endeavour to represent to the Captain the impropriety of allowing his constant attendance; for Sir Clement with all his easiness, could not be so eternally of our parties, if the Captain was less fond of his company.
Indeed, Mrs. Mirvan herself, although not familiar with Sir Clement's behavior after the opera, believes it's not appropriate for a young woman to be seen so often in public with the same man. If we were to stay in town longer, she would try to explain to the Captain how inappropriate it is to let him be around so much. Because while Sir Clement is very easygoing, he wouldn’t be with us all the time if the Captain didn’t enjoy his company so much.
At the same table with Lord Orville sat a gentleman,-I call him so only because he was at the same table,-who, almost from the moment I was seated, fixed his eyes steadfastly on my face, and never once removed them to any other object during tea-time, notwithstanding my dislike of his staring must, I am sure, have been very evident. I was quite surprised, that a man, whose boldness was so offensive, could have gained admission into a party of which Lord Orville made one; for I naturally concluded him to be some low-bred, uneducated man; and I thought my idea was indubitably confirmed, when I heard him say to Sir Clement Willoughby, in an audible whisper,-which is a mode of speech very distressing and disagreeable to bystanders,-“For Heaven’s sake, Willoughby, who is that lovely creature?”
At the same table as Lord Orville sat a guy—I'm calling him that only because he was at the same table—who, almost from the moment I sat down, locked his eyes on my face and didn’t look away at all during tea time, even though my dislike of his staring must have been pretty obvious. I was really surprised that a man with such offensive boldness could be part of a group that included Lord Orville; I naturally assumed he was some rude, uneducated person. My suspicion was definitely confirmed when I heard him say to Sir Clement Willoughby in a loud whisper—which is really annoying for other people around—“For heaven’s sake, Willoughby, who is that gorgeous girl?”
But what was my amazement, when, listening attentively for the answer, though my head was turned another way, I heard Sir Clement say, “I am sorry I cannot inform your Lordship, but I am ignorant myself.”
But I was amazed when, listening closely for the answer, even though my head was turned the other way, I heard Sir Clement say, “I’m sorry, I can’t tell you, but I don’t know myself.”
Lordship! how extraordinary! that a nobleman, accustomed, in all probability, to the first rank of company in the kingdom, from his earliest infancy, can possibly be deficient in good manners, however faulty in morals and principles! Even Sir Clement Willoughby appeared modest in comparison with this person.
Lordship! How amazing! That a nobleman, who has probably been in the highest circles of society since childhood, can still lack good manners, no matter how flawed his morals and principles might be! Even Sir Clement Willoughby seemed modest next to this person.
During tea, a conversation was commenced upon the times, fashions, and public places, in which the company of both tables joined. It began by Sir Clement’s inquiring of Miss Mirvan and of me, if the Pantheon had answered our expectations.
During tea, a conversation started about the current times, trends, and public places, which included everyone at both tables. It began when Sir Clement asked Miss Mirvan and me if the Pantheon lived up to our expectations.
We both readily agreed that it had greatly exceeded them.
We both quickly agreed that it had far surpassed them.
“Ay, to be sure,” said the Captain, “why, you don’t suppose they’d confess they didn’t like it, do you? Whatever’s the fashion, they must like, of course;-or else, I’d be bound for it, they’d own, that there never was such a dull place as this here invented.”
“Yeah, for sure,” said the Captain, “you really don’t think they’d admit they didn’t like it, do you? Whatever’s in style, they have to like it, of course; otherwise, I bet they’d admit that there’s never been such a boring place as this invented.”
“And has, then, this building,” said Lord Orville, “no merit that may serve to lessen your censure? Will not your eye, Sir, speak something in its favour?”
“And does this building,” said Lord Orville, “not have any merit that could soften your criticism? Won’t your gaze, Sir, reveal something positive about it?”
“Eye!” cried the Lord, (I don’t know his name,) “and is there any eye here, that can find pleasure in looking at dead walls or statues, when such heavenly living objects as I now see demand all their admiration?”
“Look!” cried the Lord, (I don’t know his name,) “is there anyone here who finds joy in staring at dead walls or statues when such magnificent living beings as I see right now deserve all their admiration?”
“O, certainly,” said Lord Orville, “the lifeless symmetry of architecture, however beautiful the design and proportion, no man would be so mad as to put in competition with the animated charms of nature: but when, as to-night, the eye may be regaled at the same time, and in one view, with all the excellence of art, and all the perfection of nature, I cannot think that either suffer by being seen together.”
“O, definitely,” said Lord Orville, “the lifeless symmetry of architecture, no matter how beautiful the design and proportions, no one would be crazy enough to compare it to the lively allure of nature. But when, like tonight, the eye can enjoy both the brilliance of art and the perfection of nature at the same time, in one view, I don’t think either one is diminished by being seen together.”
“I grant, my Lord,” said Sir Clement, “that the cool eye of unimpassioned philosophy may view both with equal attention, and equal safety; but, where the heart is not so well guarded, it is apt to interfere, and render, even to the eye, all objects but one insipid and uninteresting.”
“I agree, my Lord,” said Sir Clement, “that a calm perspective of detached philosophy can look at both with the same focus and safety; however, when the heart isn’t as protected, it tends to get in the way, making everything except one thing seem dull and unexciting.”
“Aye, Aye,” cried the Captain, “you may talk what you will of your eye here, and your eye there, and, for the matter of that, to be sure you have two,-but we all know they both squint one way.”
“Aye, Aye,” shouted the Captain, “you can say whatever you want about your eye here and your eye there, and sure, you have two of them—but we all know they both look in the same direction.”
“Far be it from me,” said Lord Orville, “to dispute the magnetic power of beauty, which irresistibly draws and attracts whatever has soul and sympathy: and I am happy to acknowledge, that though we have now no gods to occupy a mansion professedly built for them, yet we have secured their better halves, for we have goddesses to whom we all most willingly bow down.” And then with a very droll air, he made a profound reverence to the ladies.
“Far be it from me,” said Lord Orville, “to argue against the irresistible power of beauty, which naturally attracts anyone with a heart and understanding: and I’m glad to admit that even though we don’t have gods to live in a dwelling made especially for them, we have their better halves, because we have goddesses to whom we all gladly pay our respects.” And then, with a very funny expression, he made a deep bow to the ladies.
“They’d need to be goddesses with a vengeance,” said the Captain, “for they’re mortal dear to look at. Howsomever, I should be glad to know what you can see in e’er a face among them that’s worth half-a-guinea for a sight.”
“They’d need to be fierce goddesses,” said the Captain, “because they’re hardly anything special to look at. Still, I’d like to know what you find in any of their faces that’s worth half a guinea just to see.”
“Half-a-guinea!” exclaimed that same Lord, “I would give half I am worth for a sight of only one, provided I make my own choice. And, prithee, how can money be better employed than in the service of fine women?”
“Half a guinea!” exclaimed that same Lord, “I would give half of what I'm worth for a glimpse of just one, as long as I get to choose. And, pray tell, how can money be better spent than in the service of beautiful women?”
“If the ladies of his own party can pardon the Captain’s speech,” said Sir Clement, “I think he has a fair claim to the forgiveness of all.”
“If the women in his own party can forgive the Captain’s speech,” said Sir Clement, “I think he has a good chance of being forgiven by everyone.”
“Then you depend very much, as I doubt not but you may,” said Lord Orville, “upon the general sweetness of the sex;-but as to the ladies of the Captain’s party, they may easily pardon, for they cannot be hurt.”
“Then you rely quite a bit, as I’m sure you do,” said Lord Orville, “on the overall charm of women; but when it comes to the ladies in the Captain’s group, they can easily forgive, because they aren’t really affected.”
“But they must have a devilish good conceit of themselves, though,” said the Captain, “to believe all that. Howsomever, whether or no, I should be glad to be told by some of you, who seem to be knowing in them things, what kind of diversion can be found in such a place as this here, for one who has had, long ago, his full of face-hunting?”
“But they must have an incredibly high opinion of themselves, though,” said the Captain. “Anyway, whether that's true or not, I’d really like to hear from some of you who seem to know about these things what kind of fun can be found in a place like this, for someone who’s already had their fill of chasing after appearances a long time ago?”
Every body laughed, but nobody spoke.
Everybody laughed, but no one said a word.
“Why, look you there now,” continued the Captain, “you’re all at a dead stand!-not a man among you can answer that there question. Why, then, I must make bold to conclude, that you all come here for no manner of purpose but to stare at one another’s pretty faces:-though, for the matter of that, half of ‘em are plaguy ugly;-and, as to t’other half,-I believe it’s none of God’s manufactory.”
“Look at you all,” the Captain continued, “you’re all stuck! Not one of you can answer that question. So, I have to assume you all came here just to gawk at each other’s pretty faces—though, honestly, half of them are pretty ugly—and as for the other half, I don't think God made them.”
“What the ladies may come hither for, Sir,” said Mr. Lovel, (stroking his ruffles, and looking down,) “it would ill become us to determine; but as to we men, doubtless we can have no other view than to admire them.”
“What the ladies might come here for, Sir,” said Mr. Lovel, (stroking his ruffles and looking down,) “it wouldn't be our place to decide; but as for us men, surely we can have no other intention than to admire them.”
“If I ben’t mistaken,” cried the Captain, (looking earnestly in his face,) “you are that same person we saw at Love for Love t’other night; ben’t you?” Mr. Lovel bowed.
“If I’m not mistaken,” the Captain said, looking earnestly at him, “you’re the same person we saw at Love for Love the other night; aren’t you?” Mr. Lovel bowed.
“Why, then, Gentlemen,” continued he, with a loud laugh, “I must tell you a most excellent good joke;-when all was over, as sure as you’re alive, he asked what the play was! Ha, ha, ha!”
“Why, then, guys,” he continued with a loud laugh, “I have to tell you a really great joke—when everything was done, I swear, he asked what the play was! Ha, ha, ha!”
“Sir,” said Mr. Lovel, colouring, “if you were as much used to town-life as I am,-which, I presume, is not precisely the case,-I fancy you would not find so much diversion from a circumstance so common.” “Common! What, is it common?” repeated the Captain; “why then, ‘fore George, such chaps are more fit to be sent to school, and well disciplined with a cat-o’-nine tails, than to poke their heads into a play-house. Why, a play is the only thing left, now-a-days, that has a grain of sense in it; for as to all the rest of your public places, d’ye see, if they were all put together, I wouldn’t give that for ‘em!” (snapping his fingers.) “And now we’re talking of them sort of things, there’s your operas,-I should like to know, now, what any of you can find to say for them.” Lord Orville, who was most able to have answered, seemed by no means to think the Captain worthy an argument, upon a subject concerning which he had neither knowledge nor feeling: but, turning to us, he said, “The ladies are silent, and we seem to have engrossed the conversation to ourselves, in which we are much more our own enemies than theirs. But,” addressing himself to Miss Mirvan and me, “I am most desirous to hear the opinions of these young ladies, to whom all public places must, as yet, be new.” We both, and with eagerness, declared that we had received as much, if not more pleasure, at the opera than any where: but we had better have been silent; for the Captain, quite displeased, said, “What signifies asking them girls? Do you think they know their own minds yet? Ask ?em after any thing that’s called diversion, and you’re sure they’ll say it’s vastly fine-they are a set of parrots, and speak by rote, for they all say the same thing: but ask ‘em how they like making puddings and pies, and I’ll warrant you’ll pose ‘em. As to them operas, I desire I may hear no more of their liking such nonsense; and for you, Moll” (to his daughter,) “I charge you, as you value my favour, that you’ll never again be so impertinent as to have a taste of your own before my face. There are fools enough in the world, without your adding to their number. I’ll have no daughter of mine affect them sort of megrims. It is a shame they a’n’t put down; and if I’d my will, there’s not a magistrate in this town but should be knocked on the head for suffering them. If you’ve a mind to praise any thing, why you may praise a play, and welcome, for I like it myself.” This reproof effectually silenced us both for the rest of the evening. Nay, indeed, for some minutes it seemed to silence every body else; till Mr. Lovel, not willing to lose an opportunity of returning the Captain’s sarcasm, said, “Why, really Sir, it is but natural to be most pleased with what is most familiar; and, I think, of all our diversions, there is not one so much in common between us and the country as a play. Not a village but has its barns and comedians; and as for the stage business, why it may be pretty equally done any where; and even in regard to us, and the canaille, confined as we all are within the semi-circle of a theatre, there is no place where the distinction is less obvious.” While the Captain seemed considering for Mr. Lovel’s meaning, Lord Orville, probably with a view to prevent his finding it, changed the subject to Cox’s Museum, and asked what he thought of it? “Think!-“said he, “why I think as how it i’n’t worth thinking about. I like no such jemcracks. It is only fit, in my mind, for monkeys:-though, for aught I know, they too might turn up their noses at it.” “May we ask your Lordship’s own opinion?” said Mrs. Mirvan. “The mechanism,” answered he, “is wonderfully ingenioous: I am sorry it is turned to no better account; but its purport is so frivolous, so very remote from all aim at instruction or utility, that the sight of so fine a show leaves a regret on the mind, that so much work, and so much ingenuity, should not be better bestowed.” “The truth is,” said the Captain, “that in all this huge town, so full as it is of folks of all sorts, there i’n’t so much as one public place, besides the play-house, where a man, that’s to say, a man who is a man, ought not to be ashamed to shew his face. T’other day they got me to a ridotto: but, I believe, it will be long enough before they get me to another. I knew no more what to do with myself, than if my ship’s company had been metamorphosed into Frenchman. Then, again, there’s your famous Ranelagh, that you make such a fuss about;-why what a dull place is that!-it’s the worst of all.” “Ranelagh dull!”-“Ranelagh dull!-was echoed from mouth to mouth; and all the ladies, as if of one accord, regarded the Captain with looks of the most ironical contempt. “As to Ranelagh,” said Mr. Lovell, “most indubitably, though the price is blebian, it is by no means adapted to the plebian taste. It requires a certain acquaintance with high life, and-and-and something of-of-something d’un vrai gout, to be really sensible of its merit. Those whose-whose connections, and so forth, are not among les gens comme il faut, can feel nothing but ennui at such a place as Ranelagh.” “Ranelagh!” cried Lord -, “O, tis the divinest place under heaven,-or, indeed,-for aught I know-”
“Sir,” said Mr. Lovel, blushing, “if you were as used to city life as I am—which I assume you’re not—you might not find so much amusement in something so typical.” “Typical! What, is it typical?” repeated the Captain; “well then, for George’s sake, those kinds of people should be sent to school and given a good whipping rather than poking their heads into a theater. Honestly, a play is about the only thing left these days that makes any sense; because if you add up all other public places, I wouldn’t give that for them!” (snapping his fingers.) “And speaking of those sorts of things, what do you all have to say about operas?” Lord Orville, who could have answered, didn’t think the Captain deserved a response on a topic he had no knowledge or feeling about. Instead, he turned to us and said, “The ladies are quiet, and it seems we’ve monopolized the conversation. We’re being more of our own enemies than theirs. But,” addressing Miss Mirvan and me, “I’m very eager to hear what you young ladies think, since all public places must still be new to you.” We both eagerly stated that we found just as much, if not more, enjoyment at the opera than anywhere else. But we should have stayed silent because the Captain, clearly annoyed, said, “What’s the point of asking those girls? Do you really believe they know their own minds yet? Ask them about anything called fun, and they’ll surely say it’s wonderful—they’re just a bunch of parrots, repeating the same things. But ask them how they feel about making puddings and pies, and I bet you’ll stump them. As for those operas, I don’t want to hear any more about them liking that nonsense; and for you, Moll” (to his daughter) “I command you, as you value my approval, to never again be so rude as to have a taste of your own in front of me. There are enough fools in the world without you adding to them. I won’t have my daughter being affected by that kind of nonsense. It’s a shame they haven't been banned; and if it were up to me, there isn’t a single magistrate in this town who wouldn’t be knocked on the head for allowing them. If you want to praise something, you may praise a play, and welcome, for I like them myself.” This reprimand effectively silenced both of us for the rest of the evening. In fact, for a few minutes, it seemed to silence everyone else until Mr. Lovel, not willing to miss the chance to respond to the Captain's sarcasm, said, “Well, really Sir, it’s only natural to be most pleased with what is most familiar; and I think, of all our pastimes, there’s none so much in common between us and the country as a play. Not a village exists without its barns and entertainers; and as for the stage, it can probably be performed anywhere. Even regarding us and the common folks, since we’re all stuck within the semi-circle of a theater, there’s no place where the distinction is less obvious.” While the Captain seemed to be pondering Mr. Lovel’s meaning, Lord Orville, likely trying to steer him away from it, changed the topic to Cox’s Museum and asked what he thought of it. “Think!” said he, “I think it’s not worth thinking about. I dislike such rubbish. In my opinion, it’s only fit for monkeys—though, for all I know, they might turn up their noses at it too.” “May we ask your Lordship’s own opinion?” said Mrs. Mirvan. “The mechanics,” he answered, “are wonderfully clever; I regret it’s not being used for something better. But its purpose is so trivial, so utterly detached from any aim at instruction or usefulness, that witnessing such a grand display leaves a sense of regret that so much effort and ingenuity are not better utilized.” “The truth is,” said the Captain, “in this huge town, so filled with all sorts of people, there isn’t a single public place, aside from the theater, where a man—meaning a man who is a man—shouldn’t be ashamed to show his face. The other day they dragged me to a ridotto; but I believe I’ll be a long time before they convince me to go to another. I knew no more what to do with myself than if my ship’s crew had turned into Frenchmen. Then there’s your famous Ranelagh that you all fuss about—what a boring place that is! It’s the worst of all.” “Ranelagh dull!”—“Ranelagh dull!”—was echoed from person to person, and all the ladies, as if in unison, looked at the Captain with expressions of the utmost sarcastic contempt. “As for Ranelagh,” said Mr. Lovel, “most definitely, although the price is cheap, it is by no means suited for a common taste. It requires a certain familiarity with high society, and—and—and something of genuine taste to truly appreciate its merits. Those whose connections are not among the well-bred can feel nothing but boredom at a place like Ranelagh.” “Ranelagh!” cried Lord—, “Oh, it’s the most divine place under heaven—or, in fact, for all I know—”
“O you creature!” cried a pretty, but affected young lady, patting him with her fan, “you sha’n’t talk so; I know what you are going to say; but, positively, I won’t sit by you, if you’re so wicked.”
“O you creature!” cried a pretty, but pretentious young lady, patting him with her fan, “you can’t talk like that; I know what you’re going to say; but honestly, I won’t sit next to you if you’re going to be so mean.”
“And how can one sit by you, and be good?” said he, “when only to look at you is enough to make one wicked-or wish to be so?” “Fie, my Lord!” returned she, “you really are insufferable. I don’t think I shall speak to you again these seven years.” “What a metamorphosis,” cried Lord Orville,” should you make a patriarch of his Lordship.” “Seven years!” said he, “dear Madam, be contented with telling me you will not speak to me after seven years, and I will endeavour to submit.”
“And how can anyone sit next to you and be good?” he said. “Just looking at you is enough to make someone wicked—or want to be.” “Oh, my Lord!” she replied. “You really are unbearable. I don’t think I’ll speak to you again for seven years.” “What a transformation,” exclaimed Lord Orville, “you’d make a patriarch of his Lordship.” “Seven years!” he said. “Dear Madam, just be content with saying you won’t speak to me for seven years, and I’ll try to accept it.”
“O, very well, my Lord,” answered she, “pray date the end of our speaking to each other as early as you please, I’ll promise to agree to your time.”
“O, very well, my Lord,” she replied, “please feel free to set the end of our conversation whenever you want, I promise to go along with your timing.”
“You know, dear Madam,” said he, sipping his tea, “you know I only live in your sight.” “O yes, my Lord, I have long known that. But I begin to fear we shall be too late for Ranelagh this evening.” “O no, Madame,” said Mr. Lovel, looking at his watch, “it is but just past ten.” “No more!” cried she, “O then we shall do very well.” All the ladies now started up, and declared they had no time to lose. “Why, what the D-l,” cried the Captain, leaning forward with both his arms on the table,” are you going to Ranelagh at this time of night?” The ladies looked at one another, and smiled. “To Ranelagh?” cried Lord -, “yes, and I hope you are going too; for we cannot possibly excuse these ladies.” “I go to Ranelagh?-if I do, I’ll be -.” Everybody now stood up; and the stranger Lord, coming round to me, said, “You go, I hope?” “No, my Lord, I believe not.” “O you cannot, must not be so barbarous.” And he took my hand, and ran on, saying such fine speeches, and compliments, that I might almost have supposed myself a goddess, and him a pagan paying me adoration. As soon as I possibly could, I drew back my hand; but he frequently, in the course of conversation, contrived to take it again, though it was extremely disagreeable to me; and the more so, as I saw that Lord Orville had his eyes fixed upon us, with a gravity of attention that made me uneasy. And, surely, my dear Sir, it was a great liberty in this lord, not withstanding his rank, to treat me so freely. As to Sir Clement, he seemed in misery. They all endeavoured to prevail with the Captain to join the Ranelagh party; and this lord told me, in a low voice, that it was tearing his heart out to go without me.
“You know, dear Madam,” he said, sipping his tea, “you know I only live in your presence.” “Oh yes, my Lord, I’ve known that for a while. But I’m starting to worry we’ll be too late for Ranelagh this evening.” “Oh no, Madame,” said Mr. Lovel, checking his watch, “it’s just past ten.” “No way!” she exclaimed. “Oh then we’ll be just fine.” All the ladies jumped up and said they had to hurry. “What the heck,” cried the Captain, leaning forward with both arms on the table, “are you really going to Ranelagh at this time of night?” The ladies exchanged glances and smiled. “To Ranelagh?” exclaimed Lord -, “yes, and I hope you’re going too; we can’t possibly leave these ladies behind.” “Me go to Ranelagh? If I do, I’ll be -.” Everyone got up now; and the stranger Lord came over to me and said, “You’re going, I hope?” “No, my Lord, I don’t think so.” “Oh, you can’t, you mustn’t be so cruel.” And he took my hand, going on with such flattering words and compliments that I almost felt like a goddess and him a pagan paying me tribute. As soon as I could, I pulled my hand back; but he managed to grab it again during the conversation, which I found really uncomfortable, especially since I noticed Lord Orville watching us with an intensity that made me uneasy. And truly, my dear Sir, it was quite bold of this lord, despite his status, to treat me so casually. As for Sir Clement, he looked absolutely miserable. They all tried to convince the Captain to join the Ranelagh outing; and this lord whispered to me that it was breaking his heart to leave without me.
During this conversation Mr. Lovel came forward, and assuming a look of surprise, made me a bow, and inquired how I did, protesting upon his honour, that he had not seen me before, or would have sooner paid his respects to me.
During this conversation, Mr. Lovel stepped forward, put on a surprised expression, bowed to me, and asked how I was doing, swearing on his honor that he hadn't seen me before or he would have paid his respects sooner.
Though his politeness was evidently constrained, yet I was very glad to be thus assured of having nothing more to fear from him. The Captain, far from listening to their persuasions of accompanying them to Ranelagh, was quite in a passion at the proposal, and vowed he would sooner go to the Blackhole in Calcutta.
Though his politeness was clearly forced, I was really glad to know that I had nothing more to fear from him. The Captain, instead of considering their insistence on joining them at Ranelagh, was completely furious at the suggestion and declared he would rather go to the Black Hole in Calcutta.
“But,” said Lord -, “if the ladies will take their tea at Ranelagh, you may depend upon our seeing them safe home; for we shall be proud of the honour of attending them.”
“But,” said Lord -, “if the ladies will have their tea at Ranelagh, you can count on us to see them home safely; we would be proud to have the honor of accompanying them.”
“May be so,” said the Captain, “but I’ll tell you what, if one of these places ben’t enough for them to-night, why to-morrow they shall go to ne’er a one.” We instantly declared ourselves ready to go home.
“Maybe so,” said the Captain, “but I’ll tell you what, if one of these places isn’t enough for them tonight, then tomorrow they won’t go to any of them.” We immediately said we were ready to go home.
“It is not for yourselves that we petition,” said Lord -. “But for us; if you have any charity, you will not be so cruel as to deny us; we only beg you to prolong our happiness for a few minutes,-the favour is but a small one for you to grant, though so great a one for us to receive.”
“It’s not for our own sake that we’re asking,” said Lord -. “But for us; if you have any compassion, you won’t be so heartless as to refuse us; we simply ask you to extend our happiness for a few minutes—the request is small for you to grant, but it means so much to us to receive.”
“To tell you a piece of my mind,” said the Captain, surlily, “I think you might as well not give the girls so much of this palaver; they’ll take it all for gospel. As to Moll, why she’s well enough, but nothing extraordinary; though, perhaps, you may persuade her that her pug nose is all the fashion; and as to the other, why she’s good white and red to be sure; but what of that?-I’ll warrant she’ll moulder away as fast as her neighbours.” “Is there,” cried Lord -, “another man in this place, who, seeing such objects, could make such a speech?” “As to that there,” returned the Captain, “I don’t know whether there be or no, and, to make free, I don’t care; for I sha’n’t go for to model myself by any of these fair-weather chaps, who dare not so much as say their souls are their own,-and, for aught I know, no more they ben’t. I’m almost as much ashamed of my countrymen as if I was a Frenchman, and I believe in my heart there i’n’t a pin to choose between them; and, before long, we shall hear the very sailors talking that lingo, and see never a swabber without a bag and a sword.” “He, he, he!-well, ‘pon honour,” cried Mr. Lovel, “you gentlemen of the ocean have a most severe way of judging.” “Severe! ‘fore George, that is impossible; for, to cut the matter short, the men, as they call themselves, are no better than monkeys; and as to the women, why they are mere dolls. So now you’ve got my opinion of this subject; and I so wish you good night.” The ladies, who were very impatient to be gone, made their courtsies, and tripped away, followed by all the gentlemen of their party, except the lord before mentioned, and, Lord Orville, who stayed to make inquiries of Mrs. Mirvan concerning our leaving town; and then saying, with his usual politeness, something civil to each of us, with a very grave air he quitted us. Lord - remained some minutes longer, which he spent in making a profusion of compliments to me; by which he prevented my hearing distinctly what Lord Orville said, to my great vexation, especially as he looked-I thought so, at least-as if displeased at his particularity of behaviour to me.
“Let me share my thoughts,” said the Captain grumpily, “I think it’s pointless to give the girls so much nonsense; they’ll believe every word. As for Moll, she’s decent enough, but nothing special; although, you might convince her that her pug nose is all the rage. And the other one, well, she’s got good color, sure; but what does that matter? I’ll bet she’ll fade away as fast as her friends.” “Is there,” exclaimed Lord -, “another man around here who, seeing such things, could make such a statement?” “To that, I don’t know if there is or isn’t, and honestly, I don’t care; I’m not going to shape myself after any of these fair-weather fellows who can’t even claim their own souls—if they even have any. I’m almost as ashamed of my fellow countrymen as if I were French, and deep down, I believe there’s barely any difference between us; soon enough, we’ll hear sailors speaking that lingo and see every swabber decked out with a bag and a sword.” “He, he, he! Well, honestly,” said Mr. Lovel, “you gentlemen of the sea have quite a harsh way of judging.” “Harsh? By George, that can’t be true; to put it bluntly, the men, as they call themselves, are no better than monkeys, and the women are just dolls. So there’s my take on this; I wish you all good night.” The ladies, eager to leave, curtsied and slipped away, followed by all the gentlemen in their party except the aforementioned lord and Lord Orville, who stayed to ask Mrs. Mirvan about our departure from town; then, maintaining his usual politeness, he said something kind to each of us, and with a serious expression, he left us. Lord - lingered a few minutes longer, showering me with compliments, which made it hard for me to hear what Lord Orville was saying, to my great annoyance, especially as he seemed—at least I thought so—to be displeased with his particular attention to me.
In going to an outward room, to wait for the carriage, I walked, and could not possibly avoid it, between this nobleman and Sir Clement Willoughby, and, when the servant said the coach stopped the way, though the latter offered me his hand, which I should much have preferred, this same lord, without any ceremony, took mine himself; and Sir Clement, with a look extremely provoked, conducted Mrs. Mirvan. In all ranks and all stations of life, how strangely do characters and manners differ! Lord Orville, with a politeness which knows no intermission, and makes no distinction, is as unassuming and modest as if he had never mixed with the great, and was totally ignorant of every qualification he possesses; this other lord, though lavish of compliments and fine speeches, seems to me an entire stranger to real good-breeding; whoever strikes his fancy, engrosses his whole attention. He is forward and bold; has an air of haughtiness towards men, and a look of libertinism towards woman; and his conscious quality seems to have given him a freedom in his way of speaking to either sex, that is very little short of rudeness. When we returned home, we were all low-spirited. The evening’s entertainment had displeased the Captain; and his displeasure, I believe, disconcerted us all. And here I thought to have concluded my letter; but, to my great surprise, just now we had a visit from Lord Orville. He called, he said, to pay his respects to us before we left town, and made many inquiries concerning our return; and, when Mrs Mirvan told him we were going into the country without any view of again quitting it, he expressed concern in such terms-so polite, so flattering, so serious-that I could hardly forbear being sorry for myself. Were I to go immediately to Berry Hill, I am sure I should feel nothing but joy;-but, now we are joined by this Captain, and Madame Duval, I must own I expect very little pleasure at Howard Grove. Before Lord Orville went, Sir Clement Willoughby called. He was more grave than I had ever seen him; and made several attempts to speak to me in a low voice, and to assure me that his regret upon the occasion of our journey was entirely upon my account. But I was not in spirits, and could not bear to be teased by him. However, he has so well paid his court to Captain Mirvan, that he gave him a very hearty invitation to the Grove. At this he brightened,-and just then Lord Orville took leave. No doubt but he was disgusted at this ill-timed, ill-bred partiality; for surely it was very wrong to make an invitation before Lord Orville in which he was not included! I was so much chagrined, that, as soon as he went, I left the room; and I shall not go down stairs till Sir Clement is gone.
While heading to another room to wait for the carriage, I walked, and couldn’t avoid it, between this nobleman and Sir Clement Willoughby. When the servant mentioned that the coach was blocking the way, even though Sir Clement offered me his hand, which I would have preferred, this lord took mine without any fuss. Sir Clement, looking quite annoyed, helped Mrs. Mirvan. In all levels of society, it’s interesting how differently people behave! Lord Orville, with his constant politeness that shows no bias, is as humble and modest as if he had never associated with the elite and had no idea about his own qualities. This other lord, while generous with compliments and fancy words, seems entirely clueless about true good manners; whoever catches his interest gets his full attention. He’s forward and brazen, carrying himself with arrogance towards men and a lewd gaze towards women; he acts as if his status gives him the right to speak to either gender in a way that comes close to rudeness. When we got home, we were all feeling down. The evening’s entertainment had upset the Captain, and his upset mood, I think, affected us all. I thought I would end my letter here, but to my great surprise, we just had a visit from Lord Orville. He came by to pay his respects before we left town and asked many questions about our return. When Mrs. Mirvan told him we were going to the country with no intention of coming back, he expressed concern in such polite, flattering, and serious terms that it almost made me feel sorry for myself. If I were heading straight to Berry Hill, I know I’d only feel happiness—but now that we’re joining this Captain and Madame Duval, I must admit I expect very little joy at Howard Grove. Before Lord Orville left, Sir Clement Willoughby dropped by. He was more serious than I had ever seen him and made several attempts to speak to me in a low voice, trying to reassure me that his regret over our journey was entirely for my sake. But I wasn’t in the mood and couldn’t stand being bothered by him. However, he managed to charm Captain Mirvan enough that the Captain extended a warm invitation to the Grove. At that, he perked up—just as Lord Orville was taking his leave. I have no doubt he was annoyed by this poorly timed and rude favoritism; it was definitely inappropriate to make an invitation in front of Lord Orville without including him! I was so upset that, as soon as he left, I exited the room; I won’t go downstairs until Sir Clement is gone.
Lord Orville cannot but observe his assiduous endeavours to ingratiate himself into my favour; and does not this extravagant civility of Captain Mirvan give him reason to suppose that it meets with our general approbation? I cannot thimk upon this subject without inexpressible uneasiness; and yet I can think of nothing else.
Lord Orville can't help but notice his persistent efforts to win my favor; and doesn't this over-the-top politeness from Captain Mirvan give him every reason to think that it has our overall approval? I can't think about this without feeling immense unease; and yet, I can't stop thinking about it.
Adieu, my dearest Sir. Pray write to me immediately. How many long letters has this one short fortnight produced! More than I may probably ever write again. I fear I shall have tired you with reading them; but you will now have time to rest, for I shall find but little to say in future. And now, most honoured Sir, with all the follies and imperfections which I have thus faithfully recounted, can you, and with unabated kindness, suffer me to sign myself Your dutiful and most affectionate EVELINA?
Adieu, my dearest Sir. Please write to me right away. How many long letters has this short two weeks produced! More than I will probably ever write again. I worry I might have tired you from reading them; but now you'll have time to relax, as I won't have much to say moving forward. And now, most honored Sir, with all the silly things and flaws that I have honestly shared, can you, with your unwavering kindness, allow me to sign myself Your dutiful and most affectionate EVELINA?
LETTER XXIV - MR VILLARS TO EVELINA Berry Hill, April 22.
HOW much do I rejoice that I can again address my letters to Howard Grove! My Evelina would have grieved had she known the anxiety of my mind during her residence in the great world. My apprehensions have been inexpressibly alarming; and your journal, at once exciting and relieving my fears, has almost wholly occupied me since the time of your dating it from London. Sir Clement Willoughby must be an artful designing man: I am extremely irritated at his conduct. The passion he pretends for you has neither sincerity nor honour; the manner and the opportunities he has chosen to declare it, are bordering upon insult. His unworthy behaviour after the opera, convinces me, that, had not your vehemence frightened him, Queen Ann Street would have been the last place whither he would have ordered his chariot. O, my child, how thankful am I for your escape! I need not now, I am sure, enlarge upon your indiscretion and want of thought, in so hastily trusting yourself with a man so little known to you, and whose gaiety and flightiness should have put you on your guard. The nobleman you met at the Pantheon, bold and forward as you describe him to be, gives me no apprehension; a man who appears so openly licentious, and who makes his attack with so little regard to decorum, is one who, to a mind such as my Evelina’s, can never be seen but with the disgust which his manners ought to excite. But Sir Clement, though he seeks occasion to give real offence, contrives to avoid all appearance of intentional evil. He is far more dangerous, because more artful: but I am happy to observe, that he seems to have made no impression upon your heart; and therefore a very little care and prudence may secure you from those designs which I fear he has formed. Lord Orville appears to be of a better order of beings. His spirited conduct to the meanly impertinent Lovel, and his anxiety for you after the opera, prove him to be a man of sense and feeling. Doubtless he thought there was much reason to tremble for your safety while exposed to the power of Sir Clement; and he acted with a regard to real honour, that will always incline me to think well of him, in so immediately acquainting the Mirvan family with your situation. Many men of this age, from a false and pretended delicacy to a friend, would have quietly pursued their own affairs, and thought it more honourable to leave an unsuspecting young creature to the mercy of a libertine, than to risk his displeasure by taking measures for her security. Your evident concern at leaving London is very natural, and yet it afflicts me. I ever dreaded your being too much pleased with a life of dissipation, which youth and vivacity render but too alluring; and I almost regret the consent for your journey, which I had not the resolution to withhold. Alas, my child, the artfulness of your nature, and the simplicity of your education, alike unfit you for the thorny paths of the great and busy world. The supposed obscurity of your birth and situation, makes you liable to a thousand disagreeable adventures. Not only my views, but my hopes for your future life, have ever centered in the country. Shall I own to you, that, however I may differ from Captain Mirvan in other respects, yet my opinion of the town, its manners, inhabitants, and diversions, is much upon upon a level with his own? Indeed it is the general harbour of fraud and of folly, of duplicity and of impertinence; and I wish few things more fervently, than that you may have taken a lasting leave of it. Remember, however, that I only speak in regard to a public and dissipated life; in private families we may doubtless find as much goodness, honesty, and virtue, in London as in the country. If contented with a retired station, I still hope I shall live to see my Evelina the ornament of her neighbourhood, and the pride and delight of her family; and giving and receiving joy from such society as may best deserve her affection, and employing herself in such useful and innocent occupations as may secure and merit the tenderest love of her friends, and the worthiest satisfaction of her own heart. Such are my hopes, and such have been my expectations. Disappointment them not, my beloved child; but cheer me with a few lines, that may assure me, this one short fortnight spent in town has not undone the work of seventeen years spent in the country. ARTHUR VILLARS.
HOW much do I rejoice that I can once again address my letters to Howard Grove! My Evelina would have been heartbroken if she knew about the anxiety weighing on my mind during her time in the big city. My worries have been truly overwhelming; your journal, both thrilling and comforting, has kept me occupied since you dated it from London. Sir Clement Willoughby must be a cunning, scheming man: I'm very upset with his behavior. The passion he pretends to feel for you is neither sincere nor honorable; the way and the timing he chose to declare it is nearly insulting. His disgraceful conduct after the opera convinces me that, if your strong reaction hadn't startled him, Queen Ann Street would have been the last place he would have sent his carriage. Oh, my child, how grateful I am for your escape! I really don’t need to remind you of your impulsive decision to trust yourself with a man you barely know, especially one whose carefree attitude should have made you cautious. The nobleman you met at the Pantheon, bold and forward as you describe him, doesn’t concern me. A man who is so openly reckless and who approaches without regard for propriety can only be met with disgust by someone like my Evelina. But Sir Clement, while he looks for ways to genuinely offend, manages to avoid any clear appearance of wrongdoing. He is far more dangerous because he is more manipulative; however, I’m happy to see that he doesn’t seem to have made any impact on your heart. A little bit of care and caution can safeguard you from the plans I fear he has in mind. Lord Orville appears to be of a better caliber. His spirited actions against the rude Lovel and his concern for you after the opera show that he is a man of sense and feeling. He likely felt much reason to worry for your safety while you were under Sir Clement’s influence; his actions demonstrate real honor, which will always make me think well of him for quickly informing the Mirvan family about your situation. Many men today would have selfishly pursued their own interests, believing it’s more honorable to leave an unsuspecting young lady vulnerable to a libertine rather than risk a friend's displeasure by ensuring her safety. Your clear worry about leaving London is completely understandable, but it troubles me. I have always feared that you might grow too fond of a life filled with hedonism, which youth and energy make too tempting; I almost regret giving my permission for your trip, which I did not have the courage to withhold. Alas, my child, your cleverness and the simplicity of your upbringing make you unprepared for the challenging paths of the busy world. The supposed obscurity of your background makes you vulnerable to countless uncomfortable situations. Not only my wishes but my hopes for your future have always centered in the countryside. Should I confess to you that, although I may disagree with Captain Mirvan on various issues, my views on the city, its customs, people, and entertainment are quite similar to his? In fact, it’s primarily a place filled with deception, foolishness, insincerity, and arrogance; I fervently wish for you to have said a lasting goodbye to it. However, remember that I'm only speaking in terms of a public and hedonistic life; in private families, we can undoubtedly find as much goodness, honesty, and virtue in London as we do in the countryside. If you remain content in a quieter life, I still hope to see my Evelina as the pride and joy of her community and family; I hope she finds joy in company that truly deserves her affection and engages in useful and innocent activities that earn the deepest love from her friends and fullest satisfaction in her own heart. Those are my hopes and expectations. Please don’t disappoint me, my beloved child; cheer me with a few lines that assure me this brief time spent in the city hasn’t undone the work of the past seventeen years spent in the country. ARTHUR VILLARS.
LETTER XXV - EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS Howard Grove, April 25.
NO, my dear Sir, no: the work of seventeen years remains such as it was, ever unworthy your time and your labour; but not more so now-at least I hope not,-than before that fortnight which has so much alarmed you.
NO, my dear Sir, no: the work of seventeen years remains the same as it was, ever unworthy of your time and effort; but I hope it’s not more so now than it was before that fortnight which worried you so much.
And yet I must confess, that I am not half so happy here at present as I was ere I went to town: but the change is in the place, not in me. Captain Mirvan and Madame Duval have ruined Howard Grove. The harmony that reigned here is disturbed, our schemes are broken, our way of life is altered, and our comfort is destroyed. But do not suppose London to be the source of these evils; for, had our excursion been any where else, so disagreeable an addition to our household must have caused the same change at our return. I was sure you would be displeased with Sir Clement Willoughby, and therefore I am by no means surprised at what you say of him; but for Lord Orville-I must own I had greatly feared that my weak and imperfect account would not have procured him the good opinion which he so well deserves, and which I am delighted to find you seem to have of him. O, Sir, could I have done justice to the merit of which I believe him posessed;-could I have painted him to you such as he appeared to me;-then, indeed, you would have had some idea of the claim which he has to your approbation! After the last letter which I wrote in town, nothing more passed previous to our journey hither, except a very violent quarrel between Captain Mirvan and Madame Duval. As the Captain intended to travel on horseback, he had settled that we four females should make use of his coach. Madame Duval did not come to Queen Ann Street till the carriage had waited some time at the door; and then, attended by Monsieur Du Bois, she made her appearance. The Captain, impatient to be gone, would not suffer them to enter the house, but insisted that we should immediately get into the coach. We obeyed; but were no sooner seated, than Madame Duval said, “Come, Monsieur Du Bois, these girls can make very good room for you; sit closer, children.” Mrs. Mirvan looked quite confounded; and M. Du Bois, after making some apologies about crowding us, actually got into the coach, on the side with Miss Mirvan and me. But no sooner was he seated, than the Captain, who had observed this transaction very quietly, walked up to the coach door, saying, “What, neither with your leave, nor by your leave?” M. Du Bois seemed rather shocked, and began to make abundance of excuses: but the Captain neither understood nor regarded him, and, very roughly, said, “Look’ee, Monseer, this here may be a French fashion for aught I know,-but give and take is fair in all nations; and so now, d’ye see, I’ll make bold to show you an English one.”
And yet I have to admit that I’m not nearly as happy here right now as I was before I went to town; but the change is in the place, not in me. Captain Mirvan and Madame Duval have ruined Howard Grove. The harmony that used to be here is disturbed, our plans are disrupted, our lifestyle has changed, and our comfort is destroyed. But don’t think that London is the source of these problems; if our trip had been anywhere else, adding such unpleasantness to our household would have caused the same change upon our return. I knew you wouldn’t like Sir Clement Willoughby, so I’m not surprised by your thoughts on him; but regarding Lord Orville—I must admit I was really worried that my weak and imperfect description wouldn’t earn him the good opinion he truly deserves, which I’m thrilled to see you seem to have of him. Oh, Sir, if I could have done justice to the qualities I believe he possesses—if I could have portrayed him to you as he appeared to me—then you would have had some idea of why he deserves your approval! After my last letter from town, nothing else happened before our journey here, except for a very heated argument between Captain Mirvan and Madame Duval. Since the Captain planned to travel on horseback, he arranged for the four of us women to ride in his coach. Madame Duval didn’t arrive at Queen Ann Street until the carriage had been waiting some time at the door; then, accompanied by Monsieur Du Bois, she finally showed up. The Captain, impatient to leave, wouldn’t let them enter the house and insisted that we get into the coach immediately. We complied; but no sooner had we sat down than Madame Duval said, “Come on, Monsieur Du Bois, there’s plenty of room for you; sit closer, kids.” Mrs. Mirvan looked completely taken aback, and M. Du Bois, after making many apologies for crowding us, actually climbed into the coach next to Miss Mirvan and me. But as soon as he was seated, the Captain, who had been quietly observing this situation, walked up to the coach door and said, “What, neither with your permission nor without it?” M. Du Bois seemed rather shocked and began to make a lot of excuses, but the Captain neither understood nor paid attention to him, and quite rudely said, “Look here, Monseer, this may be a French custom for all I know—but fairness is fair in all countries; and so now, you see, I’ll boldly show you an English one.”
And then, seizing his wrist, he made him jump out of the coach.
And then, grabbing his wrist, he made him jump out of the carriage.
M. Du Bois instantly put his hand upon his sword, and threatened to resent this indignity. The Captain, holding up his stick, bid him draw at his peril. Mrs. Mirvan, greatly alarmed, got out of the coach, and, standing between them, intreated her husband to re-enter the house. “None of your clack!” cried he angrily; “what the D-l, do you suppose I can’t manage a Frenchman?” Meantime, Madame Duval called out to M. Du Bois, “Eh, laissez-le, mon ami, ne le corrigez pas; c’est une villaine bete qui n’en vaut pas la peine.”
M. Du Bois quickly placed his hand on his sword and threatened to retaliate for this disrespect. The Captain raised his stick and warned him to draw his weapon at his own risk. Mrs. Mirvan, very worried, got out of the coach and stood between them, pleading with her husband to go back inside the house. “Enough of your nonsense!” he shouted angrily. “What the hell do you think, that I can’t handle a Frenchman?” In the meantime, Madame Duval shouted to M. Du Bois, “Oh, let it go, my friend, don’t correct him; he’s a foolish villain who isn’t worth it.”
“Monsieur le Capitaine,” cried M. Du Bois, “voulez-vous bien ne demander pardon?”
“Monsieur le Capitaine,” shouted M. Du Bois, “could you please not ask for forgiveness?”
“O ho, you demand pardon, do you?” said the Captain,” I thought as much; I thought you’d come to;-so you have lost your relish for an English salutation, have you?” strutting up to him with looks of defiance. A crowd was now gathering, and Mrs. Mirvan again besought her husband to go into the house. “Why, what a plague is the woman afraid of?-Did you ever know a Frenchman that could not take an affront?-I warrant Monseer knows what he is about;-don’t you Monseer?” M. Du Bois, not understanding him, only said, “plait-il, Monsieur?” “No, nor dish me neither,” answered the Captain; “but, be that as it may, what signifies our parleying here? If you’ve any thing to propose, speak at once; if not, why let us go on our journey without more ado.” “Parbleu, je n’entends rien, moi!” cried M. Du Bois, shrugging up his shoulders, and looking very dismal. Mrs. Mirvan then advanced to him, and said in French, that she was sure the Captain had not any intention to affront him, and begged he would desist from a dispute which could only be productive of mutual misunderstanding, as neither of them knew the language of the other. This sensible remonstrance had the desired effect; and M. Du Bois, making a bow to every one except the Captain, very wisely gave up the point, and took leave. We then hoped to proceed quietly on our journey; but the turbulent Captain would not yet permit us. He approached Madame Duval with an exulting air, and said, “Why, how’s this, Madame? what, has your champion deserted you? why, I thought you told me, that you old gentlewomen had it all your own way among them French sparks?” “As to that, Sir,” answered she, “it’s not of no consequence what you thought; for a person who can behave in such a low way, may think what he pleases for me, for I sha’n’t mind.” “Why then, Mistress, since you must needs make so free,” cried he, “please to tell me the reason you took the liberty for to ask any of your followers into my coach without my leave? Answer me to that.” “Why, then, pray, Sir,” returned she, “tell me the reaon why you took the liberty to treat the gentleman in such an unpolite way, as to take and pull him neck and heels out? I’m sure he hadn’t done nothing to affront you, nor nobody else; and I don’t know what great hurt he would have done you, by just sitting still in the coach; he would not have eat it.” “What, do you think, then, that my horses have nothing to do but to carry about your snivelling Frenchmen? If you do, Madam, I must make bold to tell you, you are out, for I’ll see ‘em hang’d first.” “More brute you, then! For they’ve never carried nobody half so good.” “Why, look’ee, Madam, if you must needs provoke me, I’ll tell you a piece of my mind; you must know, I can see as far into a millstone as another man; and so, if you thought for to fob me off with another one of your smirking French puppies for a son-in-law, why you’ll find yourself in a hobble, that’s all.”
“O ho, you want an apology, do you?” said the Captain. “I figured as much; I assumed you'd come around—so you've lost your taste for English greetings, have you?” He strutted up to him with a defiant look. A crowd was starting to gather, and Mrs. Mirvan again urged her husband to go inside the house. “Why, what on earth is the woman scared of? Did you ever meet a Frenchman who couldn’t handle a slight? I bet Monseer knows what he’s doing—don’t you, Monseer?” M. Du Bois, not understanding him, simply replied, “Pardon, Monsieur?” “No, nor do I care,” the Captain shot back. “But, regardless, what’s the point of this discussion? If you have something to say, say it now; if not, let’s continue our journey without any more fuss.” “Parbleu, je n’entends rien, moi!” M. Du Bois exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders and looking quite gloomy. Mrs. Mirvan then stepped forward and told him in French that she was sure the Captain didn’t mean any offense and asked him to stop the argument, which would only lead to more misunderstanding since neither of them spoke the other’s language. This sensible appeal worked, and M. Du Bois, bowing to everyone except the Captain, wisely dropped the issue and took his leave. We had hoped to carry on quietly, but the rowdy Captain wouldn’t let that happen just yet. He approached Madame Duval with an air of triumph and said, “What’s this, Madame? Has your defender abandoned you? I thought you told me that you older women had it all your way with those French fellows?” “To that, Sir,” she replied, “it doesn’t matter what you think, because someone who can act so poorly can think what they please about me; I won’t care.” “Well then, Mistress, since you feel so bold,” he exclaimed, “could you kindly explain why you took the liberty to invite any of your companions into my coach without my permission? Answer me that.” “Why, then, pray tell, Sir,” she responded, “explain to me why you thought it was okay to treat the gentleman so rudely by dragging him out? I’m sure he didn’t do anything to offend you or anyone else; I don’t understand what harm he could have done by just sitting in the coach; he wouldn’t have eaten it.” “What, do you think my horses exist solely to carry around your whimpering Frenchmen? If you think so, Madam, I must boldly say you’re mistaken, because I’d rather see them hanged first.” “You’re a brute then! They’ve never carried anyone as worthy as him.” “Listen here, Madam, if you’re going to provoke me, I’ll give you a piece of my mind; you should know I can see just as well as any other man. So, if you thought to trick me into accepting another one of your smirking French pups as a son-in-law, well, you’ll find yourself in a real bind, that’s all.”
“Sir, you’re a-but I won’t say what;-but I protest I hadn’t no such a thought, no more hadn’t Monsieur Du Bois.”
“Sir, you’re a—but I won’t say what;—but I honestly didn’t have such a thought, and neither did Monsieur Du Bois.”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Mirvan, “we shall be very late.” “Well, well,” answered he, “get away then; off with you as fast as you can, it’s high time. As to Molly, she’s fine lady enough in all conscience; I want none of your French chaps to make her worse.” And so saying he mounted his horse and we drove off. And I could not but think, with regret, of the different feelings we experienced upon leaving London, to what had belonged to our entering it. During the journey Madame Duval was so very violent against the Captain, that she obliged Mrs. Mirvan to tell her, that, when in her presence, she must beg her to choose some other subject of discourse. We had a most affectionate reception from Lady Howard, whose kindness and hospitality cannot fail of making every body happy who is disposed so to be. Adieu, my dearest Sir. I hope, though I have hitherto neglected to mention it, that you have always remembered me to whoever has made any inquiry concerning me.
“My dear,” Mrs. Mirvan said, “we're going to be very late.” “Well, well,” he replied, “then hurry up; get moving as fast as you can, it’s about time. As for Molly, she’s perfectly fine as she is; I don’t want any of your French guys making her worse.” With that, he got on his horse, and we drove off. I couldn’t help but feel a twinge of regret thinking about the different emotions we felt when we left London compared to when we arrived. During the journey, Madame Duval was very harsh on the Captain, which forced Mrs. Mirvan to ask her to choose a different topic of conversation when she was around. We received a warm welcome from Lady Howard, whose kindness and hospitality surely make everyone happy who wants to be. Goodbye, my dearest Sir. I hope, even though I haven’t mentioned it before, that you’ve always remembered me to anyone who has asked about me.
LETTER XXVI - EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS Howard Grove, April 27.
O MY dear Sir, I now write in the greatest uneasiness! Madame Duval has made a proposal which terrifies me to death, and which was as unexpected as it is shocking.
O MY dear Sir, I’m writing to you with great unease! Madame Duval has made a proposal that terrifies me to death, and
She had been employed for some hours this afternoon in reading letters from London: and, just about tea-time, she sent for me into her room, and said, with a look of great satisfaction, “Come here, child, I’ve got some very good news to tell you: something that will surprise you, I’ll give you my word, for you ha’n’t no notion of it.”
She had been busy for a few hours this afternoon reading letters from London, and just around tea time, she called me into her room and said, with a look of great satisfaction, “Come here, kid, I’ve got some really good news to share with you: something that will surprise you, I promise, because you have no idea about it.”
I begged her to explain herself; and then, in terms which I cannot repeat, she said she had been considering what a shame it was to see me such a poor country, shame-faced thing, when I ought to be a fine lady; and that she had long, and upon several occasions, blushed for me, though she must own the fault was none of mine; for nothing better could be expected from a girl who had been so immured. However, she assured me she had, at length, hit upon a plan, which would make quite another creature of me.
I begged her to explain herself, and then, using words I can’t repeat, she said she had been thinking about how sad it was to see me as such a poor, embarrassed creature when I should be a classy lady. She admitted that she had often felt ashamed for me, though she had to acknowledge that it wasn’t my fault at all; after all, you can’t expect much from a girl who had been so isolated. However, she promised me that she had finally come up with a plan that would transform me completely.
I waited, without much impatience, to hear what this preface led to; but I was soon awakened to more lively sensations, when she aquainted me, that her intention was to prove my birthright, and to claim, by law, the inheritance of my real family! It would be impossible for me to express my extreme consternation when she thus unfolded her scheme. My surprise and terror were equally great; I could say nothing: I heard her with a silence which I had not the power to break. She then expatiated very warmly upon the advantages I should reap from her plan; talked in a high style of my future grandeur; assured me how heartily I should despise almost every body and every thing I had hitherto seen; predicted my marrying into some family of the first rank in the kingdom; and, finally, said I should spend a few months in Paris, where my education and manners might receive their last polish. She enlarged also upon the delight she should have, in common with myself, from mortifying the pride of certain people, and showing them that she was not to be slighted with impunity. In the midst of this discourse, I was relieved by a summons to tea. Madame Duval was in great spirits; but my emotion was too painful for concealment, and every body enquired into the cause. I would fain have waived the subject, but Madame Duval was determined to make it public. She told tham that she had it in her head to make something of me, and that they should soon call me by another name than that of Anville; and yet that she was not going to have the child married neither. I could not endure to hear her proceed, and was going to leave the room; which, when Lady Howard perceived, she begged Madame Duval would defer her intelligence to some other opportunity; but she was so eager to communicate her scheme, that she could bear no delay; and therefore they suffered me to go without opposition. Indeed, whenever my situation or affairs are mentioned by Madame Duval, she speaks of them with such bluntness and severity, that I cannot be enjoined a task more cruel than to hear her. I was afterwards accquainted with some particulars of the conversation by Miss Mirvan; who told me that Madame Duval informed them of her plan wih the utmost complacency, and seemed to think herself very fortunate in having suggested it; but, soon after, she accidentally betrayed, that she had been instigated to the scheme by her relations the Branghtons, whose letters, which she received today, first mentioned the proposal. She declared that she would have nothing to do with any roundabout ways, but go openly and instantly to law, in order to prove my birth, real name, and title to the estate of my ancestors.
I waited, not too impatiently, to see where this preface was leading; but I was quickly jolted into stronger feelings when she told me that her plan was to prove my birthright and legally claim the inheritance of my true family! It’s impossible for me to describe how shocked I was when she revealed her scheme. My surprise and fear were equally intense; I couldn’t say a word: I listened in silence that I couldn’t break. She then passionately described the benefits I would gain from her plan; boasted about my future greatness; assured me how much I would look down on almost everyone and everything I had ever known; predicted I would marry into a top family in the kingdom; and finally, said I would spend a few months in Paris, where my education and manners would get their final touch. She also talked about the satisfaction we would both feel from putting certain people in their place and showing them that she couldn't be ignored. In the middle of this conversation, I was interrupted by a call for tea. Madame Duval was in great spirits, but my anxiety was too intense to hide, and everyone asked what was wrong. I would have preferred to change the subject, but Madame Duval was determined to announce it. She told them she planned to make something of me and that soon they would call me by a name other than Anville; however, she insisted that she wasn’t going to have the child married off, either. I couldn’t stand to listen any longer and was about to leave the room; when Lady Howard saw this, she asked Madame Duval to save her news for another time, but Madame Duval was so eager to share her plan that she couldn’t wait; so they let me leave without any objections. In fact, whenever Madame Duval talks about my situation or affairs, she does so with such directness and harshness that there’s nothing more painful for me than to hear her. Later, I learned some details about the conversation from Miss Mirvan, who told me that Madame Duval had shared her plan with great satisfaction, seeming to feel lucky to have come up with it; but soon after, she unintentionally revealed that she had been encouraged to devise the plan by her relatives, the Branghtons, whose letters she had received that day, in which they first mentioned the idea. She declared she would avoid any roundabout methods and go straight to court to prove my birth, real name, and claim to my ancestors' estate.
How impertinent and officious in these Branghtons, to interfere thus in my concerns! You can hardly imagine what a disturbance this plan has made in the family. The Captain, without enquiring into any particulars of the affair, has peremptorily declared himself against it, merely because it has been proposed by Madame Duval; and they have battled the point together with great violence. Mrs. Mirvan says, she will not even think, till she hears your opinion. But Lady Howard, to my great surprise, openly avows her appprobation of Madame Duval’s intention; however, she will write her reasons and sentiments upon the subject to you herself.
How rude and intrusive the Branghtons are to meddle in my business like this! You can hardly imagine the chaos this plan has created in the family. The Captain, without asking for any details about the situation, has firmly stated his opposition to it, simply because it was suggested by Madame Duval; and they have argued about it fiercely. Mrs. Mirvan says she won't even consider it until she hears your thoughts. But Lady Howard, to my surprise, openly supports Madame Duval's plans; however, she will write to you herself to explain her reasons and feelings about it.
As to Miss Mirvan, she is my second self, and neither hopes nor fears but as I do. And as to me,-I know not what to say, nor even what to wish; I have often thought my fate peculiarly cruel, to have but one parent, and from that one to be banished for ever;-while, on the other side, I have but too well known and felt the propriety of the separation. And yet, you may much better imagine, than I can express, the internal anguish which sometimes oppresses my heart, when I reflect upon the strange indifference that must occasion a father never to make the least enquiry after the health, the welfare, or even the life of his child! O Sir, to me the loss is nothing!-greatly, sweetly, and most benevolently have you guarded me from feeling it; but for him, I grieve indeed!-I must be divested, not merely of all filial piety, but of all humanity, could I ever think upon this subject, and not be wounded to the soul. Again I must repeat, I know not what to wish; think for me, therefore, my dearest Sir, and suffer my doubting mind, that knows not which way to direct its hopes, to be guided by your wisdom and unerring counsel. EVELINA.
As for Miss Mirvan, she is like my other half, sharing my hopes and fears. And as for me, I don't even know what to say or what to wish for; I often think it’s cruel that I have only one parent, and I’ve been cut off from that one forever. Yet, I also understand why the separation is necessary. Still, you can better imagine than I can describe the deep pain that sometimes weighs on my heart when I think about how indifferent a father can be, never bothering to check in about his child's health, well-being, or even life! Oh, Sir, for me, the loss doesn't matter! You have kindly shielded me from feeling it too deeply, but I truly grieve for him! I would have to be stripped not just of all filial loyalty but of my humanity if I could reflect on this topic and not feel deeply hurt. Again, I have to say, I don't know what to hope for. So please think for me, my dearest Sir, and let my uncertain mind, which doesn’t know where to direct its hopes, be guided by your wisdom and reliable advice. EVELINA.
LETTER XXVII - LADY HOWARD TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS Howard Grove.
Dear Sir,
Dear Sir,
I CANNOT give a greater proof of the high opinion I have of your candour, than by the liberty I am now going to take, of presuming to offer you advice, upon a subject concerning which you have so just a claim to act for yourself; but I know you have too unaffected a love of justice, to be partially tenacious of your own judgment.
I CAN’T show you how much I value your honesty more than by taking the liberty to offer you advice on a matter where you have every right to make your own decisions. But I know you have such a genuine sense of fairness that you aren’t stubborn about your own opinion.
Madame Duval has been proposing a scheme which has put us all in commotion, and against which, at first, in common with the rest of my family, I exclaimed: but, upon more mature consideration, I own my objections have almost wholly vanished.
Madame Duval has been suggesting a plan that has stirred up a lot of agitation among us, and at first, like the rest of my family, I protested against it; however, after giving it more thought, I have to admit that my objections have mostly disappeared.
This scheme is no other than to commence a lawsuit with Sir John Belmont, to prove the validity of his marriage with Miss Evelyn; the necessary consequence of which proof will be, securing his fortune and estate to his daughter.
This plan is nothing more than to start a lawsuit against Sir John Belmont to verify the legitimacy of his marriage to Miss Evelyn; the result of this proof will be to ensure his fortune and property go to his daughter.
And why, my dear Sir, should not this be? I know that, upon first hearing, such a plan conveys ideas that must shock you; but I know, too, that your mind is superior to being governed by prejudices, or to opposing any important cause on account of a few disagreeable attendant circumstances. Your lovely charge, now first entering into life, has merit which ought not to be buried in obscurity. She seems born for an ornament to the world. Nature has been bountiful to her of whatever she had to bestow; and the peculiar attention you have given to her education, has formed her mind to a degree of excellence, that in one so young I have scarce ever seen equalled. Fortune alone has hitherto been sparing of her gifts; and she, too, now opens the way which leads to all that is left to wish for her. What your reasons may have been, my good Sir, for so carefully concealing the birth, name, and pretensions of this amiable girl, and forbearing to make any claim upon Sir John Belmont, I am totally a stranger to; but, without knowing, I respect them, from the high opinion that I have of your character and judgment: but I hope they are not insuperable; for I cannot but think, that it was never designed for one who seems meant to grace the world, to have her life devoted to retirement. Surely Sir John Belmont, wretch as he has shown himself, could never see his accomplished daughter, and not be proud to own her, and eager to secure her the inheritance of his fortune. The admiration she met with in town, though merely the effect of her external attractions, was such, that Mrs. Mirvan assures me, she would have had the most splendid offers, had there not seemed to be some mystery in regard to her birth, which, she was well informed was assiduously, though vainly, endeavoured to be discovered.
And why not, my dear Sir? I know that when you first hear of this plan, it might shock you; but I also know your mind is too advanced to be swayed by prejudices or to reject an important cause just because of a few unpleasant circumstances. Your lovely ward, just starting out in life, has qualities that shouldn’t be hidden in obscurity. She seems destined to be an adornment to the world. Nature has been generous with her gifts, and the special attention you’ve given her education has shaped her mind to an exceptional level that I've rarely seen in someone so young. Fortune, until now, has been stingy with her blessings, but now she’s opening the door to everything left for her to desire. I’m not sure what your reasons were, my good Sir, for so carefully keeping this lovely girl’s birth, name, and background a secret and for not pursuing any claims on Sir John Belmont. I respect your decisions because of the high regard I have for your character and judgment; I just hope they’re not insurmountable. I can’t help but believe that someone who seems meant to shine in the world shouldn’t have her life confined to seclusion. Surely Sir John Belmont, despite his unworthy behavior, couldn't meet his accomplished daughter and not feel proud to claim her, eager to ensure she inherits his fortune. The admiration she received in town, which was mostly due to her external charms, was so great that Mrs. Mirvan assures me she would have had the most extravagant offers, had it not seemed that there was some mystery surrounding her birth, which, she was well aware, was being sought after, albeit in vain.
Can it be right, my dear Sir, that this promising young creature should be deprived of the fortune and rank of life to which she is lawfully entitled, and which you have prepared her to support and to use so nobly? To despise riches may, indeed, be philosophic; but to dispense them worthily must, surely, be more beneficial to mankind. Perhaps a few years, or indeed a much shorter time, may make this scheme impracticable: Sir John, tho’ yet young, leads a life too dissipated for long duration; and when too late, we may regret that something was not sooner done: for it will be next to impossible, after he is gone, to settle or prove anything with his heirs and executors.
Can it really be right, my dear Sir, that this promising young woman should be denied the wealth and social standing she rightfully deserves, and which you have prepared her to uphold and use so honorably? It's true that rejecting wealth can seem wise; however, using it wisely must certainly be more beneficial to society. Perhaps a few years, or even a much shorter time, could make this plan impossible: Sir John, although still young, is living a lifestyle that's too reckless to last; and when it's too late, we might regret that we didn't act sooner: because it will be nearly impossible, after he’s gone, to settle or prove anything with his heirs and executors.
Pardon the earnestness with which I write my sense of this affair; but your charming ward has made me so warmly her friend, that I cannot be indifferent upon a subject of such importance to her future life.
I apologize for how seriously I’m approaching this matter; however, your lovely ward has become such a good friend to me that I can’t be indifferent about something so important to her future.
Adieu, my dear Sir;-send me speedily an answer to this remonstrance, and believe me to be, -c. M. HOWARD.
Goodbye, my dear Sir; please send me a quick response to this complaint, and believe me to be, -c. M. HOWARD.
LETTER XXVIII - MR VILLARS TO LADY HOWARD Berry Hill, May 2.
YOUR letter, Madam, has opened a source of anxiety, to which I look forward with dread, and which, to see closed, I scarcely dare expect. I am unwilling to oppose my opinion to that of your Ladyship; nor, indeed, can I, but by arguments which I believe will rather rank me as a hermit ignorant of the world, and fit only for my cell, than as a proper guardian, in an age such as this, for an accomplished young woman. Yet, thus called upon, it behoves me to explain, and endeavour to vindicate, the reasons by which I have been hitherto guided.
YOUR letter, Madam, has brought up a source of anxiety that I dread facing, and I hardly dare hope to see it resolved. I don't want to oppose my views to yours; in fact, I can't, except with arguments that would probably make me seem like a hermit who knows nothing about the world, more suited for my cell than as a proper guardian in this day and age for an accomplished young woman. However, being called to explain, I feel it's necessary to clarify and try to justify the reasons that have guided me so far.
The mother of this dear child,-who was led to destruction by her own imprudence, the hardness of heart of Madame Duval, and the villany of Sir John Belmont,-was once, what her daughter is now, the best beloved of my heart: and her memory, so long as my own holds, I shall love, mourn and honour! On the fatal day that her gentle soul left its mansion, and not many hours ere she ceased to breathe, I solemnly plighted my faith, That her child if it lived, should know no father but myself, or her acknowledged husband.
The mother of this dear child—who was brought to ruin by her own carelessness, the cruelty of Madame Duval, and the wickedness of Sir John Belmont—was once, just like her daughter is now, the most beloved in my heart: and I will love, mourn, and honor her memory for as long as I live! On the tragic day when her gentle soul departed this world, and just a few hours before she stopped breathing, I pledged my commitment that her child, if it lived, would recognize no father but me, or her acknowledged husband.
You cannot, Madam, suppose that I found much difficulty in adhering to this promise, and forbearing to make any claim upon Sir John Belmont. Could I feel an affection the most paternal for this poor sufferer, and not abominate her destroyer? Could I wish to deliver to him, who had so basely betrayed the mother, the helpless and innocent offspring, who, born in so much sorrow, seemed entitled to all the compassionate tenderness of pity?
You can't honestly think, Madam, that I struggled to keep this promise and hold back from making any claims on Sir John Belmont. How could I feel a fatherly affection for this poor sufferer and not loathe her destroyer? How could I want to hand over to the one who so cruelly betrayed the mother, the helpless and innocent child, who, born into such sorrow, seemed to deserve all the caring kindness of pity?
For many years, the name alone of that man, accidentally spoken in my hearing, almost divested me of my Christianity, and scarce could I forbear to execrate him. Yet I sought not, neither did I desire, to deprive him of his child, had he with any appearance of contrition, or, indeed, of humanity, endeavoured to become less unworthy such a blessing;-but he is a stranger to all parental feelings, and has with a savage insensibility, forborne to enquire even into the existence of this sweet orphan, though the situation of his injured wife was but too well known to him.
For many years, just hearing that man's name was enough to shake my faith and made me want to curse him. Still, I didn’t want to take his child away from him, especially if he had shown even a hint of regret or, honestly, any human decency to be deserving of such a blessing. But he is completely detached from any parental feelings and has cruelly chosen not to even ask about the well-being of this sweet orphan, even though he clearly knew about his injured wife’s situation.
You wish to be acquainted with my intentions.-I must acknowledge they were such as I now perceive would not be honoured with your Ladyship’s approbation; for though I have sometimes thought of presenting Evelina to her father, and demanding the justice which is her due, yet, at other times, I have both disdained and feared the application; disdained lest it should be refused; and feared, lest it should be accepted!
You want to know my plans. I have to admit they are not the kind of intentions I now realize would earn your approval. While I’ve thought about introducing Evelina to her father and claiming the justice she deserves, at other times, I’ve both rejected and feared making that request; I’ve rejected it in case it gets denied and feared what might happen if it gets accepted!
Lady Belmont, who was firmly persuaded of her approaching dissolution, frequently and earnestly besought me, that if her infant was a female, I would not abandon her to the direction of a man so wholly unfit to take the charge of her education: but, should she be importunately demanded, that I would retire with her abroad, and carefully conceal her from Sir John, till some apparent change in his sentiments and conduct should announce him less improper for such a trust. And often would she say, “Should the poor babe have any feelings correspondent with its mother’s, it will have no want while under your protection.” Alas! she had no sooner quitted it herself, than she was plunged into a gulph of misery, that swallowed up her peace, reputation, and life.
Lady Belmont, who was convinced that her death was near, often and sincerely begged me that if her baby was a girl, I wouldn’t leave her in the care of a man so completely unfit to take on her education. Instead, if she was to be urgently taken away, that I would go abroad with her and keep her hidden from Sir John until some clear change in his feelings and behavior showed he was more suitable for such a responsibility. And she would often say, “If the poor baby has any feelings like her mother’s, she will be well cared for while she’s under your protection.” Unfortunately, as soon as she left her, she was thrown into a deep pit of misery that consumed her peace, reputation, and life.
During the childhood of Evelina, I suggested a thousand plans for the security of her birth-right;-but I as many times rejected them. I was in a perpetual conflict, between the desire that she should have justice done her, and the apprehension that, while I improved her fortune, I should endanger her mind. However, as her character began to be formed, and her disposition to be displayed, my perplexity abated; the road before me seemed less thorny and intricate, and I thought I could perceive the right path from the wrong: for when I observed the artless openness the ingenuous simplicity of her nature; when I saw that her guileless and innocent soul fancied all the world to be pure and disinterested as herself, and that her heart was open to every impression with which love, pity, or art might assail it;-then did I flatter myself, that to follow my own inclination, and to secure her welfare, was the same thing; since, to expose her to the snares and dangers inevitably encircling a house of which the master is dissipated and unprincipled, without the guidance of a mother, or any prudent and sensible female, seemed to me no less than suffering her to stumble into some dreadful pit, when the sun is in its meridian. My plan, therefore, was not merely to educate and to cherish her as my own, but to adopt her the heiress of my small fortune, and to bestow her upon some worthy man, with whom she might spend her days in tranquility, cheerfulness, and good-humour, untainted by vice, folly, or ambition.
During Evelina's childhood, I came up with countless plans to ensure her birthright, but I rejected them just as many times. I was in a constant struggle between wanting to secure her future and fearing that while I improved her fortunes, I might negatively affect her mind. However, as her character developed and her personality became apparent, my confusion eased; the path ahead seemed less complicated, and I felt I could distinguish the right path from the wrong. When I observed her natural openness and sincere simplicity, seeing that her innocent heart believed everyone in the world was as pure and selfless as she was, and that she was receptive to every influence of love, compassion, or art, I began to convince myself that following my own instincts and ensuring her well-being were one and the same. Allowing her to fall into the traps and dangers that surrounded a household ruled by a reckless and unscrupulous man—without the guidance of a mother or any wise and sensible woman—felt like letting her tumble into a terrifying pit in broad daylight. Therefore, my plan was not just to raise and nurture her as my own but to make her the heiress of my modest fortune and to place her with a deserving man, with whom she could live her life in peace, happiness, and good spirits, untouched by vice, foolishness, or ambition.
So much for the time past. Such have been the motives by which I have been governed; and I hope they will be allowed not merely to account for, but also to justify, the conduct which has resulted from them. It now remains to speak of the time to come.
So that's enough about the past. These have been the reasons guiding my actions; and I hope they will be considered not just as explanations, but also as justifications for the actions that followed. Now, it's time to talk about the future.
And here, indeed, I am sensible of difficulties which I almost despair of surmounting according to my wishes. I pay the highest deference to your Ladyship’s opinion, which it is extremely painful to me not to concur with;-yet I am so well acquainted with your goodness, that I presume to hope it would not be absolutely impossible for me to offer such arguments as might lead you to think with me, that this young creature’s chance of happiness seems less doubtful in retirement, than it would be in the gay and dissipated world. But why should I perplex your Ladyship with reasoning that can turn to so little account? for, alas! what arguments, what persuasions, can I make use of, with any prospect of success, to such a woman as Madame Duval? Her character and the violence of her disposition, intimidate me from making the attempt: she is too ignorant for instruction, too obstinate for intreaty, and too weak for reason.
And here, I really feel the difficulties that I almost despair of overcoming in the way I want. I have the utmost respect for your Ladyship’s opinion, and it’s extremely painful for me not to agree with it; yet I know your kindness well enough to hope that it wouldn’t be completely impossible for me to present some arguments that might lead you to see that this young person’s chance of happiness seems less uncertain in a quiet setting than it would be in the flashy and chaotic world. But why should I confuse your Ladyship with reasoning that will have so little impact? For, unfortunately! what arguments or persuasions can I use that would have any hope of success with someone like Madame Duval? Her character and her intense nature discourage me from even trying: she is too uninformed to be taught, too stubborn to be coaxed, and too weak to be reasoned with.
I will not, therefore, enter into a contest from which I have nothing to expect but altercation and impertinence. As soon would I discuss the effect of sound with the deaf, or the nature of colours with the blind, as aim at illuminating with conviction a mind so warped by prejudice, so much the slave of unruly and illiberal passions. Unused as she is to control, persuasion would but harden, and opposition incense her. I yield, therefore, to the necessity which compels my reluctant acquiescence; and shall now turn all my thoughts upon considering of such methods for the conducting this enterprise, as may be most conducive to the happiness of my child and least liable to wound her sensibility.
I won't enter into a debate that I expect will only lead to arguments and rudeness. I might as well try to discuss sound with someone who can't hear or the nature of colors with someone who can't see, as to hope to change the mind of someone who's so caught up in their own biases and governed by strong, unyielding emotions. Since she's not used to being controlled, trying to persuade her would only make her more stubborn, and opposing her would just anger her. So, I give in to the necessity that forces me to go along with this and will now focus all my thoughts on finding the best ways to handle this situation that will bring my child happiness while being careful not to hurt her feelings.
The law-suit, therefore, I wholly and absolutely disapprove.
I completely and totally disapprove of the lawsuit.
Will you, my dear Madam, forgive the freedom of an old man, if I own myself greatly surprised, that you could, even for a moment, listen to a plan so violent, so public, so totally repugnant to all female delicacy? I am satisfied your Ladyship has not weighed this project. There was a time, indeed, when to assert the innocence of Lady Belmont, and to blazon to the world the wrongs, not guilt, by which she suffered, I proposed, nay attempted, a similar plan: but then all assistance and encouragement was denied. How cruel to the remembrance I bear of her woes is this tardy resentment of Madame Duval! She was deaf to the voice of Nature, though she has hearkened to that of Ambition.
Will you, my dear Madam, forgive me for being so forward as to express my surprise that you could even consider a plan so extreme, so public, and so completely against all notions of feminine grace? I believe your Ladyship hasn’t truly thought this through. There was a time, indeed, when I tried to defend Lady Belmont's innocence and reveal to the world the wrongs, not her guilt, that she endured; but back then, I received no support or encouragement. How painful this late backlash from Madame Duval is, considering the memories I hold of her struggles! She ignored the call of Nature, even though she listened to the call of Ambition.
Never can I consent to have this dear and timid girl brought forward to the notice of the world by such a method; a method which will subject her to all the impertinence of curiosity, the sneers of conjecture, and the stings of ridicule. And for what?-the attainment of wealth which she does not want, and the gratification of vanity which she does not feel. A child to appear against a father!-no, Madam, old and infirm as I am, I would even yet sooner convey her myself to some remote part of the world, though I were sure of dying in the expedition.
I can never agree to let this dear and shy girl be introduced to the world in such a way; a way that will expose her to everyone's nosy curiosity, sarcastic comments, and hurtful ridicule. And for what? To gain wealth she doesn't care about, and to satisfy a pride she doesn't have. A child should not stand against her father! No, Madam, as old and weak as I am, I would rather take her myself to some faraway place, even if it meant I would die on the journey.
Far different had been the motives which would have stimulated her unhappy mother to such a proceeding; all her felicity in this world was irretrievably lost; her life was become a burthen to her; and her fair fame, which she had early been taught to prize above all other things, had received a mortal wound: therefore, to clear her own honour, and to secure from blemish the birth of her child, was all the good which fortune had reserved herself the power of bestowing. But even this last consolation was withheld from her!
Her motives were completely different from what would have pushed her unhappy mother to take such a step; all her happiness in this world was lost for good; her life had become a burden to her; and her good reputation, which she had always been taught to value above everything else, had suffered a fatal blow: so, to restore her own honor and protect her child's birth from any disgrace was all the good fortune had left her. But even this final comfort was taken away from her!
Let milder measures be adopted: and-since it must be so-let application be made to Sir John Belmont, but as to a law-suit, I hope, upon this subject, never more to hear it mentioned.
Let’s go with gentler approaches: and since it has to be this way, let’s reach out to Sir John Belmont, but regarding a lawsuit, I hope I never have to hear about that again.
With Madame Duval, all pleas of delicacy would be ineffectual; her scheme must be opposed by arguments better suited to her understanding. I will not, therefore, talk of its impropriety, but endeavour to prove its inutility. Have the goodness, then, to tell her, that her own intentions would be frustrated by her plan; since, should the lawsuit be commenced, and even should the cause be gained, Sir John Belmont would still have it in his power, and, if irritated, no doubt in his inclination, to cut off her grand-daughter with a shilling.
With Madame Duval, any subtle requests would be pointless; her plan needs to be challenged with arguments that actually make sense to her. So, I won't discuss its inappropriateness, but I will try to show how useless it is. Please let her know that her own goals would be sabotaged by her plan; because if the lawsuit goes ahead, even if it's won, Sir John Belmont could still decide to leave her granddaughter with just a shilling if he feels provoked.
She cannot do better herself than to remain quiet and inactive in the affair: the long and mutual animosity between her and Sir John will make her interference merely productive of debates and ill-will. Neither would I have Evelina appear till summoned. And as to myself, I must wholly decline acting; though I will, with unwearied zeal, devote all my thoughts to giving counsel: but, in truth, I have neither inclination nor spirits adequate to engaging personally with this man.
She can't do better than to stay quiet and out of it: the long-standing tension between her and Sir John will only result in arguments and bad feelings if she gets involved. I also don't want Evelina to show up until she's invited. As for me, I completely refuse to take part; however, I will tirelessly dedicate all my thoughts to providing advice. But honestly, I have no desire or energy to confront this man personally.
My opinion is, that he would pay more respect to a letter from your Ladyship upon this subject, than from any other person. I, therefore, advise and hope, that you will yourself take the trouble of writing to him, in order to open the affair. When he shall be inclined to see Evelina, I have for him a posthumous letter, which his much injured lady left to be presented to him, if ever such a meeting should take place.
I believe he would value a letter from you more than from anyone else on this matter. So, I suggest and hope that you will take the time to write to him about it. When he decides to see Evelina, I have a letter from his late wife that she intended to give to him if they ever had a chance to meet.
The views of the Branghtons, in suggesting this scheme, are obviously interested. They hope, by securing to Evelina the fortune of her father, to induce Madame Duval to settle her own upon themselves. In this, however, they would probably be mistaken; for little minds have ever a propensity to bestow their wealth upon those who are already in affluence; and, therefore, the less her grandchild requires her assistance, the more gladly she will give it.
The Branghtons clearly have their own interests in mind when they propose this plan. They are hoping that by getting Evelina her father's fortune, they can persuade Madame Duval to leave her own fortune to them. However, they would likely be wrong; people with limited thinking tend not to share their wealth with those who are already well-off. So, the less her grandchild needs her help, the more willing she will be to offer it.
I have but one thing more to add, from which, however, I can by no means recede: my word so solemnly given to Lady Belmont, that her child should never be owned but with her self, must be inviolably adhered to. I am, dear Madam, with great respect, Your Ladyship’s most obedient servant, ARTHUR VILLARS.
I only have one more thing to say, which I cannot back down from: my promise, given so earnestly to Lady Belmont, that her child should only be acknowledged with her, must be kept without fail. I am, dear Madam, with great respect, Your Ladyship’s most obedient servant, ARTHUR VILLARS.
LETTER XXIX - MR. VILLARS TO EVELINA Berry Hill, May 2.
HOW sincerely do I sympathise in the uneasiness and concern which my beloved Evelina has so much reason to feel! The cruel scheme in agitation is equally repugnant to my judgment and my inclination;-yet to oppose it seems impracticable. To follow the dictates of my own heart, I should instantly recall you to myself, and never more consent to your being separated from me; but the manners and opinion of the world demand a different conduct. Hope, however, for the best, and be satisfied you shall meet with no indignity; if you are not received into your own family as you ought to be, and with the distinction that is your due, you shall leave it for ever; and once again restored to my protection, secure your own tranquillity, and make, as you have hitherto done, all the happiness of my life. ARTHUR VILLARS.
HOW sincerely I sympathize with the unease and concern that my beloved Evelina has so much reason to feel! The cruel scheme being planned is equally against my judgment and my desires; yet opposing it seems impossible. If I were to follow my own heart, I would instantly bring you back to me and never allow us to be separated again; but the social norms and opinions of the world require a different approach. However, hope for the best, and know that you will not face any indignity; if you are not welcomed into your own family as you deserve, with the respect that is rightfully yours, you shall leave it forever. Once restored to my protection, you will secure your own peace and continue, as you've always done, to bring all the happiness of my life. ARTHUR VILLARS.
LETTER XXX - EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS Howard Grove, May 6.
THE die is thrown, and I attend the event in trembling! Lady Howard has written to Paris, and sent her letter to town, to be forwarded in the ambassador’s packet; and, in less than a fortnight, therefore, she expects an answer. O, Sir, with what anxious impatience shall I wait its arrival! upon it seems to depend the fate of my future life. My solicitude is so great, and my suspense so painful, that I cannot rest a moment in peace, or turn my thoughts into any other channel.
The die is cast, and I attend the event with anxiety! Lady Howard has written to Paris and sent her letter to the city to be included in the ambassador’s packet; therefore, she expects a response in less than two weeks. Oh, Sir, how anxiously I will wait for its arrival! It seems the outcome of my future life depends on it. My worry is so intense, and my uncertainty so distressing, that I can’t find a moment of peace or focus my thoughts on anything else.
Deeply interested as I now am in the event, most sincerely do I regret that the plan was ever proposed. Methinks it cannot end to my satisfaction: for either I must be torn from the arms of my more than father,-or I must have the misery of being finally convinced, that I am cruelly rejected by him who has the natural claim to that dear title, which to write, mention, or think of, fills my whole soul with filial tenderness.
I'm really invested in what's happening now, but I truly regret that the plan was ever suggested. I don’t think it will end well for me: either I’ll be forced away from my father, or I’ll have to endure the heartache of realizing that I’m cruelly rejected by the person who rightfully holds that precious title. Just thinking about it fills me with deep feelings of love and connection.
The subject is discussed here eternally. Captain Mirvan and Madame Duval, as usual, quarrel whenever it is started: but I am so wholly engrossed by my own reflections, that I cannot even listen to them. My imagination changes the scene perpetually: one moment, I am embraced by a kind and relenting parent, who takes me to that heart from which I have hitherto been banished, and supplicates, through me, peace and forgiveness from the ashes of my mother!-at another, he regards me with detestation, considers me as the living image of an injured saint, and repulses me with horror!-But I will not afflict you with the melancholy phantasms of my brain; I will endeavour to compose my mind to a more tranquil state, and forbear to write again till I have in some measure succeeded.
The topic is endlessly debated here. Captain Mirvan and Madame Duval fight like usual whenever it comes up, but I'm so caught up in my own thoughts that I can't even pay attention to them. My imagination keeps changing the situation: one moment, I'm being embraced by a loving parent who brings me back to the heart I've been banished from, pleading for peace and forgiveness on behalf of my mother! In another moment, he looks at me with disgust, sees me as the living image of a wronged saint, and pushes me away in horror! But I won’t burden you with the sad visions in my mind; I’ll try to calm my thoughts and hold off writing again until I've managed to find some peace.
May Heaven bless you, my dearest Sir! and long, long may it continue you on earth, to bless Your grateful EVELINA
May heaven bless you, my dearest Sir! And may it continue to bless you on earth for a long, long time. Your grateful EVELINA
LETTER XXXI - LADY HOWARD TO SIR JOHN BELMONT, BART Howard Grove, May 5.
Sir,
Hey,
YOU will, doubtless, be surprised at receiving a letter from one who had for so short a period the honour of your acquaintance, and that at so great a distance of time; but the motive which has induced me to take this liberty is of so delicate a nature, that were I to commence making apologies for my officiousness, I fear my letter would be too long for your patience.
YOU will likely be surprised to receive a letter from someone who had the honor of knowing you for such a short time, especially after so long. However, the reason I'm taking this liberty is quite sensitive, and if I started to apologize for being so forward, I worry my letter would end up being too long for your patience.
You have, probably, already conjectured the subject upon which I mean to treat. My regard for Mr. Evelyn, and his amiable daughter, was well known to you: nor can I ever cease to be interested in whatever belongs to their memory or family.
You’ve probably already guessed the topic I want to discuss. My fondness for Mr. Evelyn and his lovely daughter was well known to you; I can never stop being interested in anything related to their memory or family.
I must own myself somewhat distressed in what manner to introduce the purport of my writing; yet as I think that, in affairs of this kind, frankness is the first requisite to a good understanding between the parties concerned, I will neither torment you nor myself with punctilious ceremonies, but proceed instantly and openly to the business which occasions my giving you this trouble.
I have to admit I’m a bit stressed about how to start this writing; however, I believe that in matters like this, honesty is crucial for clear communication between everyone involved. So, I won’t bother you or myself with formalities, but will get straight to the point of why I’m reaching out to you.
I presume, Sir, it would be superfluous to tell you, that your child resides still in Dorsetshire, and is still under the protection of the Reverend Mr. Villars, in whose house she was born: for, though no enquiries concerning her have reached his ears, or mine, I can never suppose it possible you have forborne to make them. It only remains, therefore, to tell you, that your daughter is now grown up; that she has been educated with the utmost care, and the utmost success; and that she is now a most deserving, accomplished, and amiable young woman.
I assume, Sir, it’s unnecessary to inform you that your child is still living in Dorsetshire and remains under the care of the Reverend Mr. Villars, in whose house she was born. Although we haven’t heard any inquiries about her, I can’t imagine you haven’t made any. So, it only remains to tell you that your daughter has now grown up; she has been educated with great care and success, and she is now a very deserving, accomplished, and charming young woman.
Whatever may be your view for her future destination in life, it seems time to declare it. She is greatly admired, and, I doubt not, will be very much sought after: it is proper, therefore, that her future expectations, and your pleasure concerning her, should be made known.
Whatever your thoughts are about her future path in life, it’s time to share them. She is highly admired, and I have no doubt she will be in high demand: it’s appropriate, therefore, that her future hopes and your feelings about her are made clear.
Believe me, Sir, she merits your utmost attention and regard. You could not see and know her, and remain unmoved by those sensations of affection which belong to so near and tender a relationship. She is the lovely resemblance of her lovely mother;-pardon, Sir, the liberty I take in mentioning that unfortunate lady; but I think it behoves me, upon this occasion, to shew the esteem I felt for her: allow me, therefore, to say, and be not offended at my freedom, that the memory of that excellent lady has but too long remained under the aspersions of calumny; surely it is time to vindicate her fame;-and how can that be done in a manner more eligible, more grateful to her friends, or more honourable to yourself, than by openly receiving as your child, the daughter of the late Lady Belmont?
Trust me, Sir, she deserves your full attention and respect. You can't meet her and not be touched by the feelings of affection that come with such a close and loving bond. She is the beautiful image of her beautiful mother; forgive me, Sir, for mentioning that unfortunate woman, but I feel it's important to express the admiration I had for her. So, please allow me to say—without any offense—that the memory of that wonderful lady has been unfairly tarnished for too long; surely it's time to restore her reputation. And how can that be done in a way that's more fitting, more appreciated by her friends, or more honorable for you than by openly accepting as your own the daughter of the late Lady Belmont?
The venerable man who has had the care of her education, deserves your warmest acknowledgments, for the unremitting pains he has taken, and the attention he has shewn in the discharge of his trust. Indeed she has been peculiarly fortunate in meeting with such a friend and guardian; a more worthy man, or one whose character seems nearer to perfection, does not exist.
The respected man who has looked after her education deserves your biggest thanks for his tireless efforts and the attention he’s shown in fulfilling his responsibilities. She has truly been lucky to have such a friend and protector; you won’t find a more deserving person, or one whose character is closer to perfect.
Permit me to assure you, Sir, she will amply repay whatever regard and favour you may hereafter shew her, by the comfort and happiness you cannot fail to find in her affection and duty. To be owned properly by you is the first wish of her heart; and, I am sure, that to merit your approbation will be the first study of her life.
Let me assure you, Sir, she will greatly repay any kindness and favor you may show her in the future, through the comfort and happiness you will undoubtedly find in her love and loyalty. Being truly yours is her deepest desire, and I'm sure that earning your approval will become her main focus in life.
I fear that you will think this address impertinent; but I must rest upon the goodness of my intention to plead my excuse. I am, Sir, Your most obedient humble servant, M. HOWARD.
I’m worried you might find this message rude, but I hope you'll understand that I’m coming from a good place. Sincerely, Your most obedient humble servant, M. HOWARD.
LETTER XXXII - EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS Howard Grove, Kent, May 10.
OUR house has been enlivened to-day by the arrival of a London visitor; and the necessity I have been under of concealing the uneasiness of my mind, has made me exert myself so effectually, that I even think it is really diminished; or, at least, my thoughts are not so totally, so very anxiously, occupied by one subject only as they lately were.
OUR house has been brightened today by the arrival of a visitor from London; and the need I’ve felt to hide my worries has pushed me to try so hard that I actually think they’re lessening; or, at least, my thoughts aren’t completely consumed by one single concern like they were before.
I was strolling this morning with Miss Mirvan, down a lane about a mile from the Grove, when we heard the trampling of horses; and, fearing the narrowness of the passage, we were turning hastily back, but stopped upon hearing a voice call out, “Pray, Ladies, don’t be frightened, for I will walk my horse.” We turned again, and then saw Sir Clement Willoughby. He dismounted; and approaching us with the reins in his hand, presently recollected us. “Good Heaven,” cried he, with his usual quickness, “do I see Miss Anville ?-and you too, Miss Mirvan?”
I was walking this morning with Miss Mirvan down a lane about a mile from the Grove when we heard the sound of horses' hooves. Worried about the narrowness of the path, we were quickly turning back but stopped when we heard a voice say, “Please, ladies, don’t be afraid; I’ll walk my horse.” We turned again and saw Sir Clement Willoughby. He got off his horse and approached us with the reins in his hand, quickly realizing who we were. “Good heavens,” he exclaimed, as he usually does, “is that Miss Anville? And you too, Miss Mirvan?”
He immediately ordered his servant to take charge of his horse; and then, advancing to us, took a hand of each, which he pressed to his lips, and said a thousand fine things concerning his good fortune, our improved looks, and the charms of the country, when inhabited by such rural deities. “The town, Ladies, has languished since your absence;-or, at least, I have so much languished myself, as to be absolutely insensible to all it had to offer. One refreshing breeze, such as I now enjoy, awakens me to new vigour, life, and spirit. But I never before had the good luck to see the country in such perfection.”
He immediately told his servant to take care of his horse; then, coming up to us, he took one hand of each and pressed it to his lips, saying a thousand nice things about his good fortune, how great we looked, and the beauty of the countryside when it's graced by such lovely people. “The town, ladies, has felt dull since you’ve been gone—or at least, I’ve felt so dull that I’ve been completely unaware of anything it had to offer. Just one refreshing breeze, like the one I’m enjoying now, revives me with new energy, life, and spirit. But I’ve never been lucky enough to see the countryside in such perfect condition before.”
“Has not almost every body left town, Sir?” said Miss Mirvan.
“Hasn’t almost everyone left town, Sir?” said Miss Mirvan.
“I am ashamed to answer you, Madam,-but indeed it is as full as ever, and will continue so till after the birth-day. However, you Ladies were so little seen, that there are but few who know what it has lost. For my own part, I felt it too sensibly, to be able to endure the place any longer.”
“I’m embarrassed to reply, Madam, but honestly, it’s just as crowded as ever and will stay that way until after the birthday. However, you ladies were so rarely seen that hardly anyone knows what it has lost. For my part, I felt it too deeply to tolerate the place any longer.”
“Is there any body remaining there, that we were acquainted with?” cried I.
“Is there anyone still there that we knew?” I shouted.
“O yes, Ma’am.” And then he named two or three persons we have seen when with him; but he did not mention Lord Orville, and I would not ask him, lest he should think me curious. Perhaps, if he stays here some time, he may speak of him by accident.
"O yes, Ma'am." Then he mentioned two or three people we've seen with him, but he didn't bring up Lord Orville, and I didn't want to ask, so he wouldn’t think I was being nosy. Maybe if he stays here for a while, he'll mention him by chance.
He was proceeding in this complimentary style, when we were met by the Captain; who no sooner perceived Sir Clement, than he hastened up to him, gave him a hearty shake of the hand, a cordial slap on the back, and some other equally gentle tokens of satisfaction, assuring him of his great joy at his visit, and declaring he was as glad to see him as if he had been a messenger who brought news that a French ship was sunk. Sir Clement, on the other side, expressed himself with equal warmth; and protested he had been so eager to pay his respects to Captain Mirvan, that he had left London in its full lustre, and a thousand engagements unanswered, merely to give himself that pleasure.
He was talking in this friendly way when we ran into the Captain; as soon as he spotted Sir Clement, he rushed over, gave him a hearty handshake, a friendly slap on the back, and some other gentle signs of happiness. He told Sir Clement how thrilled he was to see him, and said he was as happy to see him as if he had just received news that a French ship had gone down. Sir Clement, in turn, responded with equal enthusiasm and insisted that he was so eager to pay his respects to Captain Mirvan that he had left London in its full glory, with a ton of obligations still pending, just to enjoy this moment.
“We shall have rare sport,” said the Captain; “for, do you know, the old French-woman is among us? ‘Fore George, I have scarce made any use of her yet, by reason I have had nobody with me that could enjoy a joke: howsomever, it shall go hard but we’ll have some diversion now.”
“We're going to have some real fun,” said the Captain; “you know, the old French woman is with us? I swear, I haven't even had a chance to use her yet, because I haven't had anyone with me who could appreciate a joke. But no matter, we’ll definitely have some entertainment now.”
Sir Clement very much approved of the proposal; and we then went into the house, where he had a very grave reception from Mrs. Mirvan, who is by no means pleased with his visit, and a look of much discontent from Madame Duval, who said to me in a low voice, “I’d as soon have seen Old Nick as that man, for he’s the most impertinentest person in the world, and isn’t never of my side.”
Sir Clement really liked the proposal; then we went into the house, where he received a very serious welcome from Mrs. Mirvan, who was definitely not happy about his visit, and a look of great displeasure from Madame Duval, who said to me in a low voice, “I’d rather see Old Nick than that man, because he’s the most obnoxious person in the world, and he’s never on my side.”
The Captain is now actually occupied in contriving some scheme, which, he says, is to pay the old Dowager off; and so eager and delighted is he at the idea, that he can scarcely restrain his raptures sufficiently to conceal his design even from herself. I wish, however, since I do not dare put Madame Duval upon her guard, that he had the delicacy not to acquaint me with his intention.
The Captain is currently busy coming up with a plan that he claims will get back at the old Dowager. He is so excited about the idea that he can hardly keep his enthusiasm in check, even around her. However, I wish he had the thoughtfulness not to tell me his plans, since I don’t want to alert Madame Duval.
LETTER XXXIII - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION May 13th.
THE Captain’s operations are begun,-and, I hope, ended; for, indeed, poor Madame Duval has already but too much reason to regret Sir Clement’s visit to Howard Grove.
THE Captain’s operations have started—and, I hope, they’re over; because, honestly, poor Madame Duval already has more than enough reason to regret Sir Clement’s visit to Howard Grove.
Yesterday morning, during breakfast, as the Captain was reading the newspaper, Sir Clement suddenly begged to look at it, saying, he wanted to know if there was any account of a transaction, at which he had been present the evening before his journey hither, concerning a poor Frenchman, who had got into a scrape which might cost him his life.
Yesterday morning, while having breakfast, the Captain was reading the newspaper when Sir Clement suddenly asked to see it. He said he wanted to find out if there was any story about an incident he had witnessed the night before his journey here, involving a poor Frenchman who had gotten into a situation that could cost him his life.
The Captain demanded particulars; and then Sir Clement told a long story of being with a party of country friends at the Tower, and hearing a man call out for mercy in French; and that, when he inquired into the occasion of his distress, he was informed that he had been taken up upon suspicion of treasonable practices against the government. “The poor fellow,” continued he, “no sooner found that I spoke French, than he besought me to hear him, protesting that he had no evil designs; that he had been but a short time in England, and only waited the return of a lady from the country to quit it for ever.”
The Captain asked for details, and then Sir Clement shared a lengthy story about being with a group of friends at the Tower and hearing a man cry out for mercy in French. When he asked what was wrong, he learned that the man had been arrested on suspicion of plotting against the government. “The poor guy,” he continued, “as soon as he realized I spoke French, begged me to listen to him, claiming he had no bad intentions; that he had only been in England for a short time and was just waiting for a lady to return from the country so he could leave forever.”
Madame Duval changed colour, and listened with the utmost attention.
Madame Duval turned pale and listened very carefully.
“Now, though I by no means approve of so many foreigners continually flocking into our country,” added he, addressing himself to the Captain, “yet I could not help pitying the poor wretch, because he did not know enough of English to make his defence; however, I found it impossible to assist him; for the mob would not suffer me to interfere. In truth, I am afraid he was but roughly handled.”
“Now, even though I definitely don’t approve of so many foreigners constantly coming into our country,” he said, turning to the Captain, “I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the poor guy, because he didn’t know enough English to defend himself; still, I found it impossible to help him since the crowd wouldn’t let me step in. Honestly, I’m afraid he was treated pretty badly.”
“Why, did they duck him?” said the Captain.
“Why did they avoid him?” said the Captain.
“Something of that sort,” answered he.
“Something like that,” he said.
“So much the better! so much the better!” cried the Captain, “an impudent French puppy! I’ll bet you what you will he was a rascal. I only wish all his countrymen were served the same.”
“So much the better! So much the better!” shouted the Captain, “an arrogant French brat! I’ll bet you anything he was up to no good. I just wish all his countrymen got the same treatment.”
“I wish you had been in his place, with all my soul!” cried Madame Duval, warmly;-“but pray, Sir, did’n’t nobody know who this poor gentleman was?”
“I wish you had been in his position, with all my heart!” exclaimed Madame Duval eagerly. “But please, sir, didn’t anyone know who this unfortunate gentleman was?”
“Why I did hear his name,” answered Sir Clement, “but I cannot recollect it.”
“Yeah, I heard his name,” replied Sir Clement, “but I can’t remember it.”
“It wasn’t-it wasn’t-Du Bois?” stammered out Madame Duval.
“It wasn’t—it wasn’t—Du Bois?” stammered Madame Duval.
“The very name!” answered he: “yes, Du Bois, I remember it now.”
“The very name!” he replied. “Yes, Du Bois, I remember it now.”
Madame Duval’s cup fell from her hand, as she repeated “Du Bois! Monsieur Du Bois, did you say?”
Madame Duval's cup dropped from her hand as she repeated, "Du Bois! Did you say Monsieur Du Bois?"
“Du Bois! why, that’s my friend,” cried the Captain, “that’s Monseer Slippery, i’n’t it?-Why, he’s plaguy fond of sousing work; howsomever, I’ll be sworn they gave him his fill of it.”
“Du Bois! That’s my friend,” shouted the Captain, “that’s Monseer Slippery, right? He’s really into doing work; anyway, I’ll bet they gave him more than enough of it.”
“And I’ll be sworn,” cried Madame Duval, “that you’re a-but I don’t believe nothing about it, so you needn’t be so overjoyed, for I dare say it was no more Monsieur Du Bois than I am.”
“And I swear,” shouted Madame Duval, “that you’re—but I don’t believe any of it, so you don’t need to be so thrilled, because I bet it was no more Monsieur Du Bois than I am.”
“I thought at the time,” said Sir Clement, very gravely, “that I had seen the gentleman before; and now I recollect, I think it was in company with you, Madame.”
“I thought at the time,” said Sir Clement, quite seriously, “that I had seen that guy before; and now I remember, I believe it was with you, Madame.”
“With me, Sir?” cried Madame Duval.
“With me, Sir?” shouted Madame Duval.
“Say you so?” said the Captain; “why then it must be he, as sure as you’re alive!-Well, but, my good friend, what will they do with poor Monseer?”
“Is that so?” said the Captain; “then it must be him, as sure as you're alive! Well, my good friend, what will they do with poor Monsieur?”
“It is difficult to say,” answered Sir Clement, very thoughtfully; “but I should suppose, that if he has not good friends to appear for him, he will be in a very unpleasant situation; for these are serious sorts of affairs.”
“It’s hard to say,” Sir Clement replied, deep in thought; “but I would guess that if he doesn’t have good friends to stand by him, he’ll be in a really tough spot; because these are serious matters.”
“Why, do you think they’ll hang him?” demanded the Captain.
“Why, do you think they’re going to hang him?” the Captain asked.
Sir Clement shook his head, but made no answer.
Sir Clement shook his head but didn't say anything.
Madame Duval could no longer contain her agitation; she started from her chair, repeating, with a voice half-choked, “Hang him!-they can’t,-they sha’n’t-let them at their peril!-However, it’s all false, and I won’t believe a word of it;-but I’ll go to town this very moment, and see M. Du Bois myself;-I won’t wait for nothing.”
Madame Duval could no longer hold back her anxiety; she jumped up from her chair, repeating, with a voice barely audible, “Hang him! They can’t, they won’t—let them try at their own risk! But it’s all a lie, and I won’t believe a single word of it—I'm going to town right now and seeing M. Du Bois myself—I won’t wait for anything.”
Mrs. Mirvan begged her not to be alarmed; but she flew out of the room, and up stairs into her own apartment. Lady Howard blamed both the gentlemen for having been so abrupt, and followed her. I would have accompanied her, but the Captain stopped me; and, having first laughed very heartily, said he was going to read his commission to his ship’s company.
Mrs. Mirvan urged her not to panic, but she rushed out of the room and ran upstairs to her own apartment. Lady Howard scolded both gentlemen for being so sudden and went after her. I would have gone with her, but the Captain held me back; and after laughing quite a bit, he said he was going to read his orders to his crew.
“Now, do you see,” said he, “as to Lady Howard, I sha’n’t pretend for to enlist her into my service, and so I shall e’en leave her to make it out as well as she can; but as to all you, I expect obedience and submission to orders; I am now upon a hazardous expedition, having undertaken to convoy a crazy vessel to the shore of Mortification; so, d’ye see, if any of you have anything to propose that will forward the enterprise,-why speak and welcome; but if any of you, that are of my chosen crew, capitulate, or enter into any treaty with the enemy,-I shall look upon you as mutinying, and turn you adrift.”
“Now, do you see,” he said, “as for Lady Howard, I won’t pretend to bring her into my team, so I’ll just let her figure things out on her own; but as for all of you, I expect you to follow orders and be obedient. I’m about to embark on a risky mission, as I’ve taken on the task of guiding a troubled ship to the shore of Mortification. So, if any of you have suggestions that could help the mission—speak up; I’m open to it. But if any of you, who are part of my chosen crew, start negotiating or making deals with the enemy—I’ll see that as mutiny and will set you adrift.”
Having finished this harangue, which was interlarded with many expressions, and sea-phrases, that I cannot recollect, he gave Sir Clement a wink of intelligence, and left us to ourselves.
Having wrapped up this lengthy speech, which was mixed with a lot of phrases and nautical terms that I can't remember, he gave Sir Clement a knowing wink and left us alone.
Indeed, notwithstanding the attempts I so frequently make of writing some of the Captain’s conversation, I can only give you a faint idea of his language; for almost every other word he utters is accompanied by an oath, which, I am sure, would be as unpleasant for you to read, as for me to write: and, besides, he makes use of a thousand sea-terms, which are to me quite unintelligible.
Honestly, despite my regular efforts to write down some of the Captain’s conversations, I can only give you a vague sense of how he speaks; almost every other word he says is laced with a curse, which I know would be just as uncomfortable for you to read as it is for me to write. Plus, he uses a ton of nautical terms that I don't really understand at all.
Poor Madame Duval sent to inquire at all probable places, whether she could be conveyed to town in any stage-coach: but the Captain’s servant brought her for answer, that no London stage would pass near Howard Grove till to-day. She then sent to order a chaise; but was soon assured, that no horses could be procured. She was so much inflamed by these disappointments, that she threatened to set out for town on foot; and it was with difficulty that Lady Howard dissuaded her from this mad scheme.
Poor Madame Duval asked around at all the likely places to see if she could catch a ride to town in any stagecoach, but the Captain’s servant informed her that no London stage would be passing near Howard Grove until today. She then tried to order a private carriage but was quickly told that no horses were available. Frustrated by these setbacks, she threatened to head to town on foot, and it took a lot of effort for Lady Howard to convince her not to go through with this crazy plan.
The whole morning was filled up with these inquiries. But when we were all assembled to dinner, she endeavoured to appear perfectly unconcerned, and repeatedly protested that she gave not any credit to the report, as far as it regarded M. Du Bois, being very certain that he was not the person in question.
The entire morning was consumed with these questions. But when we all gathered for dinner, she tried to seem completely indifferent and kept insisting that she didn’t believe the rumors, especially regarding M. Du Bois, as she was quite sure that he wasn't the person involved.
The Captain used the most provoking efforts to convince her that she deceived herself; while Sir Clement, with more art, though not less malice, affected to be of her opinion; but, at the same time that he pretended to relieve her uneasiness, by saying that he doubted not having mistaken the name, he took care to enlarge upon the danger to which the unknown gentleman was exposed, and expressed great concern at his perilous situation.
The Captain made every effort to convince her that she was fooling herself, while Sir Clement, with more cunning but just as much malice, pretended to agree with her. At the same time he feigned to ease her worries by saying he wasn’t sure he had the name wrong, he made sure to elaborate on the danger the unknown man was in and showed genuine concern for his risky situation.
Dinner was hardly removed, when a letter was delivered to Madam Duval. The moment she had read it, she hastily demanded from whom it came.
Dinner had barely finished when a letter was delivered to Madam Duval. As soon as she read it, she quickly asked who it was from.
“A country boy brought it,” answered the servant,” but he would not wait.”
“A country boy brought it,” replied the servant, “but he didn’t stick around.”
“Run after him this instant!” cried she, “and be sure you bring him back. Mon Dieu! quelle aventure! que feraije?”
“Run after him right now!” she shouted, “and make sure you bring him back. Oh my God! What a situation! What am I going to do?”
“What’s the matter? what’s the matter?” said the Captain.
“What's going on? What's going on?” said the Captain.
“Why nothing-nothing’s the matter. O mon Dieu!”
“Why nothing—nothing’s the matter. Oh my God!”
And she rose, and walked about the room.
And she got up and walked around the room.
“Why, what,-has Monseer sent to you?” continued the Captain: “is that there letter from him?”
“Why, what’s going on—has Monseer sent you something?” the Captain continued. “Is that letter from him?”
“No,-it i’n’t;-besides, if it is, it’s nothing to you.”
“No, it isn’t; besides, even if it is, it’s none of your business.”
“O then, I’m sure it is! Pray now, Madam, don’t be so close; come tell us all about it-what does he say? how did he relish the horse-pond?-which did he find best, sousing single or double? ‘Fore George, ’twas plaguy unlucky you was not with him!”
“O then, I’m sure it is! Please, now, ma’am, don’t be so tight-lipped; come tell us everything about it—what does he say? How did he like the horse-pond? Which did he prefer, going in single or double? Honestly, it was really unfortunate you weren’t there with him!”
“It’s no such a thing, Sir,” cried she, very angrily; “and if you’re so very fond of a horse-pond, I wish you’d put yourself into one, and not be always a thinking about other people’s being served so.”
“It’s nothing like that, Sir,” she shouted, extremely angry; “and if you love a horse-pond so much, I wish you’d jump into one and stop always thinking about how other people should be treated.”
The man then came in to acquaint her they could not overtake the boy. She scolded violently, and was in such perturbation, that Lady Howard interfered, and begged to know the cause of her uneasiness, and whether she could assist her.
The man then came in to let her know they couldn't catch the boy. She got really upset and was so agitated that Lady Howard stepped in, asking what was bothering her and if there was anything she could do to help.
Madame Duval cast her eyes upon the Captain and Sir Clement, and said she should be glad to speak to her Ladyship without so many witnesses.
Madame Duval glanced at the Captain and Sir Clement and said she would appreciate the chance to speak to her Ladyship without so many onlookers.
“Well, then, Miss Anville,” said the Captain, turning to me, “do you and Molly go into another room, and stay there till Mrs. Duval has opened her mind to us.”
“Well, then, Miss Anville,” said the Captain, turning to me, “you and Molly go into another room and stay there until Mrs. Duval is ready to talk to us.”
“So you may think, Sir,” cried she, “but who’s fool then? no, no, you needn’t trouble yourself to make a ninny of me neither, for I’m not so easily taken in, I’ll assure you.”
“So you might think, Sir,” she exclaimed, “but who’s the fool then? No, no, you don’t have to bother trying to make a fool of me either, because I’m not that easily deceived, I promise you.”
Lady Howard then invited her into the dressing-room, and I was desired to attend her.
Lady Howard then invited her into the dressing room, and I was asked to join them.
As soon as we had shut the door, “O my Lady,” exclaimed Madam Duval, “here’s the most cruelest thing in the world has happened!-but that Captain is such a beast, I can’t say nothing before him,-but it’s all true! poor M. Du Bois is tooked up!”
As soon as we closed the door, “Oh my Lady,” exclaimed Madam Duval, “the most cruel thing in the world has happened! But that Captain is such a jerk, I can’t say anything in front of him—but it’s all true! Poor M. Du Bois has been taken away!”
Lady Howard begged her to be comforted, saying that, as M. Du Bois was certainly innocent, there could be no doubt of his ability to clear himself.
Lady Howard urged her to find comfort, stating that since M. Du Bois was definitely innocent, there was no doubt he could prove his innocence.
“To be sure, my Lady,” answered she, “I know he is innocent; and to be sure they’ll never be so wicked as to hang him for nothing?”
"Of course, my Lady," she replied, "I know he’s innocent; and they would never be cruel enough to hang him for no reason, right?"
“Certainly not,” replied Lady Howard; “you have no reason to be uneasy. This is not a country where punishment is inflicted without proof.”
“Definitely not,” replied Lady Howard. “You have no reason to worry. This isn’t a place where punishment happens without evidence.”
“Very true, my Lady: but the worst thing is this; I cannot bear that that fellow the Captain should know about it; for if he does, I sha’n’t never hear the last of it;-no more won’t poor M. Du Bois.”
“Very true, my Lady: but the worst part is this; I can’t stand the thought of that guy the Captain knowing about it; because if he does, I’ll never hear the end of it—neither will poor M. Du Bois.”
“Well, well,” said Lady Howard, “shew me the letter, and I will endeavour to advise you.”
“Well, well,” said Lady Howard, “show me the letter, and I will try to help you.”
The letter was then produced. It was signed by the clerk of a country justice; who acquainted her, that a prisoner, then upon trial for suspicion of treasonable practices against the government, was just upon the point of being committed to jail; but having declared that he was known to her, this clerk had been prevailed upon to write, in order to enquire if she really could speak to the character and family of a Frenchman who called himself Pierre Du Bois.
The letter was then brought forward. It was signed by the clerk of a local justice, who informed her that a prisoner, currently on trial for suspected treason against the government, was about to be sent to jail. However, since the prisoner claimed to know her, the clerk had been persuaded to write and ask if she could vouch for the character and family of a Frenchman who called himself Pierre Du Bois.
When I heard the letter, I was quite amazed at its success. So improbable did it seem, that a foreigner should be taken before a country justice of peace, for a crime of so dangerous a nature, that I cannot imagine how Madame Duval could be alarmed, even for a moment. But, with all her violence of temper, I see that she is easily frightened, and in fact, more cowardly than many who have not half her spirit; and so little does she reflect upon circumstances, or probability, that she is continually the dupe of her own-I ought not to say ignorance, but yet I can think of no other word.
When I heard the letter, I was really surprised at its success. It seemed so unlikely that a foreigner would be taken before a local judge for such a serious crime that I can't imagine how Madame Duval could have been scared, even for a moment. But despite her fiery temper, I see that she gets frightened easily and is actually more cowardly than many people who aren't nearly as spirited as she is; and she thinks so little about the circumstances or what’s likely that she constantly falls for her own—I guess I shouldn't call it ignorance, but I can’t think of a better word.
I believe that Lady Howard, from the beginning of the transaction, suspected some contrivance of the Captain; and this letter, I am sure, must confirm her suspicion: however, though she is not at all pleased with his frolic, yet she would not hazard the consequence of discovering his designs: her looks, her manner, and her character, made me draw this conclusion from her apparent perplexity; for not a word did she say that implied any doubt of the authenticity of the letter. Indeed there seems to be a sort of tacit agreement between her and the Captain, that she should not appear to be acquainted with his schemes; by which means she at once avoids quarrels, and supports her dignity.
I think Lady Howard, right from the start, suspected the Captain was up to something, and I'm sure this letter reinforces her doubts. Even though she's not happy about his antics, she wouldn't want to risk uncovering his plans. Her expressions, behavior, and overall demeanor led me to this conclusion based on her clear confusion; she didn’t say anything that suggested she doubted the letter's authenticity. In fact, it seems like there’s an unspoken agreement between her and the Captain that she won’t act like she knows what he’s plotting, allowing her to steer clear of conflict while maintaining her dignity.
While she was considering what to propose, Madame Duval begged to have the use of her Ladyship’s chariot, that she might go immediately to the assistance of her friend. Lady Howard politely assured her, that it should be extremely at her service; and then Madame Duval besought her not to own to the Captain what had happened, protesting that she could not endure he should know poor M. Du Bois had met with so unfortunate an accident. Lady Howard could not help smiling, though she readily promised not to inform the Captain of the affair. As to me, she desired my attendance; which I was by no means rejoiced at, as I was certain that she was going upon a fruitless errand.
While she was thinking about what to suggest, Madame Duval asked to use her Ladyship’s chariot so she could quickly help her friend. Lady Howard politely assured her that it would be completely at her service; then Madame Duval urged her not to tell the Captain what had happened, insisting that she couldn't bear for him to know that poor M. Du Bois had experienced such an unfortunate accident. Lady Howard couldn’t help but smile, though she agreed not to inform the Captain about the incident. As for me, she asked for my company, which I wasn’t at all happy about, knowing that she was going on a pointless errand.
I was then commissioned to order the chariot.
I was then asked to arrange for the chariot.
At the foot of the stairs I met the Captain, who was most impatiently waiting the result of the conference. In an instant we were joined by Sir Clement. A thousand inquiries were then made concerning Madame Duval’s opinion of the letter, and her intentions upon it: and when I would have left them, Sir Clement, pretending equal eagerness with the Captain, caught my hand, and repeatedly detained me, to ask some frivolous question, to the answer of which he must be totally indifferent. At length, however, I broke from them; they retired into the parlour, and I executed my commission.
At the bottom of the stairs, I ran into the Captain, who was waiting impatiently for the outcome of the meeting. In a moment, Sir Clement joined us. A flood of questions followed about Madame Duval’s thoughts on the letter and what she intended to do about it. When I tried to leave, Sir Clement, pretending to be just as eager as the Captain, grabbed my hand and kept me there, asking some trivial questions that he clearly didn't care about. Finally, I managed to break free; they went into the parlor, and I carried out my task.
The carriage was soon ready; and Madame Duval, having begged Lady Howard to say she was not well, stole softly down stairs, desiring me to follow her. The chariot was ordered at the garden-door; and, when we were seated, she told the man, according to the clerk’s directions, to drive to Mr. Justice Tyrell’s, asking at the same time, how many miles off he lived?
The carriage was quickly prepared, and Madame Duval, after asking Lady Howard to say she wasn’t feeling well, softly went downstairs, asking me to follow her. The chariot was waiting at the garden door, and as soon as we were seated, she told the driver, as instructed by the clerk, to take us to Mr. Justice Tyrell’s place, while also inquiring how many miles away he lived.
I expected he would have answered, that he knew of no such person; but, to my great surprise, he said, “Why, ‘Squire Tyrell lives about nine miles beyond the park.”
I thought he would have replied that he didn't know anyone by that name; but, to my shock, he said, “Well, ‘Squire Tyrell lives about nine miles past the park.”
“Drive fast, then,” cried she, “and you sha’n’t be no worse for it.”
“Drive fast, then,” she shouted, “and you won’t be any worse off for it.”
During our ride, which was extremely tedious, she tormented herself with a thousand fears for M. Du Bois’s safety; and piqued herself very much upon having escaped unseen by the Captain, not only that she avoided his triumph, but because she knew him to be so much M. Du Bois’s enemy, that she was sure he would prejudice the justice against him, and endeavour to take away his life. For my part, I was quite ashamed of being engaged in so ridiculous an affair, and could only think of the absurd appearance we should make upon our arrival at Mr. Tyrell’s.
During our ride, which felt like a total drag, she tortured herself with a thousand worries about M. Du Bois’s safety. She also took a lot of pride in having sneaked away from the Captain, not just to avoid his triumph but because she knew he was such an enemy of M. Du Bois. She was sure he would influence the justice system against him and try to take his life. As for me, I felt pretty embarrassed to be involved in such a ridiculous situation, and all I could think about was how silly we’d look when we got to Mr. Tyrell’s.
When we had been out near two hours, and expected every moment to stop at the place of our destination, I observed that Lady Howard’s servant, who attended us on horseback, rode on forward till he was out of sight: and soon after returning, came up to the chariot window, and delivering a note to Madame Duval, said he had met a boy who was just coming with it to Howard Grove from the clerk of Mr. Tyrell.
When we had been out for almost two hours and were expecting to arrive at our destination any moment, I noticed that Lady Howard’s servant, who was riding with us, went ahead until he was out of sight. Soon after, he returned and approached the chariot window, handing a note to Madame Duval. He mentioned that he had met a boy who had just brought it from the clerk of Mr. Tyrell to Howard Grove.
While she was reading it, he rode round to the other window, and making a sign for secrecy, put into my hand a slip of paper, on which was written, “Whatever happens, be not alarmed-for you are safe-though you endanger all mankind!”
While she was reading it, he went around to the other window and, signaling for secrecy, handed me a piece of paper that said, “No matter what happens, don’t be worried—you’re safe—even though you put all of humanity at risk!”
I readily imagined that Sir Clement must be the author of this note, which prepared me to expect some disagreeable adventure: but I had no time to ponder upon it; for Madame Duval had no sooner read her own letter, than, in an angry tone of voice, she exclaimed, “Why, now, what a thing is this! here we’re come all this way for nothing!”
I quickly figured that Sir Clement must have written this note, which made me brace for some unpleasant situation: but I didn’t have time to think about it; because as soon as Madame Duval read her own letter, she shouted in an angry tone, “What the heck is this! We’ve come all this way for nothing!”
She gave me the note; which informed her, that she need not trouble herself to go to Mr. Tyrell’s, as the prisoner had had the address to escape. I congratulated her upon this fortunate incident; but she was so much concerned at having rode so far in vain, that she seemed to be less pleased than provoked. However, she ordered the man to make what haste he could home, as she hoped, at least, to return before the Captain should suspect what had passed.
She gave me the note, which informed her that she didn’t need to worry about going to Mr. Tyrell’s, since the prisoner had managed to escape. I congratulated her on this fortunate turn of events, but she was so upset about having ridden so far for nothing that she seemed more annoyed than happy. Nevertheless, she told the man to hurry home as fast as he could, hoping to get back before the Captain suspected what had happened.
The carriage turned about; and we journeyed so quietly for near an hour, that I began to flatter myself we should be suffered to proceed to Howard Grove without any molestation, when suddenly, the footman called out, “John, are we going right?” “Why, I a’n’t sure,” said the coachman, “But I’m afraid we turned wrong.” “What do you mean by that, sirrah?” said Madame Duval; “why, if you lose your way, we shall all be in the dark.”
The carriage turned around, and we traveled so peacefully for almost an hour that I started to think we might make it to Howard Grove without any trouble. Then suddenly, the footman shouted, “John, are we going the right way?” “Well, I’m not really sure,” said the coachman. “But I think we might have taken a wrong turn.” “What do you mean by that, you fool?” Madame Duval said. “If you get us lost, we’ll all be in the dark.”
“I think we should turn to the left,” said the footman.
“I think we should go left,” said the footman.
“To the left!” answered the other; “No, no, I’m partly sure we should turn to the right.” “You had better make some enquiry,” said I. “Ma foi!” cried Madame Duval, “we’re in a fine hole here!-they neither of them know no more than the post. However, I’ll tell my Lady as sure as you’re born, you’d better find the way.”
“Turn left!” the other replied; “No, no, I’m pretty sure we should turn right.” “You should ask someone for directions,” I suggested. “Goodness!” Madame Duval exclaimed, “we’re in a real mess here! Neither of them knows any better than a post. However, I’ll tell my lady as sure as you’re alive, you’d better figure out the way.”
“Let’s try this lane,” said the footman.
“Let’s take this path,” said the footman.
“No,” said the coachman, “that’s the road to Canterbury; we had best go straight on.”
“No,” said the coachman, “that’s the road to Canterbury; we should just keep going straight.”
“Why, that’s the direct London road,” returned the footman, “and will lead us twenty miles about.”
“Why, that’s the direct London road,” replied the footman, “and it will take us twenty miles out of the way.”
“Pardi,” cried Madame Duval, “why, they won’t go one way nor t’other! and now we’re come all this jaunt for nothing, I suppose we shan’t get home to-night!” “Let’s go back to the public-house,” said the footman, “and ask for a guide.” “No, no,” said the other, “if we stay here a few minutes, somebody or other will pass by; and the horses are almost knocked up already.” “Well, I protest,” cried Madame Duval, “I’d give a guinea to see them sots both horse-whipped! As sure as I’m alive they’re drunk! Ten to one but they’ll overturn us next.” After much debating, they at length agreed to go on till we came to some inn, or met with a passenger who could direct us. We soon arrived at a farm-house, and the footman alighted, and went into it. In a few minutes he returned, and told us we might proceed, for that he had procured a direction: “But,” added he, “it seems there are some thieves hereabouts; and so the best way will be for you to leave your watches and your purses with the farmer, whom I know very well, and who is an honest man, and a tenant of my Lady’s.” “Thieves!” cried Madame Duval, looking aghast; “the Lord help us!-I’ve no doubt but we shall be all murdered!” The farmer came up to us, and we gave him all we were worth, and the servants followed our example. We then proceeded; and Madame Duval’s anger so entirely subsided, that, in the mildest manner imaginable, she intreated them to make haste, and promised to tell their Lady how diligent and obliging they had been. She perpetually stopped them, to ask if they apprehended any danger; and was at length so much overpowered by her fears, that she made the footman fasten his horse to the back of the carriage, and then come and seat himself within it. My endeavours to encourage her were fruitless: she sat in the middle, held the man by the arm, and protested that if he did but save her life, she would make his fortune. Her uneasiness gave me much concern, and it was with the utmost difficulty I forbore to acquaint her that she was imposed upon; but the mutual fear of the Captain’s resentment to me, and of her own to him, neither of which would have any moderation, deterred me. As to the footman, he was evidently in torture from restraining his laughter; and I observed that he was frequently obliged to make most horrid grimaces, from pretended fear, in order to conceal his risibility.
“Pardi,” shouted Madame Duval, “they won’t go one way or the other! And now we’ve come all this way for nothing; I guess we won’t get home tonight!” “Let’s go back to the pub,” said the footman, “and ask for a guide.” “No, no,” said the other, “if we stay here a few minutes, someone will pass by; and the horses are almost worn out already.” “Well, I swear,” exclaimed Madame Duval, “I’d pay a guinea to see those fools get horse-whipped! As sure as I’m alive, they’re drunk! There’s a good chance they’ll tip us over next.” After a lot of back and forth, they finally agreed to continue until we found an inn or met a passerby who could direct us. We soon reached a farmhouse, and the footman got down and went inside. In a few minutes, he returned and told us we could move on because he had gotten directions: “But,” he added, “it seems there are some thieves around here; so the best thing to do is to leave your watches and purses with the farmer, who I know well and is a good man, a tenant of my lady’s.” “Thieves!” screamed Madame Duval, looking horrified; “Lord help us! I have no doubt we’re all going to be murdered!” The farmer came over to us, and we handed over everything we had, and the servants followed suit. We then continued on; and Madame Duval’s anger faded away so completely that, in the gentlest manner possible, she urged them to hurry and promised to tell their lady how diligent and helpful they had been. She kept stopping them to ask if they thought there was any danger; and eventually, her anxiety overwhelmed her to the point that she had the footman tie his horse to the back of the carriage and then come sit inside. My efforts to reassure her were in vain: she sat in the middle, held onto the man’s arm, and insisted that if he saved her life, she would make him rich. Her distress worried me a lot, and I struggled not to tell her she was being fooled; but the mutual fear of the captain’s anger towards me, and her fear of him, which would have no restraint, kept me quiet. As for the footman, he was clearly choking back laughter; I noticed he often had to make horrible faces from pretending to be scared to hide his amusement.
Very soon after, “The robbers are coming!” cried the coachman.
Very soon after, “The robbers are coming!” shouted the driver.
The footman opened the door, and jumped out of the chariot.
The footman opened the door and jumped out of the carriage.
Madame Duval gave a loud scream.
Madame Duval let out a loud scream.
I could no longer preserve my silence. “For Heaven’s sake, my dear Madame,” said I, “don’t be alarmed,-you are in no danger,-you are quite safe,-there is nothing but-”
I couldn't keep quiet any longer. "For heaven's sake, my dear Madame," I said, "don't be scared—you’re not in any danger—you’re completely safe—there’s nothing but—”
Here the chariot was stopped by two men in masks; who at each side put in their hands as if for our purses. Madame Duval sunk to the bottom of the chariot, and implored their mercy. I shrieked involuntarily, although prepared for the attack: one of them held me fast, while the other tore poor Madame Duval out of the carriage, in spite of her cries, threats, and resistance.
Here the chariot was stopped by two masked men, who reached in from both sides as if to take our money. Madame Duval sank to the bottom of the chariot and begged for mercy. I screamed involuntarily, even though I was ready for the attack: one of them held me tightly while the other dragged poor Madame Duval out of the carriage, ignoring her cries, threats, and struggles.
I was really frightened, and trembled exceedingly. “My angel!” cried the man who held me, “you cannot surely be alarmed,-do you not know me?-I shall hold myself in eternal abhorrence, if I have really terrified you.”
I was really scared, and shook a lot. “My angel!” cried the man who was holding me, “you can't possibly be scared—don't you recognize me? I would hate myself forever if I actually frightened you.”
“Indeed, Sir Clement, you have,” cried I:-“but, for Heaven’s sake, where is Madame Duval?-why is she forced away?”
“Indeed, Sir Clement, you have,” I exclaimed, “but for heaven’s sake, where is Madame Duval? Why is she being forced away?”
“She is perfectly safe; the Captain has her in charge: but suffer me now, my adored Miss Anville, to take the only opportunity that is allowed me, to speak upon another, a much dearer, much sweeter subject.”
“She is completely safe; the Captain is taking care of her. But please, my beloved Miss Anville, allow me this one chance to discuss another topic, one that is much closer to my heart and far sweeter.”
And then he hastily came into the chariot, and seated himself next to me. I would fain have disengaged myself from him, but he would not let me: “Deny me not, most charming of women,” cried he, “deny me not this only moment that is lent me, to pour forth my soul into your gentle ears,-to tell you how much I suffer from your absence,-how much I dread your displeasure,-and how cruelly I am affected by your coldness!”
And then he quickly climbed into the chariot and sat down next to me. I wanted to pull away from him, but he wouldn't let me: “Please don’t deny me, most charming of women,” he exclaimed, “don’t deny me this one moment that is given to me, to share my feelings with you,-to tell you how much I suffer from your absence,-how much I fear your anger,-and how deeply your indifference affects me!”
“O, Sir, this is no time for such language;-pray leave me, pray go to the relief of Madame Duval,-I cannot bear that she should be treated with such indignity.” “And will you,-can you command my absence?-When may I speak to you, if not now?-Does the Captain suffer me to breathe a moment out of his sight?-and are not a thousand impertinent people for ever at your elbow?” “Indeed, Sir Clement, you must change your style, or I will not hear you. The impertinent people you mean are among my best friends; and you would not, if you really wished me well, speak of them so disrespectfully.” “Wish you well!-O, Miss Anville, point but out to me how, in what manner, I may convince you of the fervour of my passion;-tell me but what services you will accept from me,-and you shall find my life, my fortune, my whole soul at your devotion.” “I want nothing, Sir, that you can offer;-I beg you not to talk to me so-so strangely. Pray leave me; and pray assure yourself you cannot take any method so successless to show any regard for me, as entering into schemes so frightful to Madame Duval, and so disagreeable to myself.” “The scheme was the Captain’s: I even opposed it: though, I own, I could not refuse myself the so-long-wished-for happiness of speaking to you once more, without so many of-your friends to watch me. And I had flattered myself, that the note I charged the footman to give you, would have prevented the alarm you have received.” “Well Sir, you have now, I hope, said enough; and, if you will not go yourself to see for Madame Duval, at least suffer me to inquire what is become of her.” “And when may I speak to you again?” “No matter when,-I don’t know,-perhaps-” “Perhaps what, my angel?” “Perhaps never, Sir,-if you torment me thus.” “Never! O, Miss Anville, how cruel, how piercing to my soul is that icy word!-Indeed I cannot endure such displeasure.” “Then, Sir, you must not provoke it. Pray leave me directly.” “I will Madam: but let me, at least, make a merit of my obedience,-allow me to hope that you will, in future, be less averse to trusting yourself for a few moments alone with me” I was surprised at the freedom of this request: but, while I hesitated how to answer it, the other mask came up to the chariot-door, and, in a voice almost stifled with laughter said, “I’ve done for her!-the old buck is safe;-but we must sheer off directly, or we shall be all ground.” Sir Clement instantly left me, mounted his horse, and rode off. The Captain having given some directions to the servants, followed him. I was both uneasy and impatient to know the fate of Madame Duval, and immediately got out of the chariot to seek her. I desired the footman to show me which way she was gone; he pointed with his finger by way of answer, and I saw that he dared not trust his voice to make any other. I walked on at a very quick pace, and soon, to my great consternation, perceived the poor lady seated upright in a ditch. I flew to her with unfeigned concern at her situation. She was sobbing, nay, almost roaring, and in the utmost agony of rage and terror. As soon as she saw me, she redoubled her cries; but her voice was so broken, I could not understand a word she said. I was so much shocked, that it was with difficulty I forebore exclaiming against the cruelty of the Captain for thus wantonly ill-treating her; and I could not forgive myself for having passively suffered the deception. I used my utmost endeavours to comfort her, assuring her of our present safety, and begging her to rise and return to the chariot. Almost bursting with passion, she pointed to her feet, and with frightful violence she actually tore the ground with her hands.
“O, Sir, this is not the time for such talk—please leave me, go help Madame Duval. I can’t stand to see her treated with such disrespect.” “And can you really order me away? When can I talk to you if not now? Does the Captain really keep me from being out of his sight for even a moment? And aren’t there a thousand rude people always around you?” “Honestly, Sir Clement, you need to change your tone, or I won’t listen. The rude people you’re talking about are some of my closest friends; if you truly cared about me, you wouldn’t speak of them like that.” “Cared about you? Oh, Miss Anville, just tell me how I can show you how deeply I care—let me know what you need from me, and you’ll find my life, my fortune, my whole soul devoted to you.” “I don’t want anything that you can give me—please don’t talk to me this way. Just leave me; you’re not going to win my favor by getting involved in schemes that frighten Madame Duval and upset me.” “That was the Captain’s plan; I even opposed it. But I must admit, I couldn’t resist the long-awaited happiness of speaking to you again without so many of your friends watching over me. I had hoped that the note I asked the footman to deliver would prevent the alarm you felt.” “Well, Sir, I hope you’ve said enough. If you won’t go look for Madame Duval, at least let me check on her.” “And when can I talk to you again?” “It doesn’t matter when—I don’t know—maybe—” “Maybe what, my angel?” “Maybe never, Sir, if you keep bothering me like this.” “Never! Oh, Miss Anville, how cruel that word is to my soul! I truly can’t stand such displeasure.” “Then you must not provoke it. Please leave me right now.” “I will, Madam. But let me at least take pride in my obedience—let me hope that you’ll be less reluctant to spend a few moments alone with me in the future.” I was surprised by the boldness of this request, but while I hesitated on how to respond, the other masked figure approached the chariot door, and in a voice nearly stifled with laughter said, “I've done it for her! The old guy is safe, but we need to leave now, or we’ll all be caught.” Sir Clement immediately left me, mounted his horse, and rode away. The Captain, after giving some instructions to the servants, followed him. I felt both anxious and impatient to find out what had happened to Madame Duval, so I got out of the chariot to look for her. I asked the footman to show me where she had gone; he pointed with his finger in response, clearly too afraid to trust his voice. I walked quickly and soon, to my shock, found the poor lady sitting upright in a ditch. I rushed to her, genuinely concerned about her situation. She was sobbing, almost howling, consumed by rage and terror. As soon as she saw me, her cries intensified, but her voice was so broken that I couldn't understand anything she said. I was so taken aback that I had to hold back my anger against the Captain for treating her so cruelly, and I couldn’t forgive myself for having let the deception happen. I did my best to comfort her, assuring her of our current safety and pleading with her to get up and return to the chariot. Almost bursting with anger, she pointed to her feet and, with terrifying force, tore at the ground with her hands.
I then saw that her feet were tied together with a strong rope, which was fastened to the upper branch of a tree, even with a hedge which ran along the ditch where she sat. I endeavoured to untie the knot; but soon found it was infinitely beyond my strength. I was, therefore, obliged to apply to the footman; but, being very unwilling to add to his mirth by the sight of Madame Duval’s situation. I desired him to lend me a knife: I returned with it, and cut the rope. Her feet were soon disentangled; and then, though with great difficulty, I assisted her to rise. But what was my astonishment, when, the moment she was up, she hit me a violent slap on the face! I retreated from her with precipitation and dread: and she then loaded me with reproaches, which, though almost unintelligible, convinced me that she imagined I had voluntarily deserted her; but she seemed not to have the slightest suspicion that she had not been attacked by real robbers.
I then noticed that her feet were tied together with a strong rope, which was secured to the upper branch of a tree, right next to the hedge that lined the ditch where she was sitting. I tried to untie the knot, but quickly realized it was way beyond my strength. So, I had to ask the footman for help; however, I was really reluctant to add to his amusement by showing him Madame Duval’s situation. I asked him for a knife, took it back, and cut the rope. Her feet were soon free, and then, despite the difficulty, I helped her stand up. But to my shock, the moment she was up, she slapped me hard across the face! I backed away from her in a panic and fear: then she started throwing insults at me, which were almost incomprehensible, but it became clear she thought I had deserted her on purpose; however, she didn’t seem to have the slightest idea that she hadn’t actually been attacked by real robbers.
I was so much surprised and confounded at the blow, that, for some time, I suffered her to rave without making any answer; but her extreme agitation, and real suffering, soon dispelled my anger, which all turned into compassion. I then told her, that I had been forcibly detained from following her, and assured her of my real sorrow of her ill-usage. She began to be somewhat appeased; and I again intreated her to return to the carriage, or give me leave to order that it should draw up to the place where we stood. She made no answer, till I told her, that the longer we remained still, the greater would be the danger of our ride home. Struck with this hint, she suddenly, and with hasty steps, moved forward. Her dress was in such disorder, that I was quite sorry to have her figure exposed to the servants, who all of them, in imitation of her master, hold her in derision: however the disgrace was unavoidable. The ditch, happily, was almost quite dry, or she must have suffered still more seriously; yet so forlorn, so miserable a figure, I never before saw her. Her head-dress had fallen off, her linen was torn, her negligee had not a pin left in it, her petticoats she was obliged to hold on, and her shoes were perpetually slipping off. She was covered with dirt, weeds, and filth, and her face was really horrible; for the pomatum and powder from her head, and the dust from the road, were quite pasted on her skin by her tears, which, with her rouge, made so frightful a mixture, that she hardly looked human. The servants were ready to die with laughter the moment they saw her; but not all my remonstrances could prevail upon her to get into the carriage, till she had most vehemently reproached them both for not rescuing her. The footman, fixing his eyes on the ground, as if fearful of again trusting himself to look at her, protested that the robbers had vowed they would shoot him if he moved an inch, and that one of them had stayed to watch the chariot, while the other carried her off, adding, that the reason of their behaving so barbarously, was to revenge our having secured our purses. Notwithstanding, her anger, she gave immediate credit to what he said; and really imagined that her want of money had irritated the pretended robbers to treat her with such cruelty. I determined, therefore, to be carefully upon my guard not to betray the imposition, which could now answer no other purpose, then occasioning an irreparable breach between her and the Captain. Just as we were seated in the chariot, she discovered the loss which her head had sustained, and called out, “My God! what is become of my hair?-why, the villain has stole all my curls!” She then ordered the man to run and see if he could find any of them in the ditch. He went, and presently returning, produced a great quantity of hair, in such nasty condition, that I was amazed she would take it; and the man, as he delivered it to her, found it impossible to keep his countenance; which she no sooner observed, than all her stormy passions were again raised. She flung the battered curls in his face, saying, “Sirrah, what do you grin for? I wish you’d been served so yourself, and you wouldn’t have found it no such joke; you are the impudentest fellow ever I see; and if I find you dare grin at me any more, I shall make no ceremony of boxing your ears.” Satisfied with the threat, the man hastily retired, and we drove on. Her anger now subsiding into grief, she began most sorrowfully to lament her case. “I believe,” she cried, “never nobody was so unlucky as I am! and so here, because I ha’n’t had misfortunes enough already, that puppy has made me lose my curls!-Why, I can’t see nobody without them:-only look at me,-I was never so bad off in my life before. Pardi, if I’d know’d as much, I’d have brought two or three sets with me: but I’d never a thought of such a thing as this.” Finding her now somewhat pacified, I ventured to ask an account of her adventure, which I will endeavour to write in her own words. “Why, child, all this misfortune comes of that puppy’s making us leave our money behind us; for, as soon as the robber see I did put nothing in his hands, he lugged me out of the chariot by main force, and I verily thought he’d have murdered me. He was as strong as a lion; I was no more in his hands than a child. But I believe never nobody was so abused before; for he dragged me down the road, pulling and hauling me all the way, as if’d no more feeling than a horse. I’m sure I wish I could see that man cut up and quartered alive! however, he’ll come to the gallows, that’s one good thing. So soon as we’d got out of sight of the chariot, though he needn’t have been afraid, for if he’d beat me to a mummy, those cowardly fellows wouldn’t have said nothing to it-so, when I was got there, what does he do, but all of a sudden he takes me by both the shoulders, and he gives me such a shake!-Mon Dieu I shall never forget it, if I live to be an hundred. I’m sure I dare say I’m out of joint all over. And though I made as much noise as I ever could, he took no more notice of it than nothing at all; there he stood, shaking me in that manner, as if he was doing it for a wager. I’m determined, if it costs me all my fortune, I’ll see that villain hanged. He shall be found out, if there’s e’er a justice in England. So when he had shook me till he was tired, and I felt all over like a jelly, without saying never a word, he takes and pops me into the ditch! I’m sure, I thought he’d have murdered me, as much as ever I thought any thing in my life; for he kept bumping me about, as if he thought nothing too bad for me. However, I’m resolved I’ll never leave my purse behind me again, the longest day I have to live. So when he couldn’t stand over me no longer, he holds out his hands again for my money; but he was as cunning as could be, for he wouldn’t speak a word, because I shouldn’t swear to his voice; however, that sha’n’t save him, for I’ll swear to him any day in the year, if I can but catch him. So, when I told him I had no money, he fell to jerking me again, just as if he had but that moment begun! And, after that, he got me close by a tree, and out of his pocket he pulls a great cord!-It’s a wonder I did not swoon away: for as sure as you’re alive, he was going to hang to me that tree. I screamed like any thing mad, and told him if he would but spare my life, I’d never prosecute him, nor tell anybody what he’d done to me: so he stood some time quite in a brown study, a-thinking what he should do. And so, after that, he forced me to sit down in the ditch, and he tied my feet together, just as you see them: and then, as if he had not done enough, he twitched off my cap, and without saying nothing, got on his horse and left me in that condition; thinking, I suppose, that I might lie there and perish.” Though this narrative almost compelled me to laugh, yet I was really irritated with the Captain, for carrying his love of tormenting,-sport, he calls it,-to such barbarous and unjustifiable extremes. I consoled and soothed her, as well as I was able: and told her, that since M. Du Bois had escaped, I hoped, when she recovered from her fright, all would end well. “Fright, child!” repeated she,-“why that’s not half:-I promise you, I wish it was: but here I’m bruised from top to toe and it’s well if ever I have the right use of my limbs again. However, I’m glad the villain got nothing but his trouble for his pains. But here the worst is to come, for I can’t go out, because I’ve got no curls, and so he’ll be escaped before I can get to the justice to stop him. I’m resolved I’ll tell Lady Howard how her man served me; for if he hadn’t made me fling ?em away, I dare say I would have pinned them up well enough for the country.” “Perhaps Lady Howard may be able to lend you a cap that will wear without them.” “Lady Howard, indeed! why, do you think I’d wear one of her dowdies? No, I’ll promise you, I sha’n’t put on no such disguisement. It’s the unluckiest thing in the world that I did not make the man pick up the curls again; but he put me in such a passion, I could not think of nothing. I know I can’t get none at Howard Grove for love nor money: for of all the stupid places ever I see, that Howard Grove is the worst; there’s never no getting nothing one wants.”
I was so surprised and confused by the blow that, for a while, I let her rant without responding. But her extreme agitation and real suffering quickly melted my anger away and turned it into compassion. I then told her that I had been forcefully kept from following her and expressed my genuine sorrow over her mistreatment. She began to calm down a bit, and I urged her again to return to the carriage or at least let me call for it to come closer. She didn't reply until I pointed out that the longer we stayed there, the greater the risk would be for our ride home. Alarmed by this, she suddenly began to walk forward quickly. Her outfit was such a mess that I felt bad for her figure being exposed to the servants, who all mocked her like their master did; however, the disgrace was unavoidable. Fortunately, the ditch was nearly dry, or she would have suffered even more. Still, I had never seen her look so forlorn and miserable. Her headpiece had fallen off, her clothes were ripped, her robe had no pins left in it, she was holding up her skirts, and her shoes kept slipping off. She was covered in dirt, weeds, and filth, and her face looked truly horrible; the pomade and powder from her hair and the road dust were stuck to her skin by her tears, which, mixed with her makeup, made her look terrifyingly unnatural. The servants could barely contain their laughter when they saw her; but despite all my attempts to get her to enter the carriage, she wouldn’t get in until she had fiercely scolded them both for not rescuing her. The footman, staring at the ground as if he were afraid to look at her again, insisted that the robbers had sworn they would shoot him if he moved an inch, and that one of them stayed back to watch the carriage while the other took her away, adding that their cruel behavior was revenge for us having secured our purses. Despite her anger, she believed him and truly thought her lack of money made the supposed robbers treat her so harshly. I decided I had to be careful not to expose the deception, as doing so would only create an irreparable rift between her and the Captain. Just as we settled into the carriage, she noticed the loss of her hair and cried out, “Oh my God! What happened to my hair? That villain stole all my curls!” She then commanded the man to run and see if he could find any of them in the ditch. He went off and quickly returned with a large amount of hair in such a disgusting state that I was shocked she would accept it; and as he handed it to her, he couldn't help but break a smile, which she noticed right away, reigniting her stormy anger. She threw the ruined curls at him and said, “You fool, what are you grinning for? I wish you'd been treated the same way; you wouldn't find it funny then. You're the most impudent person I've ever seen, and if you dare to grin at me again, I'll have no qualms about boxing your ears.” Satisfied with that threat, the man hurried off, and we drove on. Her anger now shifting to sadness, she began to lament her situation. “I believe,” she cried, “that no one has ever been so unlucky as I am! And here I am, because I haven't had enough misfortunes already, that jerk made me lose my curls! I can't see anyone without them. Just look at me—I’ve never been in such a bad state in my life. I swear, if I had known this would happen, I would have brought two or three extra sets with me. But I never thought anything like this could happen.” Seeing her somewhat calmed down, I took a chance to ask her to recount what had happened, which I will try to write in her own words. “Well, dear, all this misfortune started because that jerk made us leave our money behind; as soon as the robber saw that I didn't put anything in his hands, he yanked me out of the carriage by sheer force, and I truly thought he was going to kill me. He was as strong as a lion; I was like a child in his grip. I'm sure no one has ever been so mistreated before, as he dragged me down the road, pulling me around as if I had no feelings at all. I really wish I could see that man cut up and quartered alive! However, he’ll end up on the gallows, which is one good thing. Once we were out of sight of the carriage, he didn't need to be afraid, because even if he beat me to a pulp, those cowardly fellows wouldn't have said a word. So, when I got there, he suddenly grabbed me by the shoulders and shook me so hard! I swear I’ll never forget it, even if I live to be a hundred. I’m sure I’m out of joint all over. And although I screamed as loudly as I could, he paid no more attention to it than if I were nothing. There he stood, shaking me like that as if he was doing it for a wager. I'm determined—if it costs me everything I have, I will see that villain hanged. He will be found, if there’s any justice in England. So when he was done shaking me and I felt like jelly, without saying a word, he tossed me into the ditch! I thought he was going to kill me; that's how scared I was, since he kept throwing me around as if he thought nothing was too bad for me. However, I've vowed never to leave my purse behind again for as long as I live. So when he couldn’t stand over me any longer, he held out his hands for my money again; but he was very clever since he didn't say a word so that I couldn't recognize his voice. However, that won’t save him, because I’ll swear to him any day of the year if I can just catch him. So, when I told him I had no money, he began jerking me around again as if he had just started! Then, he got me close to a tree, and pulled out a long cord from his pocket! It’s a wonder I didn’t faint; he was going to hang me from that tree. I screamed like a madwoman and told him that if he would just spare my life, I would never prosecute him or tell anyone what he’d done to me. So, he stood there for a while, deep in thought about what to do. Then he forced me to sit down in the ditch, tied my feet together, just as you see them now; and as if that wasn't enough, he yanked off my cap, got on his horse, and left me there just like that, thinking I would lie there and die.” Though this story almost made me laugh, I was genuinely annoyed with the Captain for his love of tormenting—his so-called sport—taken to such cruel and unjustifiable extremes. I consoled her as best as I could and told her that since M. Du Bois had escaped, I hoped everything would turn out fine once she recovered from her fright. “Fright, dear!” she repeated. “That’s nothing at all! I wish it was! I'm bruised from head to toe, and it’s a miracle if I'll ever have full use of my limbs again. However, I’m glad the villain got nothing but trouble for his efforts. But here’s the worst part: I can’t go out because I have no curls, and he’ll be long gone by the time I can get to the justice to stop him. I’m determined to tell Lady Howard how her man treated me; if he hadn’t made me throw them away, I bet I could have pinned them up nicely for the country.” “Maybe Lady Howard can lend you a cap that doesn't require curls,” I suggested. “Lady Howard, really! Do you think I’m going to wear one of her dowdy caps? No way! I promise you, I won't put on such a disguise. It’s the unluckiest thing in the world that I didn’t make him pick the curls back up; but he made me so angry that I couldn’t think straight. I know I won’t find any at Howard Grove for love or money; that place is the most ridiculous ever, and you can never get anything you need.”
This sort of conversation lasted till we arrived at our journey’s end; and then a new distress occurred: Madame Duval was eager to speak to Lady Lady Howard and Mrs. Mirvan, and to relate her misfortunes: but she could not endure that Sir Clement or the Captain should see her in such disorder; so she said they were so ill-natured, that instead of pitying her, they would only make a jest of her disasters. She therefore sent me first into the house, to wait for an opportunity of their being out of the way, that she might steal up stairs unobserved. In this I succeeded, as the gentlemen thought it most prudent not to seem watching for her; though they both contrived to divert themselves with peeping at her as she passed.
This kind of conversation went on until we reached our destination; then a new problem arose: Madame Duval was eager to talk to Lady Howard and Mrs. Mirvan to share her troubles, but she couldn't bear the thought of Sir Clement or the Captain seeing her in such a mess. So she claimed they were so unsympathetic that instead of feeling sorry for her, they would just make fun of her misfortunes. She sent me in first to wait for them to be out of sight so she could sneak upstairs without being noticed. I managed to pull it off since the gentlemen thought it best not to act like they were watching for her, although they both found ways to entertain themselves by sneaking glances at her as she went by.
She went immediately to bed, where she had her supper. Lady Howard and Mrs. Mirvan both of them very kindly sat with her, and listened to her tale with compassionate attention: while Miss Mirvan and I retired to our own room, where I was very glad to end the troubles of the day in a comfortable conversation.
She went straight to bed, where she had her dinner. Lady Howard and Mrs. Mirvan kindly sat with her and listened to her story with thoughtful care, while Miss Mirvan and I went to our own room, where I was very happy to wrap up the day’s troubles with a nice conversation.
The Captain’s raptures, during supper, at the success of his plan, were boundless. I spoke afterwards to Mrs. Mirvan with the openness which her kindness encourages, and begged her to remonstrate with him upon the cruelty of tormenting Madame Duval so causelessly. She promised to take the first opportunity of starting up the subject: but said he was at present so much elated, that he would not listen to her with any patience. However, should he make any new efforts to molest her, I can by no means consent to be passive. Had I imagined he would have been so violent, I would have risked his anger in her defense much sooner.
The Captain was over the moon during dinner about his plan's success. I later talked to Mrs. Mirvan openly, thanks to her kindness, and asked her to talk to him about the unfairness of bothering Madame Duval for no reason. She promised to bring it up when she could, but she said he was so pumped up right now that he wouldn’t be very receptive. However, if he tries to hassle her again, I absolutely refuse to stay silent. If I had known he would be this aggressive, I would have faced his wrath to defend her a lot sooner.
She had kept her bed all day, and declares she is almost bruised to death.
She stayed in bed all day and says she feels like she's almost been bruised to death.
Adieu, my dear Sir. What a long letter have I written! I could almost fancy I sent it to you from London!
Adieu, my dear Sir. I've written quite a long letter! I can almost imagine I sent it to you from London!
LETTER XXXIV - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION Howard Grove, May 15.
LETTER XXXIV - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION Howard Grove, May 15.
THIS insatiable Captain, if left to himself, would not, I believe, rest, till he had tormented Madame Duval into a fever. He seems to have no delight but in terrifying or provoking her; and all his thoughts apparently turn upon inventing such methods as may do it most effectually.
THIS insatiable Captain, if left to his own devices, would not, I think, stop until he had driven Madame Duval to a fever. He appears to find joy only in scaring or annoying her, and all his thoughts seem to be focused on coming up with ways to do it most effectively.
She had her breakfast again in bed yesterday morning: but during ours, the Captain, with a very significant look at Sir Clement, gave us to understand, that he thought she had now rested long enough to bear the hardships of a fresh campaign.
She had her breakfast in bed again yesterday morning, but during ours, the Captain, with a very meaningful glance at Sir Clement, made it clear that he thought she had rested long enough to handle the challenges of a new campaign.
His meaning was obvious: and, therefore, I resolved to endeavour immediately to put a stop to his intended exploits. When breakfast was over, I followed Mrs. Mirvan out of the parlour, and begged her to lose no time in pleading the cause of Madame Duval with the Captain. “My love,” answered she, “I have already expostulated with him; but all I can say is fruitless, while his favourite, Sir Clement, contrives to urge him on.”
His meaning was clear, so I decided to try to stop his planned actions right away. After breakfast, I followed Mrs. Mirvan out of the living room and asked her to quickly speak to the Captain about Madame Duval. “My dear,” she replied, “I’ve already talked to him, but nothing I say seems to matter while his favorite, Sir Clement, keeps pushing him forward.”
“Then I will go and speak to Sir Clement,” said I, “for I know he will desist if I request him.”
“Then I will go and talk to Sir Clement,” I said, “because I know he will stop if I ask him to.”
“Have I care, my dear!” said she, smiling: “it is sometimes dangerous to make requests to men who are too desirous of receiving them.”
“Do I care, my dear!” she said with a smile. “Sometimes it's risky to make requests to men who are too eager to get them.”
“Well, then, my dear Madam, will you give me leave to speak myself to the Captain?”
“Well, then, my dear Madam, will you allow me to speak to the Captain myself?”
“Willingly: nay, I will accompany you to him.”
"Willingly; no, I will go with you to see him."
I thanked her, and we went to seek him. He was walking in the garden with Sir Clement. Mrs. Mirvan most obligingly made an opening for my purpose, by saying, “Mr. Mirvan, I have brought a petitioner with me.”
I thanked her, and we went to find him. He was walking in the garden with Sir Clement. Mrs. Mirvan kindly created an opportunity for me by saying, “Mr. Mirvan, I have brought someone who wants to speak with you.”
“Why, what’s the matter now?” cried he.
“What's wrong now?” he yelled.
I was fearful of making him angry, and stammered very much, when I told him, I hoped he had no new plan for alarming Madame Duval.
I was scared of making him angry and stammered a lot when I told him I hoped he didn't have any new plans to upset Madame Duval.
“New plan!” cried he; “why, you don’t suppose the old one would do again, do you? Not but what it was a very good one, only I doubt she wouldn’t bite.”
“New plan!” he shouted; “you don’t actually think the old one would work again, do you? Not that it wasn’t a good plan, but I don’t think she would go for it.”
“Indeed, Sir,” said I, “she had already suffered too much; and I hope you will pardon me, if I take the liberty of telling you, that I think it my my duty to do all in my power to prevent her being again so much terrified.”
“Of course, Sir,” I said, “she has already endured too much; and I hope you’ll forgive me for saying that I feel it’s my responsibility to do everything I can to stop her from being so scared again.”
A sullen gloominess instantly clouded his face, and, turning short from me, he said, I might do as I pleased, but that I should much sooner repent than repair my officiousness.
A gloomy look instantly crossed his face, and, turning away from me, he said that I could do whatever I wanted, but I would regret my meddling long before I could fix it.
I was too much disconcerted at this rebuff to attempt making any answer: and finding that Sir Clement warmly espoused my cause, I walked away, and left them to discuss the point together.
I was too taken aback by this rejection to try to respond, and seeing that Sir Clement fully supported me, I walked away and left them to discuss it on their own.
Mrs. Mirvan, who never speaks to the Captain when he is out of humour, was glad to follow me, and with her usual sweetness made a thousand apologies for her husband’s ill-manners.
Mrs. Mirvan, who never talks to the Captain when he's in a bad mood, was happy to follow me, and with her usual kindness, made a thousand excuses for her husband’s rude behavior.
When I left her, I went to Madame Duval, who was just risen, and employed in examining the clothes she had on the day of her ill usage.
When I left her, I went to Madame Duval, who had just gotten up and was busy checking the clothes she wore the day she was mistreated.
“Here’s a sight!” she cried. “Come, here child,-only look-Pardi, so long as I’ve lived, I never see so much before! Why, all my things are spoilt; and what’s worse, my sacque was as good as new. Here’s the second negligee I’ve used in this manner! - I’m sure I was a fool to put it on in such a lonesome place as this; however if I stay here these ten years, I’ll never put on another good gown, that I’m resolved.”
“Look at this!” she exclaimed. “Come here, kid—just take a look! Pardi, in all my life, I've never seen anything like this! My things are ruined; and to make it worse, my sacque was practically new. This is the second negligee I’ve ruined like this! I know I was foolish to wear it in such a lonely place; but if I stay here for ten years, I’m definitely not putting on another nice dress, that’s for sure.”
“Will you let the maid try if she can iron it out, or clean it, Ma’am?”
“Will you let the maid see if she can iron it out or clean it, Ma’am?”
“No, she’ll only make bad worse.-But look here, now, here’s a cloak! Mon Dieu! why it looks like a dish-clout! Of all the unluckiness that ever I met, this is the worst! for, do you know, I bought it but the day before I left Paris!-Besides, into the bargain, my cap’s quite gone: where the villain twitched it, I don’t know; but I never see no more of it from that time to this. Now you must know that this was the becomingest cap I had in the world, for I’ve never another with pink ribbon in it; and, to tell you the truth, if I hadn’t thought to have seen M. Du Bois, I’d no more have put it on than I’d have flown; for as to what one wears in such a stupid place as this, it signifies no more than nothing at all.”
“No, she’ll only make things worse. But look here, here’s a cloak! Oh my God! it looks like a dishcloth! Of all the bad luck I’ve ever had, this is the worst! Do you know, I bought it just the day before I left Paris! On top of that, my cap is completely gone: I don’t know where that jerk snatched it, but I haven’t seen it since then. Now you should know that this was the best cap I had in the world because I don’t have another with pink ribbon on it; and to be honest, if I hadn’t thought I might see M. Du Bois, I wouldn’t have worn it at all because what you wear in such a dull place like this means absolutely nothing.”
She then told me, that she had been thinking all night of a contrivance to hinder the Captain from finding out her loss of curls; which was having a large gauge handkerchief pinned over her head as a hood, and saying she had the tooth-ache.
She then told me that she had been thinking all night about a way to keep the Captain from discovering that she had lost her curls. Her plan was to pin a large handkerchief over her head like a hood and say she had a toothache.
“To tell you the truth,” added she, “I believe that Captain is one of the worst men in the world; he’s always making a joke of me; and as to his being a gentleman, he has no more manners than a bear, for he’s always upon the grin when one’s in distress; and, I declare I’d rather be done anything to than laughed at, for, to my mind, it’s one or other the disagreeablest thing in the world.”
“To be honest,” she continued, “I think Captain is one of the worst people out there; he’s always making jokes at my expense. And as for him being a gentleman, he has no more manners than a bear, always grinning when someone's in trouble. Honestly, I’d rather go through anything than be laughed at because, to me, it’s one of the most unpleasant things in the world.”
Mrs. Mirvan, I found, had been endeavouring to dissuade her from the design she had formed of having recourse to the law, in order to find out the supposed robbers; for she dreads a discovery of the Captain, during Madam Duval’s stay at Howard Grove, as it could not fail being productive of infinite commotion. She has, therefore, taken great pains to show the inutility of applying to justice, unless she were more able to describe the offenders against whom she would appear; and has assured her, that as she neither heard their voices, nor saw their faces, she cannot possibly swear to their persons, or obtain any redress.
Mrs. Mirvan had been trying to convince her not to go through with her plan to take legal action to find the supposed thieves. She fears that if the Captain is discovered while Madam Duval is at Howard Grove, it will cause a lot of chaos. So, she has made a strong effort to explain that going to the justice system would be pointless unless she could provide a better description of the offenders. She assured her that since she neither heard their voices nor saw their faces, she wouldn’t be able to identify them or get any justice.
Madame Duval, in telling me this, extremely lamented her hard fate, that she was thus prevented from revenging her injuries; which, however, she vowed she would not be persuaded to pocket tamely: “because,” added she, “if such villains as these are let to have their own way, and nobody takes no notice of their impudence, they’ll make no more ado than nothing at all of tying people in ditches, and such things as that: however, I shall consult with M. Du Bois, as soon as I can ferret out where he’s hid himself. I’m sure I’ve a right to his advice, for it’s all along of his gaping about at the Tower that I’ve met with these misfortunes.”
Madame Duval, while telling me this, lamented her unfortunate situation, saying that she was prevented from getting revenge for her wrongs; however, she vowed she wouldn’t be persuaded to just let it go: “because,” she added, “if we allow these villains to have their way and no one pays attention to their audacity, they'll think nothing of tying people up in ditches and doing other awful things. Anyway, I’ll talk to M. Du Bois as soon as I can find out where he’s hiding. I’m sure I have a right to his advice since it’s because of his poking around at the Tower that I’ve run into these problems.”
“M. Du Bois,” said I, “will, I am sure, be very sorry when he hears what has happened.”
“M. Du Bois,” I said, “will, I’m sure, be very sorry when he hears what’s happened.”
“And what good will that do now?-that won’t unspoil all my clothes; I can tell him, I a’n’t much obliged to him, though it’s no fault of his;-yet it i’n’t the less provokinger for that. I’m sure, if he had been there, to have seen me served in that manner, and put neck and heels into a ditch, he’d no more have thought it was me than the Pope of Rome. I’ll promise you, whatever you may think of it, I sha’n’t have no rest, night nor day, till I find out that rogue.”
“And what good will that do now? That won’t fix all my clothes; I can tell him I’m not grateful to him, even though it’s not his fault; still, that doesn’t make it any less annoying. I’m sure, if he had been there to see me treated that way and tossed into a ditch, he wouldn’t have thought it was me any more than the Pope of Rome. I promise you, no matter what you think about it, I won’t have any peace, night or day, until I find that scoundrel.”
“I have no doubt, Madam, but you will soon discover him.”
“I have no doubt, ma'am, that you will find him soon.”
“Pardi, if I do, I’ll hang him, as sure as fate!-but what’s the oddest, is, that he should take such a special spite against me above all the rest! it was as much for nothing as could be; for I don’t know what I had done, so particular bad, to be used in that manner: I’m sure, I hadn’t given no offence, as I know of, for I never see his face all the time: and as to screaming a little, I think it’s very hard if one mustn’t do such a thing as that, when one’s put in fear of one’s life.”
“Pardi, if I do, I’ll hang him, for sure! But what’s weird is that he seems to have such a personal grudge against me above everyone else! It was honestly for nothing; I don’t even know what I did that was so bad to be treated this way: I’m sure I hadn’t offended him in any way that I know of, since I never saw his face the entire time. And as for screaming a little, I think it’s really unfair if someone can’t do that when they’re scared for their life.”
During this conversation, she endeavoured to adjust her headdress, but could not at all please herself. Indeed, had I not been present, I should have thought it impossible for a woman, at her time of life, to be so very difficult in regard to dress. What she may have in view, I cannot imagine, but the labour of the toilette seems the chief business of her life.
During this conversation, she tried to fix her headdress but couldn’t make herself happy with it at all. Honestly, if I hadn’t been there, I would have thought it was impossible for a woman her age to be so picky about her outfits. I can’t imagine what she has in mind, but it seems like getting ready is the main focus of her life.
When I left her, in my way down stairs, I met Sir Clement; who with great earnestness, said he must not be denied the honour of a moment’s conversation with me; and then, without waiting for an answer, he led me to the garden; at the door of which, however, I absolutely insisted upon stopping.
When I left her, on my way down the stairs, I ran into Sir Clement, who very seriously said he couldn't be denied the honor of having a moment's conversation with me; then, without waiting for a reply, he took me to the garden. However, I insisted on stopping right at the door.
He seemed very serious, and said, in a grave tone of voice, “At length, Miss Anville, I flatter myself I have hit upon an expedient that will oblige you; and therefore, though it is death to myself, I will put in practice.”
He looked really serious and said, in a serious tone, “Finally, Miss Anville, I think I've come up with a solution that will please you; and so, even though it feels like a death sentence for me, I will go through with it.”
I begged him to explain himself.
I asked him to clarify.
“I saw your desire of saving Madame Duval, and scarce could I refrain giving the brutal Captain my real opinion of his savage conduct; but I am unwilling to quarrel with him, lest I should be denied entrance into a house which you inhabit; I have been endeavouring to prevail with him to give up his absurd new scheme, but I find him impenetrable:-I have therefore determined to make a pretense for suddenly leaving this place, dear as it is to me, and containing all I most admire and adore;-and I will stay in town till the violence of this boobyish humour is abated.”
“I saw how much you wanted to save Madame Duval, and I could hardly hold back my true feelings about that brutal Captain’s savage behavior; but I don’t want to get into a fight with him, because I could be denied access to the home you live in. I’ve been trying to convince him to abandon his ridiculous new plan, but he’s completely stubborn. So, I’ve decided to make an excuse to leave this place suddenly, which I cherish deeply and contains everything I admire and love; and I’ll stay in town until this foolishness blows over.”
He stopped; but I was silent, for I knew not what I ought to say. He took my hand, which he pressed to his lips, saying, “And must I then, Miss Anville, must I quit you-sacrifice voluntarily my greatest felicity:-and yet not be honoured with one word, one look of approbation?”
He stopped, but I was quiet because I didn't know what to say. He took my hand and pressed it to his lips, saying, “And do I really have to, Miss Anville, give you up—voluntarily sacrifice my greatest happiness—and not even receive a word or a look of approval?”
I withdrew my hand, and said with half a laugh, “You know so well, Sir Clement, the value of the favours you confer, that it would be superfluous for me to point it out.”
I pulled my hand back and said with a chuckle, “You know very well, Sir Clement, the worth of the favors you give, so it would be unnecessary for me to mention it.”
“Charming, charming girl! how does your wit, your understanding, rise upon me daily: and must I, can I part with you?-will no other method-”
“Charming, charming girl! How your wit and understanding impress me more each day: must I, can I say goodbye to you? Is there no other way—”
“O, Sir, do you so soon repent the good office you had planned for Madame Duval?”
“O, Sir, do you regret the kind gesture you intended for Madame Duval so quickly?”
“For Madame Duval!-cruel creature, and will you not even suffer me to place to your account the sacrifice I am about to make?”
“For Madame Duval! - cruel person, will you not even allow me to credit you with the sacrifice I am about to make?”
“You must place it, Sir, to what account you please; but I am too much in haste now to stay here any longer.”
"You can put it however you want, Sir, but I'm really in a hurry and can't stay here any longer."
And then I would have left him; but he held me, and rather impatiently said, “If, then, I cannot be so happy as to oblige you, Miss Anville, you must not be surprised should I seek to oblige myself. If my scheme is not honoured with your approbation, for which alone it was formed, why should I, to my own infinite dissatisfaction, pursue it?”
And then I would have left him; but he held me back and, rather impatiently, said, “If I can’t make you happy, Miss Anville, don’t be surprised if I focus on making myself happy instead. If my plan doesn’t have your approval, which is the only reason I came up with it, why should I continue with it to my own deep dissatisfaction?”
We were then, for a few minutes, both silent; I was really unwilling he should give up a plan which would so effectually break into the Captain’s designs, and, at the same time, save me the pain of disobliging him; and I should instantly and thankfully have accepted his offered civility, had not Mrs. Mirvan’s caution made me fearful. However, when he pressed me to speak, I said, in an ironical voice, “I had thought, Sir, that the very strong sense you have yourself of the favour you propose to me, would sufficiently have repaid you; but, as I was mistaken, I must thank you myself. And now,” making a low courtesy, “I hope, Sir, you are satisfied.”
We were both silent for a few minutes; I really didn’t want him to abandon a plan that would effectively disrupt the Captain’s intentions and also spare me the discomfort of disappointing him. I would have gladly accepted his kindness right away if Mrs. Mirvan hadn’t made me feel uneasy. However, when he urged me to speak, I replied in a sarcastic tone, “I thought, Sir, that your strong awareness of the favor you’re offering me would be enough compensation for you, but since I was wrong, I must thank you myself. And now,” giving a low bow, “I hope, Sir, you are satisfied.”
“Loveliest of thy sex-” he began; but I forced myself from him and ran upstairs.
“Most beautiful of your kind-” he started; but I pulled away from him and ran upstairs.
Soon after Miss Mirvan told me that Sir Clement had just received a letter, which obliged him instantly to leave the Grove, and that he had actually ordered a chaise. I then acquainted her with the real state of the affair. Indeed, I conceal nothing from her; she is so gentle and sweet-tempered, that it gives me great pleasure to place an entire confidence in her.
Soon after Miss Mirvan told me that Sir Clement had just received a letter that required him to leave the Grove immediately and that he had actually ordered a carriage. I then informed her of the true situation. In fact, I hide nothing from her; she is so kind and easygoing that I really enjoy having complete trust in her.
At dinner, I must own, we all missed him; for though the flightiness of his behaviour to me, when we are by ourselves is very distressing; yet, in large companies, and general conversation, he is extremely entertaining and agreeable. As to the Captain, he has been so much chagrined at his departure, that he has scarce spoken a word since he went: but Madame Duval, who made her first public appearance since her accident, was quite in raptures that she escaped seeing him.
At dinner, I have to admit, we all missed him; because even though his erratic behavior towards me when we’re alone is really upsetting, he is very entertaining and pleasant in larger groups and conversations. As for the Captain, he has been so upset about his leaving that he hasn’t said much since he left. But Madame Duval, who made her first public appearance since her accident, was thrilled that she didn’t have to see him.
The money which we left at the farm-house has been returned to us. What pains the Captain must have taken to arrange and manage the adventures which he chose we should meet with! Yet he must certainly be discovered; for Madame Duval is already very much perplexed, at having received a letter this morning from M. Du Bois, in which he makes no mention of his imprisonment. However, she has so little suspicion, that she imputes his silence upon the subject to his fears that the letter might be intercepted.
The money we left at the farmhouse has been returned to us. The Captain must have gone to great lengths to plan and manage the adventures he wanted us to experience! Yet he must be found out; Madame Duval is already quite confused after receiving a letter this morning from M. Du Bois, which doesn't mention his imprisonment at all. However, she is so oblivious that she attributes his silence on the matter to his fear that the letter might be intercepted.
Not one opportunity could I meet with, while Sir Clement was here, to enquire after his friend Lord Orville: but I think it was strange he should never mention him unasked. Indeed, I rather wonder that Mrs. Mirvan herself did not introduce the subject, for she always seemed particularly attentive to him. And now, once more, all my thoughts involuntarily turn upon the letter I so soon expect from Paris. This visit of Sir Clement has, however, somewhat diverted my fears; and, therefore, I am very glad he made it at this time. Adieu, my dear Sir.
Not one chance did I get to ask Sir Clement about his friend Lord Orville while he was here, but I think it’s odd that he never brought him up on his own. Honestly, I’m surprised that Mrs. Mirvan didn’t mention it, since she always seemed particularly interested in him. And now, once again, all my thoughts inevitably go back to the letter I’m expecting from Paris. This visit from Sir Clement, however, has somewhat eased my worries, and I’m really glad he came at this time. Goodbye, my dear Sir.
LETTER XXXV - SIR JOHN BELMONT TO LADY HOWARD Paris, May 11.
Madam,
Ma'am,
I HAVE this moment the honour of your Ladyship’s Letter, and I will not wait another, before I return an answer.
I have just received your Ladyship's letter, and I won't hesitate to respond right away.
It seldom happens that a man, though extolled as a saint, is really without blemish; or that another, though reviled as a devil, is really without humanity. Perhaps the time is not very distant, when I may have the honour to convince your Ladyship of this truth, in regard to Mr. Villars and myself. As to the young lady, whom Mr. Villars so obligingly proposes presenting to me, I wish her all the happiness to which, by your ladyship’s account, she seems entitled; and, if she has a third part of the merit of her to whom you compare her, I doubt not but Mr. Villars will be more successful in every other application he may make for her advantage, that he can ever be in any with which he may be pleased to favour me. I have the honour to be Madam, Your Ladyship’s most humble, and most obedient servant, JOHN BELMONT.
It rarely happens that a man, even though praised as a saint, is truly without flaws; or that another, even though condemned as a devil, is completely devoid of humanity. Perhaps the time isn't too far off when I may have the privilege of proving this point to you regarding Mr. Villars and myself. As for the young lady Mr. Villars kindly wants to introduce to me, I wish her all the happiness that, according to you, she deserves; and if she has even a fraction of the qualities of the person you compare her to, I have no doubt that Mr. Villars will succeed in every other endeavor he undertakes for her benefit, far more than he could ever succeed in any favor he might extend to me. I remain, Madam, your most humble and obedient servant, JOHN BELMONT.
LETTER XXXVI - EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS Howard Grove, May 18.
WELL, my dear Sir, all is now over! the letter so anxiously expected is at length arrived, and my doom is fixed. The various feelings which oppress me, I have not language to describe; nor need I-you know my heart, you have yourself formed it-and its sensations upon this occasion you may but too readily imagine.
WELL, my dear Sir, it's all over now! The letter I've been waiting for has finally arrived, and my fate is sealed. I can't find the words to describe the mix of emotions I'm feeling, and I don't need to—you know my heart; you've shaped it yourself, and I’m sure you can easily guess how I feel right now.
Outcast as I am, and rejected for ever by him to whom I of right belong-shall I now implore your continued protection?-No, no;-I will not offend your generous heart, which, open to distress, has no wish but to relieve it, with an application that would seem to imply a doubt. I am more secure than ever of your kindness, since you now know upon that is my sole dependence. I endeavour to bear this stroke with composure, and in such a manner as if I had already received your counsel and consolation. Yet, at times, my emotions are almost too much for me. O, Sir, what a letter for a parent to write! Must I not myself be deaf to the voice of nature, if I could endure to be thus absolutely abandoned without regret? I dare not even to you, nor would I, could I help it, to myself, acknowledge all that I might think; for, indeed, I have sometimes sentiments upon this rejection, which my strongest sense of duty can scarcely correct. Yet, suffer me to ask-might not this answer have been softened?-was it not enough to disclaim me for ever, without treating me with contempt, and wounding me with derision?
Outcast as I am, and forever rejected by the one to whom I truly belong—should I now beg for your ongoing support? No, no; I won’t trouble your kind heart, which is always ready to help those in distress, with a request that might suggest I doubt you. I feel more secure than ever in your kindness, now that you understand that it is my only reliance. I try to handle this blow with calmness, as if I have already received your advice and comfort. Yet, at times, my emotions almost overwhelm me. Oh, Sir, what a letter for a parent to write! Must I not be ignoring the voice of nature if I can endure being completely abandoned without any regret? I dare not even admit to you, nor would I if I could help it, the full extent of my feelings; for, indeed, I sometimes have thoughts about this rejection that my strongest sense of duty can barely temper. Yet, please allow me to ask—couldn’t this response have been softened? Was it not enough to reject me forever without treating me with contempt and inflicting pain through mockery?
But while I am thus thinking of myself, I forget how much more he is the object of sorrow than I am! Alas! what amends can he make himself for the anguish he is hoarding up for time to come! My heart bleeds for him, whenever this reflection occurs to me.
But while I'm thinking about myself like this, I forget how much more he suffers than I do! Oh dear! What can he do to make up for the pain he's building up for the future? My heart aches for him every time I realize this.
What is said of you, my protector, my friend, my benefactor! I dare not trust myself to comment upon. Gracious Heaven! what a return for goodness so unparalleled! I would fain endeavour to divert my thoughts from this subject; but even that is not in my power; for, afflicting as this letter is to me, I find that it will not be allowed to conclude the affair, though it does all my expectations; for Madame Duval has determined not to let it rest here. She heard the letter in great wrath, and protested she would not be so easily answered; she regretted her facility in having been prevailed upon to yield the direction of this affair to those who knew not how to manage it, and vowed she would herself undertake and conduct it in future.
What people say about you, my protector, my friend, my benefactor! I can hardly trust myself to comment on it. Gracious Heaven! What a response to such unmatched kindness! I want to try to steer my thoughts away from this topic; but even that is beyond my control; for, as distressing as this letter is for me, it won’t be the end of the matter, even though it fulfills all my expectations; because Madame Duval has decided not to leave it at that. She reacted to the letter in great anger and insisted she wouldn’t be so easily dismissed; she regretted her willingness to allow those who didn’t know how to handle the situation to take charge, and vowed that she would take it on herself and manage it moving forward.
It is in vain that I have pleaded against her resolution, and besought her to forbear an attack where she has nothing to expect but resentment: especially as there seems to be a hint, that Lady Howard will one day be more openly dealt with. She will not hear me: she is furiously bent upon a project which is terrible to think of;-for she means to go herself to Paris, take me with her, and there, face to face, demand justice!
I’ve tried in vain to convince her to reconsider her decision and asked her to avoid a confrontation where all she’ll get is anger. It especially worries me since it seems there’s something suggesting that Lady Howard will be handled more openly in the future. She won’t listen to me; she’s determined to go through with a plan that’s scary to think about—she wants to travel to Paris, take me with her, and there confront them directly to demand justice!
How to appease or to persuade her, I know not; but for the universe would I not be dragged, in such a manner, to an interview so awful, with a parent I have never yet beheld!
How to calm her down or convince her, I have no idea; but I would never want to be forced into such a terrible meeting with a parent I’ve never even seen!
Lady Howard and Mrs. Mirvan are both of them infinitely shocked at the present state of affairs, and they seem to be even more kind to me than ever; and my dear Maria, who is the friend of my heart, uses her utmost efforts to console me; and, when she fails in her design, with still greater kindness she sympathises in my sorrow.
Lady Howard and Mrs. Mirvan are both extremely shocked by the current situation, and they seem to be even kinder to me than ever; my dear Maria, who is my closest friend, does everything she can to comfort me; and when she doesn't succeed, she shows even more kindness by sharing in my sadness.
I very much rejoice, however, that Sir Clement Willoughby had left us before this letter arrived. I am sure the general confusion of the house would otherwise have betrayed to him the whole of a tale which I now, more than ever, wish to have buried in oblivion.
I’m really glad that Sir Clement Willoughby left before this letter arrived. I’m sure the chaos in the house would have revealed everything to him about a story that I now, more than ever, want to keep buried in the past.
Lady Howard thinks I ought not to disoblige Madame Duval, yet she acknowledges the impropriety of my accompanying her abroad on such an enterprise. Indeed, I would rather die than force myself into his presence. But so vehement is Madame Duval, that she would instantly have compelled me to attend her to town, in her way to Paris, had not Lady Howard so far exerted herself, as to declare she could by no means consent to my quitting her house, till she gave me up to you, by whose permission I had entered it.
Lady Howard believes I shouldn't offend Madame Duval, but she also recognizes that it's inappropriate for me to go with her on this trip. Honestly, I'd rather die than put myself in his presence. However, Madame Duval is so insistent that she would have forced me to go with her to the city on her way to Paris if Lady Howard hadn't stepped in to say that she couldn't agree to my leaving her house until I was handed over to you, who allowed me to stay there.
She was extremely angry at this denial; and the Captain, by his sneers and raillery, so much increased her rage, that she has positively declared, should your next letter dispute her authority to guide me by her own pleasure, she will, without hesitation, make a journey to Berry Hill, and teach you to know who she is.
She was really upset by this refusal, and the Captain, with his mocking and teasing, only made her angrier. She has firmly stated that if your next letter questions her right to lead me as she sees fit, she will definitely travel to Berry Hill and show you who she really is.
Should she put this threat in execution, nothing could give me greater uneasiness: for her violence and volubility would almost distract you.
If she goes through with this threat, nothing would make me more uneasy: her aggression and constant talking would almost drive you crazy.
Unable as I am to act for myself, or to judge what conduct I ought to pursue, how grateful do I feel myself, that I have such a guide and director to counsel and instruct me as yourself!
Unable as I am to act for myself or to decide what actions I should take, I feel so grateful to have a guide and mentor like you to advise and teach me!
Adieu, my dearest Sir! Heaven, I trust, will never let me live to be repulsed, and derided by you, to whom I may now sign myself, wholly your EVELINA.
Goodbye, my dearest Sir! I hope that heaven will never allow me to live to be rejected and mocked by you, to whom I now proudly sign myself, completely your EVELINA.
LETTER XXXVII - MR. VILLARS TO EVELINA Berry Hill, May 21.
LET not my Evelina be depressed by a stroke of fortune for which she is not responsible. No breach of duty on your part has incurred the unkindness which has been shown you; nor have you, by any act of imprudence, provoked either censure or reproach. Let me intreat you, therefore, my dearest child, to support yourself with that courage which your innocency ought to inspire: and let all the affliction you allow yourself be for him only who, not having that support, must one day be but too severely sensible how much he wants it.
Don't let my Evelina get down because of a twist of fate she didn't cause. You haven't done anything wrong to deserve the unkindness you've experienced; nor have you, through any careless actions, brought on any blame or criticism. So, I urge you, my dearest child, to stay strong with the courage that your innocence should give you: and let all the sadness you allow yourself be for him alone, who, lacking that support, will one day feel all too acutely how much he needs it.
The hint thrown out concerning myself is wholly unintelligible to me: my heart, I dare own, fully acquits me of vice; but without blemish, I have never ventured to pronounce myself. However, it seems his intention to be hereafter more explicit; and then,-should anything appear, that has on my part contributed to those misfortunes we lament, let me at least say, that the most partial of my friends cannot be so much astonished as I shall myself be at such a discovery.
The suggestion made about me is completely unclear: I admit that my heart fully clears me of wrongdoing; however, I’ve never been bold enough to declare myself without faults. Still, it seems he plans to clarify things more in the future; and if anything comes up that shows I played a role in the misfortunes we regret, let me just say that even my most biased friends won’t be as shocked as I will be if that turns out to be the case.
The mention, also, of any future applications I may make, is equally beyond my comprehension. But I will not dwell upon a subject, which almost compels from me reflections that cannot but be wounding to a heart so formed for filial tenderness as my Evelina’s. There is an air of mystery throughout the letter, the explanation of which I will await in silence.
The mention of any future applications I might make is just as beyond my understanding. But I won't spend too much time on a topic that forces me to think thoughts that can only hurt a heart as gentle and loving as Evelina’s. There’s a sense of mystery throughout the letter, and I’ll wait quietly for the explanation.
The scheme of Madame Duval is such as might be reasonably expected from a woman so little inured to disappointment, and so totally incapable of considering the delicacy of your situation. Your averseness to her plan gives me pleasure, for it exactly corresponds with my own. Why will she not make the journey she projects by herself? She would not have even the wish of an opposition to encounter. And then, once more, might my child and myself be left to the quiet enjoyment of that peaceful happiness, which she alone has interrupted. As to her coming hither, I could, indeed, dispense with such a visit; but, if she will not be satisfied with my refusal by letter, I must submit to the task of giving it her in person.
Madame Duval's plan is exactly what you'd expect from someone who's not used to disappointment and can't see how sensitive your situation is. I'm glad you're against her idea because it matches my feelings perfectly. Why doesn't she just make the trip by herself? Then she wouldn't face any opposition. And once again, my child and I could enjoy the peaceful happiness that only she has disrupted. As for her coming here, I'd rather not have that visit at all; but if she won't accept my refusal in writing, I'll have no choice but to tell her in person.
My impatience for your return is increased by your account of Sir Clement Willoughby’s visit to Howard Grove. I am but little surprised at the perseverance of his assiduities to interest you in his favour; but I am very much hurt that you should be exposed to addresses, which, by their privacy, have an air that shocks me. You cannot, my love, be too circumspect; the slightest carelessness on your part will be taken advantage of by a man of his disposition. It is not sufficient for you to be reserved: his conduct even calls for your resentment; and should he again, as will doubtless be his endeavour, contrive to solicit your favour in private, let your disdain and displeasure be so marked, as to constrain a change in his behaviour. Though, indeed, should his visit be repeated while you remain at the Grove, Lady Howard must pardon me if I shorten yours.
My impatience for your return has grown after hearing about Sir Clement Willoughby’s visit to Howard Grove. I’m not surprised by his persistence in trying to win you over, but I’m really upset that you have to deal with his advances, which feel shockingly private to me. You need to be extra careful, my love; even the smallest mistake on your part could be exploited by a man like him. It’s not enough for you to be distant; his behavior demands your anger. If he tries to seek your attention privately again, make sure your disapproval is so clear that it forces him to change how he acts. However, if he visits again while you’re still at the Grove, Lady Howard will have to forgive me if I cut your stay short.
Adieu, my child. You will always make my respects to the hospitable family to which we are so much obliged.
Goodbye, my child. Please convey my gratitude to the welcoming family that has been so kind to us.
LETTER XXXVIII - MR. VILLARS TO LADY HOWARD Berry Hill, May 27.
Dear Madam,
Dear Ma'am,
I BELIEVE your Ladyship will not be surprised at hearing I have had a visit from Madame Duval, as I doubt not her having made known her intention before she left Howard Grove. I would gladly have excused myself this meeting, could I have avoided it decently; but, after so long a journey, it was not possible to refuse her admittance.
I think you’ll be unsurprised to hear that I had a visit from Madame Duval, as I’m sure she made her plans known before she left Howard Grove. I would have happily skipped this meeting if I could have done so politely, but after such a long journey, I couldn’t refuse her entry.
She told me, that she came to Berry Hill, in consequence of a letter I had sent to her grand-daughter, in which I forbid her going to Paris. Very roughly she then called me to account for the authority which I had assumed; and, had I been disposed to have argued with her, she would very angrily have disputed the right by which I used it. But I declined all debating. I therefore listened very quietly, till she had so much fatigued herself with talking, that she was glad, in her turn, to be silent. And then, I begged to know the purport of her visit.
She told me that she came to Berry Hill because of a letter I had sent to her granddaughter, in which I forbade her from going to Paris. She then sharply held me accountable for the authority I had taken on. If I had been inclined to argue, she would have vehemently disputed my right to do so. But I chose not to engage in any debate. I listened quietly until she became exhausted from talking and was glad to be silent herself. Then, I asked her the reason for her visit.
She answered, that she came to make me relinquish the power I had usurped over her grand-daughter; and assured me she would not quit the place till she succeeded.
She said she had come to make me give up the power I had taken over her granddaughter; and she assured me she wouldn’t leave until she succeeded.
But I will not trouble your Ladyship with the particulars of this disagreeable conversation; nor should I, but on account of the result, have chosen so unpleasant a subject for your perusal. However, I will be as concise as I possibly can, that the better occupations of your Ladyship’s time may be less impeded.
But I won’t bother you with the details of this unpleasant conversation; I wouldn’t even mention it if it weren't for the outcome, which makes it necessary to bring up such an uncomfortable topic for you to read. Still, I’ll keep it as brief as I can, so it doesn’t take up too much of your valuable time.
When she found me inexorable in refusing Evelina’s attending her to Paris, she peremptorily insisted that she should at least live with her in London till Sir John Belmont’s return. I remonstrated against this scheme with all the energy in my power; but the contest was vain; she lost her patience, and I my time. She declared, that if I was resolute in opposing her, she would instantly make a will, in which she would leave all her fortune to strangers, though, otherwise, she intended her grand-daughter for her sole heiress.
When she found me stubborn in refusing to let Evelina go to Paris with her, she firmly insisted that Evelina at least stay with her in London until Sir John Belmont returned. I opposed this plan with all the energy I could muster, but it was useless; she lost her patience, and I wasted my time. She declared that if I was determined to oppose her, she would immediately write a will leaving all her fortune to strangers, even though she originally intended for her granddaughter to be her sole heir.
To me, I own, this threat seemed of little consequence; I have long accustomed myself to think, that, with a competency, of which she is sure, my child might be as happy as in the possession of millions; but the incertitude of her future fate deters me from following implicitly the dictates of my present judgement. The connections she may hereafter form, the style of life for which she may be destined, and the future family to which she may belong, are considerations which give but too much weight to the menaces of Madame Duval. In short, Madam, after a discourse infinitely tedious, I was obliged, though very reluctantly, to compromise with this ungovernable woman, by consenting that Evelina should pass one month with her.
To me, this threat seemed pretty insignificant; I’ve long gotten used to thinking that, with a decent income, my child could be as happy as if she had millions. But the uncertainty of her future holds me back from fully trusting my current judgment. The connections she might form later, the lifestyle she's destined for, and the family she could belong to are all factors that make Madame Duval’s threats feel more significant. In short, Madam, after a really long conversation, I was forced, though very reluctantly, to compromise with this uncontrollable woman by agreeing that Evelina should spend one month with her.
I never made a concession with so bad a grace, or so much regret. The violence and vulgarity of this woman, her total ignorance of propriety, the family to which she is related, and the company she is likely to keep, are objections so forcible to her having the charge of this dear child, that nothing less than my diffidence of the right I have of depriving her of so large a fortune, would have induced me to listen to her proposal. Indeed we parted, at last, equally discontented; she at what I had refused, I at what I had granted.
I never agreed to something with such reluctance or regret. The violence and crude behavior of this woman, her complete lack of decency, the family she comes from, and the people she’s likely to associate with, are all strong reasons against her being responsible for this dear child. Only my uncertainty about my right to take away such a large fortune would have made me consider her proposal. In the end, we parted ways, both unhappy; she was upset about my refusal, and I was upset about what I had agreed to.
It now only remains for me to return your Ladyship my humble acknowledgments for the kindness which you have so liberally shown to my ward; and to beg you would have the goodness to part with her when Madame Duval thinks proper to claim the promise which she has extorted from me. I am, Dear Madam, &c. ARTHUR VILLARS.
It now only remains for me to express my gratitude for the kindness you have generously shown to my ward; and to kindly ask if you would release her when Madame Duval decides to claim the promise she has extracted from me. I am, Dear Madam, &c. ARTHUR VILLARS.
LETTER XXXIX - MR. VILLARS TO EVELINA Berry Hill, May 28.
WITH a reluctance which occasions me inexpressible uneasiness, I have been almost compelled to consent that my Evelina should quit the protection of the hospitable and respectable Lady Howard, and accompany Madame Duval to a city which I had hoped she would never again have entered. But alas, my dear child, we are the slaves of custom, the dupes of prejudice, and dare not stem the torrent of an opposing world, even though our judgements condemn our compliance! However, since the die is cast, we must endeavor to make the best of it.
WITH a reluctance that causes me great unease, I've been almost forced to agree that my Evelina should leave the care of the welcoming and respectable Lady Howard and go with Madame Duval to a city I had hoped she would never visit again. But alas, my dear child, we are bound by social norms, victims of bias, and we dare not go against the tide of an opposing world, even though our reasoning disapproves of our obedience! However, since the decision is made, we must try to make the best of it.
You will have the occasion, in the course of the month you are to pass with Madame Duval, for all the circumspection and prudence you can call to your aid. She will not, I know, propose any thing to you which she thinks wrong herself; but you must learn not only to judge but to act for yourself; if any schemes are started, any engagements made, which your understanding represents to you as improper, exert yourself resolutely in avoiding them; and do not, by a too passive facility, risk the censure of the world, or your own future regret.
You will have the chance, over the month you spend with Madame Duval, to use all the caution and wisdom you can muster. I know she won't suggest anything she believes is wrong, but you need to learn not just to judge but also to make your own decisions. If any plans come up or commitments are made that you feel are inappropriate, make a strong effort to steer clear of them. Don't, by being too easygoing, put yourself at risk of judgment from others or regret later on.
You cannot too assiduously attend to Madame Duval herself; but I would wish you to mix as little as possible with her associates, who are not likely to be among those whose acquaintance would reflect credit upon you. Remember, my dear Evelina, nothing is so delicate as the reputation of a woman; it is at once the most beautiful and most brittle of all human things.
You should pay close attention to Madame Duval herself, but I would prefer if you stayed away from her friends, who probably won't do your reputation any favors. Remember, my dear Evelina, nothing is as fragile as a woman's reputation; it's both the most beautiful and most delicate thing in the world.
Adieu, my beloved child; I shall be but ill at ease till this month is elapsed. A.V -
Adieu, my dear child; I'll feel quite uneasy until this month is over. A.V -
LETTER XL - EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS London, June 6.
LETTER XL - EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS London, June 6.
ONCE more, my dearest Sir, I write to you from this great city. Yesterday morning, with the truest concern, I quitted the dear inhabitants of Howard Grove, and most impatiently shall I count the days till I see them again. Lady Howard and Mrs. Mirvan took leave of me with the most flattering kindness; but indeed I knew not how to part with Maria, whose own apparent sorrow redoubled mine. She made me promise to send her a letter every post: and I shall write to her with the same freedom, and almost the same confidence, you allow me to make use of to yourself.
ONCE again, my dearest Sir, I write to you from this amazing city. Yesterday morning, with true concern, I left the beloved people of Howard Grove, and I will impatiently count the days until I see them again. Lady Howard and Mrs. Mirvan said goodbye to me with the kindest words; but honestly, I didn’t know how to say goodbye to Maria, whose own visible sadness only deepened mine. She made me promise to send her a letter with every post: and I will write to her with the same openness, and nearly the same trust, that you allow me to use with you.
The Captain was very civil to me: but he wrangled with poor Madame Duval to the last moment; and, taking me aside, just before we got into the chaise, he said, “Hark’ee, Miss Anville, I’ve a favour for to ask of you, which is this; that you will write us word how the old gentlewoman finds herself, when she sees it was all a trick; and what the French lubber says to it, and all about it.”
The Captain was very polite to me, but he argued with poor Madame Duval right up to the last moment. Just before we got into the carriage, he pulled me aside and said, “Listen, Miss Anville, I have a favor to ask of you: please write to let us know how the old lady is doing when she realizes it was all a trick, what the French guy says about it, and everything else.”
I answered that I would obey him, though I was very little pleased with the commission, which, to me, was highly improper; but he will either treat me as an informer, or make me a party in his frolic.
I said I would follow his request, even though I wasn't very happy about it, as I found it quite inappropriate; but he would either see me as a snitch or involve me in his antics.
As soon as we drove away, Madame Duval, with much satisfaction, exclaimed, “Dieu merci, we’ve got off at last! I’m sure I never desire to see that place again. It’s a wonder I’ve got away alive; for I believe I’ve had the worst luck ever was known, from the time I set my foot upon the threshold. I know I wish I’d never a gone. Besides, into the bargain, it’s the most dullest place in all Christendom: there’s never no diversions, nor nothing at all.”
As soon as we drove away, Madame Duval happily exclaimed, “Thank God, we’ve finally escaped! I’m sure I never want to see that place again. It’s a miracle I got out alive; I think I've had the worst luck ever since I set foot on the threshold. I really wish I’d never gone. And on top of that, it’s the dullest place in the whole world: there’s no entertainment or anything at all.”
Then she bewailed M. Du Bois; concerning whose adventures she continued to make various conjectures during the rest of our journey.
Then she lamented M. Du Bois, about whose adventures she kept speculating for the rest of our trip.
When I asked her what part of London she should reside in, she told me that Mr. Branghton was to meet us at an inn, and would conduct us to a lodging. Accordingly, we proceeded to a house in Bishopsgate Street, and were led by a waiter into a room where we found Mr. Branghton.
When I asked her which part of London she should live in, she told me that Mr. Branghton was going to meet us at an inn and would take us to a place to stay. So, we went to a house on Bishopsgate Street, and a waiter led us into a room where we found Mr. Branghton.
He received us very civilly; but seemed rather surprised at seeing me, saying, “Why, I didn’t think of your bringing Miss; however, she’s very welcome.”
He welcomed us politely but seemed a bit surprised to see me, saying, “Wow, I didn’t expect you to bring her; still, she’s very welcome.”
“I’ll tell you how it was,” said Madame Duval: “you must know I’ve a mind to take the girl to Paris, that she may see something of the world, and improve herself a little; besides, I’ve another reason, that you and I will talk more about. But, do you know, that meddling old parson, as I told you of, would not let her go: however, I’m resolved I’ll be even with him; for I shall take her on with me, without saying never a word more to nobody.”
“I’ll tell you how it was,” said Madame Duval. “You should know I plan to take the girl to Paris so she can see a bit of the world and better herself a little; besides, I have another reason that we’ll discuss more. But do you know that nosy old pastor I mentioned wouldn’t let her go? Well, I’m determined to get back at him because I’m going to take her with me without saying a word to anyone.”
I started at this intimation, which very much surprised me. But, I am very glad she has discovered her intention, as I shall be carefully upon my guard not to venture from town with her.
I was taken aback by this hint. But I'm really glad she realized what she wanted, as I'll make sure to be cautious and not leave town with her.
Mr. Branghton then hoped we had passed our time agreeably in the country.
Mr. Branghton then hoped we had enjoyed our time in the countryside.
“O Lord, cousin,” cried she, “I’ve been the miserablest creature in the world! I’m sure all the horses in London sha’n’t drag me into the country again of one while: why, how do you think I’ve been served?-only guess.”
“O Lord, cousin,” she exclaimed, “I’ve been the most miserable person in the world! I’m sure nothing can drag me back to the countryside again for a long time: can you even guess how I’ve been treated?”
“Indeed, cousin, I can’t pretend to do that.”
“Honestly, cousin, I can't pretend to do that.”
“Why then I’ll tell you. Do you know I’ve been robbed!-that is, the villain would have robbed me if he could, only I’d secured all my money.”
“Why then, I’ll tell you. Do you know I’ve been robbed?—that is, the scoundrel would have robbed me if he could, but I had all my money secured.”
“Why, then cousin, I think your loss can’t have been very great.”
“Why, then, cousin, I don’t think your loss could have been that significant.”
“O Lord, you don’t know what you’re a saying; you’re talking in the unthinkingest manner in the world: why, it was all along of not having no money that I met with that misfortune.”
“O Lord, you don’t know what you’re saying; you’re talking in the most thoughtless way possible: it was all because I didn’t have any money that I ran into that misfortune.”
“How’s that, cousin? I don’t see what great misfortune you can have met with, if you’d secured all your money.”
“How’s that, cousin? I don’t see what big problem you could be facing if you’ve got all your money.”
“That’s because you don’t know nothing of the matter: for there the villain came to the chaise; and, because we hadn’t got nothing to give him, though he’d no more right to our money than the man in the moon, yet, do you know, he fell into the greatest passion ever you see, and abused me in such a manner, and put me in a ditch, and got a rope o’purpose to hang me;-and I’m sure, if that wasn’t misfortune enough, why I don’t know what is.”
"That’s because you don’t know anything about the situation: the villain came to the carriage, and since we didn’t have anything to give him, even though he had no more right to our money than the man in the moon, he became absolutely furious and insulted me terribly, threw me in a ditch, and even got a rope just to hang me—and if that wasn’t bad enough, I don’t know what is."
“This is a hard case, indeed, cousin. But why don’t you go to Justice Fielding?”
“This is a tough case, for sure, cousin. But why don't you go see Justice Fielding?”
“O as to that, I’m a going to him directly; but only I want first to see M. Du Bois; for the oddest thing of all is, that he has wrote to me, and never said nothing of where he is, nor what’s become of him, nor nothing else.”
“O about that, I’m going to him directly; but first I want to see M. Du Bois; because the weirdest thing of all is that he wrote to me and never mentioned where he is, what’s happened to him, or anything else.”
“M. Du Bois! why, he’s at my house at this very time.”
“M. Du Bois! He’s at my house right now.”
“M. Du Bois at your house! well, I declare this is the surprisingest part of all: However, I assure you, I think he might have comed for me, as well as you, considering what I have gone through on his account; for, to tell you the truth, it was all along of him that I met with that accident; so I don’t take it very kind of him, I promise you.”
“M. Du Bois at your house! Wow, this is the most surprising part of all: However, I assure you, I think he could have come for me, just as much as you, considering what I’ve gone through because of him; honestly, it was all because of him that I had that accident; so I don't appreciate it very much, I promise you.”
“Well, but cousin, tell me some of the particulars of this affair.”
"Well, cousin, tell me some details about this situation."
“As to the particulars, I’m sure they’d make your hair stand on end to hear them; however, the beginning of it all was through the fault of M. Du Bois: but, I’ll assure you, he may take care of himself in future, since he don’t so much as come to see if I’m dead or alive.-But, there, I went for him to a justice of peace, and rode all out of the way, and did every thing in the world, and was used worser than a dog, and all for the sake of serving of him; and now, you see, he don’t so much-well, I was a fool for my pains.-However, he may get somebody else to be treated so another time; for, if he’s taken up every day in the week, I’ll never go after him no more.”
“As for the details, I bet they'd shock you; but it all started because of M. Du Bois. I’ll tell you, he can look after himself from now on, since he hasn’t even bothered to check if I’m dead or alive. Anyway, I went after him to a justice of peace, went way out of my way, did everything possible, and was treated worse than a dog—all to help him. And now, as you can see, he doesn’t care at all. I was a fool for putting in so much effort. But he can find someone else to be treated like this next time because if he gets into trouble every single day of the week, I’m done chasing after him.”
This occasioned an explanation; in the course of which Madame Duval, to her utter amazement, heard that M. Du Bois had never left London during her absence! nor did Mr. Branghton believe that he had ever been to the Tower, or met with any kind of accident.
This prompted an explanation; during which Madame Duval, to her complete shock, learned that M. Du Bois had never left London while she was away! Nor did Mr. Branghton think that he had ever been to the Tower or experienced any kind of accident.
Almost instantly the whole truth of the transaction seemed to rush upon her mind, and her wrath was inconceivably violent. She asked me a thousand questions in a breath; but, fortunately, was too vehement to attend to my embarrassment, which must otherwise have betrayed my knowledge of the deceit. Revenge was her first wish; and she vowed she would go the next morning to Justice Fielding, and inquire what punishment she might lawfully inflict upon the Captain for his assault.
Almost immediately, the entire truth of the situation hit her, and her anger was unbelievably intense. She bombarded me with a thousand questions in one breath; thankfully, she was too passionate to notice my discomfort, which would have revealed my awareness of the deception. Her first instinct was revenge; she declared that she would go to Justice Fielding the next morning to find out what punishment she could legally impose on the Captain for his attack.
I believe we were an hour at Bishopsgate Street before poor Madame Duval could allow any thing to be mentioned but her own story; at any length, however, Mr. Branghton told her, that M. Du Bois, and all his own family, were waiting for her at his house. A hackney-coach was then called, and we proceeded to Snow Hill.
I think we waited about an hour at Bishopsgate Street before poor Madame Duval would let us talk about anything other than her own story. Eventually, though, Mr. Branghton told her that M. Du Bois and his whole family were waiting for her at his place. A hackney cab was then called, and we headed to Snow Hill.
Mr. Branghton’s house is small and inconvenient; though his shop, which takes in all the ground floor, is large and commodious. I believe I told you before, that he is a silver-smith.
Mr. Branghton’s house is small and awkward; however, his shop, which occupies the entire ground floor, is big and comfortable. I think I mentioned earlier that he is a silversmith.
We were conducted up two pairs of stairs: for the dining-room, Mr. Branghton told us, was let. His two daughters, their brother, M. Du Bois, and a young man, were at tea. They had waited some time for Madame Duval, but I found they had not any expectation that I should accompany her; and the young ladies, I believe, were rather more surprised than pleased when I made my appearance; for they seemed hurt that I should see their apartment. Indeed, I would willingly have saved them that pain, had it been in my power.
We were led up two flights of stairs because the dining room was rented out, as Mr. Branghton mentioned. His two daughters, their brother, M. Du Bois, and a young man were having tea. They had been waiting for some time for Madame Duval, but I realized they didn’t expect me to come along with her. The young ladies seemed more surprised than happy when I showed up; they looked upset that I was about to see their space. Honestly, I would have gladly spared them that discomfort if I could.
The first person who saw me was M. Du Bois, “Ah, mon Dieu!” exclaimed he, “voila Mademoiselle!”
The first person who saw me was M. Du Bois. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed, “Here comes Mademoiselle!”
“Goodness,” cried young Branghton, “if there isn’t Miss!”
“Goodness,” shouted young Branghton, “if that isn’t Miss!”
“Lord, so there is!” said Miss Polly; “well, I’m sure I should never have dreamed of Miss’s coming.”
“Wow, really?” said Miss Polly. “I definitely wouldn’t have expected Miss to show up.”
“Nor I neither, I’m sure,” cried Miss Branghton, “or else I would not have been in this room to see her: I’m quite ashamed about it;-only not thinking of seeing any body but my aunt-however, Tom, it’s all your fault; for, you know very well I wanted to borrow Mr. Smith’s room, only you were so grumpy you would not let me.”
“Me neither, I’m sure,” exclaimed Miss Branghton, “or else I wouldn’t be in this room to see her: I’m really embarrassed about it; only I wasn’t thinking of seeing anyone but my aunt—anyway, Tom, it’s all your fault; you know I wanted to borrow Mr. Smith’s room, but you were so grumpy you wouldn’t let me.”
“Lord, what signifies?” said her brother; “I dare be sworn Miss has been up two pair of stairs before now;-ha’n’t you, Miss?”
“Lord, what does it matter?” said her brother; “I bet Miss has been up two flights of stairs before now—haven’t you, Miss?”
I begged that I might not give them the least disturbance; and assured them that I had not any choice in regard to what room we sat in.
I urged them not to let me cause any disturbance and assured them that I had no say in which room we sat in.
“Well,” said Miss Polly, “when you come next, Miss, we’ll have Mr. Smith’s room: and it’s a very pretty one, and only up one pair of stairs, and nicely furnished, and every thing.”
“Well,” said Miss Polly, “when you come next, Miss, we’ll have Mr. Smith’s room. It’s really nice, just one flight up, well-furnished, and has everything you need.”
“To say the truth,” said Miss Branghton, “I thought that my cousin would not, upon any account, have come to town in the summer-time; for it’s not at all the fashion ;-so, to be sure, thinks I, she’ll stay till September, when the play-houses open.”
"To be honest," said Miss Branghton, "I didn’t think my cousin would come to town in the summer at all; it’s just not the norm. So I figured she’d wait until September, when the theaters open."
This was my reception, which I believe you will not call a very cordial one. Madame Duval, who, after having severely reprimanded M. Du Bois for his negligence, was just entering upon the story of her misfortunes, now wholly engaged the company.
This was my welcome, which I doubt you would consider very friendly. Madame Duval, who had just scolded M. Du Bois for his carelessness, was now completely focused on sharing her tale of misfortunes with everyone.
M. Du Bois listened to her with a look of the utmost horror, repeatedly lifting up his eyes and hands, and exclaiming, “O ciel! quel barbare!” The young ladies gave her the most earnest attention; but their brother, and the young man, kept a broad grin upon their faces during the whole recital. She was, however, too much engaged to observe them; but, when she mentioned having been tied in a ditch, young Branghton, no longer able to contain himself, burst into a loud laugh, declaring that he had never heard any thing so funny in his life! His laugh was heartily re-echoed by his friend; the Miss Branghtons could not resist the example; and poor Madame Duval, to her extreme amazement, was absolutely overpowered and stopped by the violence of their mirth.
M. Du Bois listened to her with a look of complete horror, repeatedly raising his eyes and hands, exclaiming, “Oh heavens! What a barbarian!” The young ladies paid her the closest attention; however, their brother and the young man maintained wide grins on their faces throughout the entire story. She was too absorbed to notice them, but when she mentioned being tied in a ditch, young Branghton, unable to hold it in any longer, burst into loud laughter, declaring that he had never heard anything so funny in his life! His laughter was heartily echoed by his friend; the Miss Branghtons couldn’t resist joining in; and poor Madame Duval, to her utter astonishment, was utterly overwhelmed and silenced by the intensity of their laughter.
For some minutes the room seemed quite in an uproar; the rage of Madame Duval, the astonishment of M. Du Bois, and the angry interrogatories of Mr. Branghton, on one side; the convulsive tittering of the sisters, and the loud laughs of the young men, on the other, occasioned such noise, passion and confusion, that had any one stopped an instant on the stairs, he must have concluded himself in Bedlam. At length, however, the father brought them to order; and, half-laughing, half-frightened, they made Madame Duval some very awkward apologies. But she would not be prevailed upon to continue her narrative, till they had protested they were laughing at the Captain, and not at her. Appeased by this, she resumed her story; which by the help of stuffing handkerchiefs into their mouths, the young people heard with tolerable decency.
For a few minutes, the room was in complete chaos; Madame Duval was furious, M. Du Bois was astonished, and Mr. Branghton kept firing angry questions from one side, while the sisters were trying not to laugh and the young men were cracking up on the other. The noise, anger, and confusion were so intense that anyone who paused on the stairs would think they’d stumbled into a madhouse. Eventually, though, the father managed to restore some order, and with a mix of laughter and fear, they gave Madame Duval some very awkward apologies. But she refused to continue her story until they insisted that they were laughing at the Captain and not at her. Satisfied with this, she went back to her tale, which the young people managed to listen to fairly well while stuffing handkerchiefs in their mouths to stifle their laughter.
Every body agreed, that the ill-usage the Captain had given her was actionable; and Mr. Branghton said, he was sure she might recover what damages she pleased, since she had been put in fear of her life.
Everyone agreed that the way the Captain had treated her was grounds for legal action, and Mr. Branghton said he was certain she could recover whatever damages she wanted, since she had been made to fear for her life.
She then, with great delight, declared, that she would lose no time in satisfying her revenge, and vowed she would not be contented with less than half his fortune: “For though,” she said, “I don’t put no value upon the money, because, Dieu merci, I ha’n’t no want of it, yet I don’t wish for nothing so much as to punish that fellow; for I’m sure, whatever’s the cause of it, he owes me a great grudge, and I know no more what it’s for than you do; but he’s always been doing me one spite or another ever since I knew him.”
She then, with great delight, announced that she would waste no time in getting her revenge, and vowed she wouldn't be satisfied with anything less than half his fortune: “Because,” she said, “I don’t value the money, since, thank God, I don’t need it, but I really want to punish that guy; I’m sure he holds a huge grudge against me for some reason, and I have no idea what it is, just like you don’t; but he’s always been trying to get back at me ever since I met him.”
Soon after tea, Miss Branghton took an opportunity to tell me, in a whisper, that the young man I saw was a lover of her sister’s, that his name was Brown, and that he was a haberdasher: with many other particulars of his circumstances and family; and then she declared her utter aversion to the thoughts of such a match; but added, that her sister had no manner of spirit or ambition, though, for her part, she would ten times rather die an old maid, than marry any person but a gentleman. “And, for that matter,” added she, “I believe Polly herself don’t care much for him, only she’s in such a hurry, because, I suppose, she’s a mind to be married before me; however, she’s very welcome; for, I’m sure, I don’t care a pin’s point whether I ever marry at all;-it’s all one to me.”
Soon after tea, Miss Branghton took a moment to whisper to me that the young man I saw was her sister's boyfriend, that his name was Brown, and that he was a haberdasher. She shared many other details about his background and family, and then expressed her complete dislike for the idea of such a match. She added that her sister lacked any spirit or ambition, but for her part, she'd rather be an old maid than marry anyone who wasn't a gentleman. "And by the way," she said, "I think Polly herself doesn’t care much for him; she’s just in a rush because she probably wants to get married before I do. But that’s fine with me; I honestly don’t care at all whether I ever marry—it doesn’t matter to me."
Some time after this, Miss Polly contrived to tell her story. She assured me, with much tittering, that her sister was in a great fright lest she should be married first. “So I make her believe that I will,” continued she; “for I dearly love to plague her a little; though, I declare, I don’t intend to have Mr. Brown in reality;-I’m sure I don’t like him half well enough,-do you, Miss?”
Some time later, Miss Polly managed to share her story. She giggled a lot while telling me that her sister was really worried about getting married before her. “So I make her think that I will,” she went on; “because I love to tease her a bit; though, honestly, I don’t plan on marrying Mr. Brown for real—I’m sure I don’t like him nearly enough—do you, Miss?”
“It is not possible for me to judge of his merits,” said I, “as I am entirely a stranger to him.”
“I can’t judge his worth,” I said, “since I don’t know him at all.”
“But what do you think of him, Miss?”
“But what do you think of him, Miss?”
“Why, really, I-I don’t know.”
“Honestly, I-I don’t know.”
“But do you think him handsome? Some people reckon him to have a good pretty person;-but I’m sure, for my part, I think he’s monstrous ugly:-don’t you, Miss?”
“But do you think he’s handsome? Some people think he has a nice-looking face—but honestly, I find him really ugly—don’t you, Miss?”
“I am no judge,-but I think his person is very-very well.”
“I’m not a judge, but I think he’s looking really good.”
“Very well! -Why, pray Miss,” in a tone of vexation, “what fault can you find with it?”
“Alright! -Tell me, Miss,” he said with annoyance, “what's wrong with it?”
“O, none at all!”
"Oh, not at all!"
“I’m sure you must be very ill-natured if you could. Now there’s Biddy says she thinks nothing of him,-but I know it’s all out of spite. You must know, Miss, it makes her as mad as can be that I should have a lover before her; but she’s so proud that nobody will court her, and I often tell her she’ll die an old maid. But the thing is, she has taken it into her head to have a liking for Mr. Smith, as lodges on the first floor; but, Lord, he’ll never have her, for he’s quite a fine gentleman; and besides, Mr. Brown heard him say one day, that he’d never marry as long as he lived, for he’d no opinion of matrimony.”
“I’m sure you must be really bad-tempered if you could be. Now, Biddy says she doesn’t care about him, but I know it’s just out of jealousy. You should know, Miss, it drives her crazy that I have a boyfriend before she does; but she’s so proud that no one wants to date her, and I often tell her she’ll end up an old maid. The thing is, she’s gotten it into her head that she likes Mr. Smith, who lives on the first floor; but honestly, he’ll never go for her because he’s quite a gentleman; plus, Mr. Brown heard him say one day that he’d never marry as long as he lived because he doesn’t believe in marriage.”
“And did you tell your sister this?”
“And did you tell your sister about this?”
“O, to be sure, I told her directly; but she did not mind me; however, if she will be a fool she must.”
"Oh, for sure, I told her straight out; but she didn’t care what I said; still, if she wants to be a fool, that's on her."
This extreme want of affection and good-nature increased the distaste I already felt for these unamiable sisters; and a confidence so entirely unsolicited and unnecessary, manifested equally their folly and their want of decency.
This complete lack of affection and kindness made me dislike these unpleasant sisters even more; their totally unrequested and pointless confidence showed both their foolishness and their lack of decency.
I was very glad when the time for our departing arrived. Mr. Branghton said our lodgings were in Holborn, that we might be near his house, and neighbourly. He accompanied us to them himself.
I was really happy when it was time for us to leave. Mr. Branghton said our place was in Holborn so we could be close to his house and friendly. He took us there himself.
Our rooms are large, and not inconvenient; our landlord is an hosier. I am sure I have a thousand reasons to rejoice that I am so little known: for my present situation is, in every respect, very unenviable; and I would not, for the world, be seen by any acquaintance of Mrs. Mirvan.
Our rooms are spacious and comfortable; our landlord is a tailor. I'm sure I have countless reasons to be glad that I'm not very well-known: my current situation is, in every way, quite undesirable; and I wouldn’t want to be seen by anyone who knows Mrs. Mirvan.
This morning, Madame Duval, attended by all the Branghtons, actually went to a Justice in the neighborhood, to report the Captain’s ill usage of her. I had great difficulty in excusing myself from being of the party, which would have given me very serious concern. Indeed, I was extremely anxious, though at home, till I heard the result of the application, for I dread to think of the uneasiness which such an affair would occasion the amiable Mrs. Mirvan. But, fortunately, Madame Duval has received very little encouragement to proceed in her design; for she has been informed, that, as she neither heard the voice, nor saw the face of the person suspected, she will find difficulty to cast him upon conjecture, and will have but little probability of gaining her cause, unless she can procure witnesses of the transaction. Mr. Branghton, therefore, who has considered all the circumstances of the affair, is of the opinion; the lawsuit will not only be expensive, but tedious and hazardous, and has advised against it. Madame Duval, though very unwillingly, has acquiesced in his decision; but vows, that if she ever is so affronted again, she will be revenged, even if she ruins herself. I am extremely glad that this ridiculous adventure seems now likely to end without more serious consequences.
This morning, Madame Duval, along with all the Branghtons, actually went to a local Justice to report how the Captain treated her. I had a tough time getting out of going with them, which would have really stressed me out. I was super anxious, even at home, until I heard what happened with the report, because I dread the thought of how much worry this would cause the lovely Mrs. Mirvan. Luckily, Madame Duval didn't get much encouragement to go through with her plan; she was told that since she neither heard the voice nor saw the face of the person she's accusing, it would be hard to pin it on anyone, and she wouldn't have much chance of winning unless she could find witnesses to the incident. Mr. Branghton, who has thought about all the aspects of the situation, believes the lawsuit would not only be costly but also long and risky, and he has advised against it. Madame Duval, though she didn't want to, has agreed with his decision; however, she swears that if anyone ever disrespects her like that again, she'll get her revenge, even if it costs her everything. I'm really relieved that this ridiculous situation seems to be coming to an end without any worse consequences.
Adieu, my dearest Sir. My direction is at Mr. Dawkin’s, a hosier in High Holborn.
Goodbye, my dearest Sir. You can find me at Mr. Dawkin's, a hosiery shop in High Holborn.
LETTER XLI - EVELINA TO MISS MIRVAN June 7th
I HAVE no words, my sweet friend, to express the thankfulness I feel for the unbounded kindness which you, your dear mother, and the much-honoured Lady Howard, have shown me; and still less can I find language to tell you with what reluctance I parted from such dear and generous friends, whose goodness reflects, at once, so much honour on their own hearts, and on her to whom it has been so liberally bestowed. But I will not repeat what I have already written to the kind Mrs. Mirvan; I will remember your admonitions, and confine to my own breast that gratitude with which you have filled it, and teach my pen to dwell upon subjects less painful to my generous correspondent.
I have no words, my dear friend, to express how grateful I am for the endless kindness that you, your lovely mother, and the esteemed Lady Howard have shown me. I also struggle to describe how hard it was for me to say goodbye to such wonderful and generous friends, whose kindness brings honor not only to themselves but also to the one who has received it so generously. But I won’t repeat what I’ve already shared with the kind Mrs. Mirvan; I will keep your advice in mind and hold onto the gratitude you've filled me with, letting my pen focus on topics that are less painful for my thoughtful correspondent.
O, Maria! London now seems no longer the same place where I lately enjoyed so much happiness; every thing is new and strange to me; even the town itself has not the same aspect.-My situation so altered!-my home so different!-my companions so changed!-But you well know my averseness to this journey.
O, Maria! London now feels completely different from the place where I recently found so much happiness; everything is new and unfamiliar to me; even the city itself looks different. My situation has changed so much! My home is so different! My friends are so altered! But you know how much I dreaded this journey.
Indeed, to me, London now seems a desert: that gay and busy appearance it so lately wore, is now succeeded by a look of gloom, fatigue, and lassitude; the air seems stagnant, the heat is intense, the dust intolerable, and the inhabitants illiterate and under-bred; At least, such is the face of things in the part of town where I at present reside.
Indeed, to me, London now feels like a desert: the cheerful and bustling vibe it had not long ago has been replaced by an atmosphere of gloom, exhaustion, and weariness; the air feels still, the heat is unbearable, the dust is overwhelming, and the people seem uneducated and uncouth; At least, that's the way things are in the area of town where I currently live.
Tell me, my dear Maria, do you never retrace in your memory the time we passed here when together? to mine it recurs for ever! And yet I think I rather recollect a dream, or some visionary fancy, than a reality.-That I should ever have been known to Lord Orville,-that I should have spoken to-have danced with him,-seems now a romantic illusion: and that elegant politeness, that flattering attention, that high-bred delicacy, which so much distinguished him above all other men, and which struck us with so much admiration, I now retrace the remembrance of rather as belonging to an object of ideal perfection, formed by my own imagination, than to a being of the same race and nature as those with whom I at present converse.
Tell me, my dear Maria, do you ever think back to the time we spent here together? It keeps coming to my mind! Yet, I feel like I remember it more as a dream or some fantasy than as reality. The fact that I was ever known to Lord Orville—that I spoke to him, danced with him—now seems like a romantic illusion. His elegant politeness, flattering attention, and refined delicacy set him apart from all other men, and the admiration it inspired in us now feels like a memory of an ideal figure created by my own imagination, rather than a real person of the same kind and nature as those I talk to now.
I have no news for you, my dear Miss Mirvan; for all that I could venture to say of Madame Duval I have already written to your sweet mother; and as to adventures, I have none to record. Situated as I now am, I heartily hope I shall not meet with any; my wish is to remain quiet and unnoticed.
I don’t have any updates for you, dear Miss Mirvan. Everything I could say about Madame Duval I’ve already written to your lovely mother, and I don’t have any adventures to share. Given my current situation, I truly hope I don’t encounter any. I just want to stay calm and out of the spotlight.
Adieu! excuse the gravity of this letter; and believe me, your most sincerely Affectionate and obliged EVELINA ANVILLE.
Goodbye! Please forgive the seriousness of this letter; and believe me, your most sincerely affectionate and grateful, EVELINA ANVILLE.
LETTER XLII - EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS Holborn, June 9.
YESTERDAY morning we received an invitation to dine and spend the day at Mr. Branghton’s; and M. Du Bois, who was also invited, called to conduct us to Snow Hill.
YESTERDAY morning we got an invitation to have dinner and spend the day at Mr. Branghton’s, and M. Du Bois, who was also invited, came by to take us to Snow Hill.
Young Branghton received us at the door; and the first words he spoke were, “Do you know, sisters a’n’t dressed yet.”
Young Branghton greeted us at the door, and the first thing he said was, “You know, sisters aren't dressed yet.”
Then, hurrying us into the house, he said to me, “Come, Miss, you shall go upstairs and catch ‘em,-I dare say they’re at the glass.”
Then, rushing us into the house, he said to me, “Come on, Miss, you should go upstairs and catch them—I bet they’re at the mirror.”
He would have taken my hand; but I declined this civility, and begged to follow Madame Duval.
He would have taken my hand, but I declined the gesture and asked to follow Madame Duval.
Mr. Branghton then appeared, and led the way himself. We went, as before, up two pairs of stairs; but the moment the father opened the door, the daughters both gave a loud scream. We all stopped; and then Miss Branghton called out, “Lord, Papa, what do you bring the company up here for? why, Polly and I a’n’t half dressed.”
Mr. Branghton then showed up and took the lead himself. We went, as before, up two flights of stairs; but as soon as the father opened the door, both daughters let out a loud scream. We all paused, and then Miss Branghton exclaimed, “Oh my goodness, Dad, why did you bring the guests up here? Polly and I aren't even half dressed!”
“More shame for you,” answered he; “here’s your aunt, and cousin, and M. Du Bois, all waiting, and ne’er a room to take them to.”
“More shame on you,” he said; “here’s your aunt, and cousin, and M. Du Bois, all waiting, and not a room to take them to.”
“Who’d have thought of their coming so soon?” cried she: “I am sure for my part I thought Miss was used to nothing but quality hours.”
“Who would have imagined they’d arrive so soon?” she exclaimed. “I really thought Miss was only accustomed to high-class times.”
“Why, I sha’n’t be ready this half-hour yet,” said Miss Polly; “can’t they stay in the shop till we’re dressed?”
“Why, I won’t be ready for another half-hour,” said Miss Polly; “can’t they just stay in the shop until we’re dressed?”
Mr. Branghton was very angry, and scolded them violently: however, we were obliged to descend, and stools were procured for us in the shop, where we found the brother, who was highly delighted, he said, that his sisters had been catched; and he thought proper to entertain me with a long account of their tediousness, and the many quarrels they all had together.
Mr. Branghton was really angry and yelled at them. However, we had to come down, and they got us stools in the shop, where we found the brother, who was really pleased that his sisters had been caught. He decided to entertain me with a long story about how annoying they were and all the fights they had among themselves.
When, at length, these ladies were equipped to their satisfaction, they made their appearance; but before any conversation was suffered to pass between them and us, they had a long and most disagreeable dialogue with their father, to whose reprimands, though so justly incurred, they replied with the utmost pertness while their brother all the time laughed aloud.
Once these ladies were finally ready to their liking, they came out; but before any conversation could happen between us, they had a long and very unpleasant argument with their father. Even though his reprimands were completely deserved, they responded with the utmost sass while their brother laughed loudly the whole time.
The moment they perceived this, they were so much provoked, that, instead of making any apologies to Madame Duval, they next began to quarrel with him. “Tom, what do you laugh for? I wonder what business you have to be always a laughing when Papa scolds us?”
The moment they saw this, they got so upset that instead of apologizing to Madame Duval, they started to argue with him. “Tom, why are you laughing? I don’t get why you always laugh when Dad is scolding us?”
“Then what business have you to be such a while getting on your clothes? You’re never ready, you know well enough.”
“Then why are you taking so long to get dressed? You know you’re never ready on time.”
“Lord, Sir, I wonder what’s that to you! I wish you’d mind your own affairs, and not trouble yourself about ours. How should a boy like you know any thing?”
“Lord, Sir, I wonder what that has to do with you! I wish you’d focus on your own business and not worry about ours. How could a kid like you know anything?”
“A boy, indeed! not such a boy, neither: I’ll warrant you’ll be glad to be as young when you come to be old maids.”
“A boy, really! Not just any boy either: I bet you’ll be happy to be as young when you become old maids.”
This sort of dialogue we were amused with till dinner was ready, when we again mounted up two pairs of stairs.
This kind of conversation entertained us until dinner was ready, when we climbed up two flights of stairs again.
In our way, Miss Polly told me that her sister had asked Mr. Smith for his room to dine in, but he had refused to lend it; “because,” she said, “one day it happened to be a little greased: however, we shall have it to drink tea in, and then, perhaps, you may see him; and I assure you he’s quite like one of the quality, and dresses as fine, and goes to balls and dances, and every thing, quite in taste; and besides, Miss, he keeps a foot-boy of his own too.”
In her own way, Miss Polly told me that her sister had asked Mr. Smith if she could use his room for dinner, but he refused to let her have it; “because,” she said, “one time it happened to be a bit greasy: however, we can use it for tea, and then, maybe, you might see him; and I promise you, he’s just like one of the upper class, dresses really well, goes to parties and dances, and everything, totally tasteful; and besides, Miss, he even has his own footman.”
The dinner was ill-served, ill-cooked, and ill-managed. The maid who waited had so often to go down stairs for something that was forgotten, that the Branghtons were perpetually obliged to rise from table themselves, to get plates, knives, and forks, bread or beer. Had they been without pretensions, all this would have seemed of no consequence; but they aimed at appearing to advantage, and even fancied they succeeded. However, the most disagreeable part of our fare was that the whole family continually disputed whose turn it was to rise, and whose to be allowed to sit still.
The dinner was poorly served, poorly cooked, and poorly managed. The maid who waited on them kept having to go downstairs for things that were forgotten, which meant the Branghtons often had to get up from the table themselves to grab plates, knives, forks, bread, or beer. If they hadn’t been so concerned about appearances, none of this would have mattered much; but they tried to look good and even thought they were succeeding. However, the worst part of the meal was that the whole family was constantly arguing about whose turn it was to get up and whose turn it was to stay seated.
When this meal was over, Madame Duval, ever eager to discourse upon her travels, entered into an argument with Mr. Branghton, and, in broken English, M. Du Bois, concerning the French nation: and Miss Polly, then addressing herself to me, said “Don’t you think, Miss, it’s very dull sitting up stairs here? we’d better go down to shop, and then we shall see the people go by.”
When the meal was finished, Madame Duval, always excited to talk about her travels, got into a debate with Mr. Branghton and, in broken English, M. Du Bois about the French nation. Then Miss Polly turned to me and said, “Don’t you think it’s really boring sitting up here? We should go downstairs to shop, and then we can see people passing by.”
“Lord, Poll,” said the brother, “you’re always wanting to be staring and gaping; and I’m sure you needn’t be so fond of showing yourself, for you’re ugly enough to frighten a horse.”
“Hey, Poll,” the brother said, “you’re always wanting to stare and gawk; and I’m sure you don’t need to be so keen on showing off, because you’re ugly enough to scare a horse.”
“Ugly, indeed! I wonder which is best, you or me. But, I tell you what, Tom, you’ve no need to give yourself such airs; for, if you do, I’ll tell Miss of-you know what-”
“Ugly, for sure! I’m curious who’s better, you or me. But, listen, Tom, you don’t need to act all high and mighty; because if you do, I’ll tell Miss about you know what—”
“Who cares if you do? you may tell what you will; I don’t mind-”
“Who cares if you do? You can say whatever you want; I don’t mind-”
“Indeed,” cried I, “I do not desire to hear any secrets.”
“Sure,” I exclaimed, “I really don’t want to hear any secrets.”
“O, but I’m resolved I’ll tell you, because Tom’s so very spiteful. You must know, Miss, t’other night-”
“O, but I’m determined I’ll tell you, because Tom’s so very mean. You should know, Miss, the other night-”
“Poll,” cried the brother, “if you tell of that, Miss shall know all about your meeting young Brown,-you know when!-So I’ll be quits with you one way or other.”
“Poll,” shouted the brother, “if you spill the beans on that, Miss will find out all about your meeting with young Brown—you know when! So I’ll settle the score with you one way or another.”
Miss Polly coloured, and again proposed our going down stairs till Mr. Smith’s room was ready for our reception.
Miss Polly blushed and suggested we go downstairs until Mr. Smith's room was ready for us.
“Aye, so we will,” said Miss Branghton; “I’ll assure you, cousin, we have some very genteel people pass by our shop sometimes. Polly and I always go and sit there when we’ve cleaned ourselves.”
“Yeah, we will,” said Miss Branghton; “I promise you, cousin, we get some really classy people walking by our shop sometimes. Polly and I always go and sit there when we’ve gotten ourselves cleaned up.”
“Yes, Miss,” cried the brother, “they do nothing else all day long, when father don’t scold them. But the best fun is, when they’ve got all their dirty things on, and all their hair about their ears, sometimes I send young Brown up stairs to them: and then there’s such a fuss!-There, they hide themselves, and run away, and squeal and squall, like any thing mad: and so then I puts the two cats into the room, and I gives them a good whipping, and so that sets them a squalling too; so there’s such a noise and such an uproar!-Lord, you can’t think, Miss, what fun it is!”
“Yes, Miss,” the brother exclaimed, “they spend all day doing nothing when dad isn’t scolding them. But the best part is when they’re all messy and their hair is everywhere. Sometimes, I send young Brown upstairs to them, and it causes such a commotion! They hide, run away, and scream like crazy. Then I put the two cats into the room, give them a good spanking, and that makes them start screeching too; it creates such a ruckus! Honestly, Miss, you wouldn’t believe how much fun it is!”
This occasioned a fresh quarrel with the sisters; at the end of which, it was at length decided that we should go to the shop.
This led to a new argument with the sisters, and in the end, it was finally decided that we would go to the shop.
In our way down stairs, Miss Branghton said aloud, “I wonder when Mr. Smith’s room will be ready.”
On our way down the stairs, Miss Branghton said, “I wonder when Mr. Smith’s room will be ready.”
“So do I,” answered Polly; “I’m sure we should not do any harm to it now.”
“So do I,” replied Polly; “I’m sure we wouldn’t hurt it now.”
This hint had not the desired effect; for we were suffered to proceed very quietly.
This hint didn't have the intended effect, because we were allowed to move forward very calmly.
As we entered the shop, I observed a young man in deep mourning leaning against the wall, with his arms folded, and his eyes fixed on the ground, apparently in profound and melancholy meditation; but the moment he perceived us, he started, and, making a passing bow, very abruptly retired. As I found he was permitted to go quite unnoticed, I could not forbear enquiring who he was.
As we walked into the shop, I noticed a young man in deep mourning leaning against the wall, arms crossed and eyes focused on the ground, seemingly lost in sad thoughts. But as soon as he saw us, he flinched, gave a quick nod, and abruptly left. Since it seemed he was allowed to go without being noticed, I couldn't help but ask who he was.
“Lord!” answered Miss Branghton, “he’s nothing but a poor Scotch poet.”
“Lord!” replied Miss Branghton, “he’s just a broke Scottish poet.”
“For my part,” said Miss Polly, “I believe he’s just starved, for I don’t find he has anything to live upon.”
“For my part,” said Miss Polly, “I think he’s just starving because I don’t see that he has anything to eat.”
“Live upon!” cried the brother; “why, he’s a poet, you know, so he may live upon learning.”
“Live on!” shouted the brother; “well, he’s a poet, you know, so he can live off his knowledge.”
“Aye, and good enough for him, too,” said Miss Branghton; “for he’s as proud as he’s poor.”
“Yeah, and that's good enough for him, too,” said Miss Branghton; “because he’s as proud as he is poor.”
“Like enough,” replied the brother; “but, for all that, you won’t find he will live without meat and drink: no, no, catch a Scotchman at that if you can! why, they only come here for what they can get.”
“Probably,” replied the brother; “but still, you won’t find that he can live without food and drink: no, no, try to catch a Scot doing that if you can! They only come here for what they can get.”
“I’m sure,” said Miss Branghton, “I wonder Papa’ll be such a fool as to let him stay in the house, for I dare say he’ll never pay for his lodging.”
“I’m sure,” said Miss Branghton, “I wonder if Papa will be foolish enough to let him stay in the house, because I doubt he’ll ever pay for his room.”
“Why, no more he would, if he could get another lodger. You know the bill has been put up this fortnight. Miss, if you should hear of a person that wants a room, I assure you it is a very good one, for all it’s up three pair of stairs.”
“Why, he wouldn’t do that anymore if he could find another tenant. You know the rent has gone up this past two weeks. Miss, if you come across someone looking for a room, I promise you it’s a really nice one, even though it’s up three flights of stairs.”
I answered, that as I had no acquaintance in London, I had not any chance of assisting them: but both my compassion and my curiosity were excited for this poor young man; and I asked them some further particulars concerning him.
I replied that since I didn't know anyone in London, I couldn't help them. However, I felt both compassion and curiosity for this poor young man, so I asked them for more details about him.
They then acquainted me, that they had only known him three months. When he first lodged with them, he agreed to board also; but had lately told them he would eat by himself, though they all believed he had hardly ever tasted a morsel of meat since he left their table. They said, that he had always appeared very low-spirited; but for the last month he had been duller than ever; and, all of a sudden, he had put himself into mourning, though they knew not for whom, nor for what; but they supposed it was only for convenience, as no person had ever been to see or enquire for him since his residence amongst them: and they were sure he was very poor, as he had not paid for his lodgings the last three weeks: and, finally, they concluded he was a poet, or else half-crazy, because they had, at different times, found scraps of poetry in his room.
They told me that they had only known him for three months. When he first moved in with them, he agreed to share meals, but lately he said he would eat by himself, even though they all thought he had hardly eaten any meat since he left their table. They mentioned that he always seemed really down, but in the last month, he had been even more depressed. Out of nowhere, he started wearing black, though they had no idea who or what he was mourning; they figured it was just for convenience since no one had come to see or check on him since he started living there. They were sure he was really poor since he hadn’t paid for his rent in the last three weeks. In the end, they thought he might be a poet or maybe a bit crazy because they found bits of poetry in his room at various times.
They then produced some unfinished verses, written on small pieces of paper, unconnected, and of a most melancholy cast. Among them was the fragment of an ode, which, at my request, they lent to me to copy; and as you may perhaps like to see it, I will write it now.
They then showed me some unfinished verses, written on small pieces of paper, unconnected, and very gloomy. Among them was a fragment of an ode, which, at my request, they let me copy; and since you might like to see it, I’ll write it out now.
O LIFE! thou lingering dream of grief, of pain, And every
ill that Nature can sustain,
Strange, mutable, and wild!
Now flattering with Hope most fair, Depressing now with
fell Despair,
The nurse of Guilt, the slave of Pride,
That, like a wayward child,
Who, to himself a foe,
Sees joy alone in what’s denied,
In what is granted, woe!
O thou poor, feeble, fleeting, pow’r, By Vice seduc’d, by
Folly woo’d, By Mis’ry, Shame, Remorse, pursu’d; And as thy
toilsome steps proceed, Seeming to Youth the fairest flow’r,
Proving to Age the rankest weed,
A gilded but a bitter pill,
Of varied, great, and complicated ill!
O LIFE! you lingering dream of grief, pain, And every
problem that Nature can handle,
Strange, changeable, and wild!
Sometimes flattering with Hope so fair, Depressing now with
terrible Despair,
The nurse of Guilt, the slave of Pride,
That, like a rebellious child,
Who, turning against himself,
Sees joy only in what’s denied,
In what is granted, sorrow!
O you poor, weak, fleeting power, Seduced by Vice, wooed by
Folly, Chased by Misery, Shame, Remorse; And as your
toilsome steps continue, Appearing to Youth as the fairest flower,
Proving to Age to be the rankest weed,
A gilded but a bitter pill,
Of varied, great, and complicated troubles!These lines are harsh, but they indicate an internal wretchedness, which I own, affects me. Surely this young man must be involved in misfortunes of no common nature but I cannot imagine what can induce him to remain with this unfeeling family, where he is, most unworthily, despised for being poor, and most illiberally detested for being a Scotchman. He may, indeed, have motives, which he cannot surmount, for submitting to such a situation. Whatever they are, I most heartily pity him, and cannot but wish it were in my power to afford him some relief.
These words are tough, but they show a deep sadness that I know affects me. This young man must be facing some serious troubles, but I can't understand why he stays with this uncaring family, where he is unfairly looked down upon for being poor and unfairly hated for being Scottish. He might have reasons that are hard for him to get past for putting up with such a situation. Whatever those reasons are, I truly feel for him and wish I could help him in some way.
During this conversation, Mr. Smith’s foot-boy came to Miss Branghton, and informed her, that his master said she might have the room now when she liked it, for that he was presently going out.
During this conversation, Mr. Smith’s footman came to Miss Branghton and told her that his master said she could use the room whenever she wanted, as he was about to leave.
This very genteel message, though it perfectly satisfied the Miss Branghtons, by no means added to my desire of being introduced to this gentleman; and upon their rising, with intention to accept his offer, I begged they would excuse my attending them, and said I would sit with Madame Duval till the tea was ready.
This polite message, while it completely pleased the Miss Branghtons, didn’t make me want to meet this gentleman any more; and as they got up to accept his offer, I asked them to excuse me from joining them and said I would stay with Madame Duval until the tea was ready.
I therefore once more went up two pair of stairs with young Branghton, who insisted upon accompanying me; and there we remained till Mr. Smith’s foot-boy summoned us to tea, when I followed Madame Duval into the dining-room.
I then went up two flights of stairs again with young Branghton, who insisted on coming with me; and we stayed there until Mr. Smith’s footman called us to tea, at which point I followed Madame Duval into the dining room.
The Miss Branghtons were seated at one window, and Mr. Smith was lolling indolently out of the other. They all approached us at our entrance; and Mr. Smith, probably to show he was master of the department, most officiously handed me to a great chair at the upper end of the room, without taking any notice of Madame Duval, till I rose and offered her my own seat.
The Miss Branghtons were sitting by one window, while Mr. Smith was lounging lazily out of the other. They all came over to us when we walked in; and Mr. Smith, likely to demonstrate that he was in charge, very eagerly showed me to a large chair at the top of the room, completely ignoring Madame Duval until I stood up and offered her my seat.
Leaving the rest of the company to entertain themselves, he very abruptly began to address himself to me, in a style of gallantry equally new and disagreeable to me. It is true, no man can possibly pay me greater compliments, or make more fine speeches, than Sir Clement Willoughby: yet his language, though too flowery, is always that of a gentleman; and his address and manners are so very superior to those of the inhabitants of this house, that, to make any comparison between him and Mr. Smith, would be extremely unjust. This latter seems very desirous of appearing a man of gaiety and spirit; but his vivacity is so low-bred, and his whole behaviour so forward and disagreeable, that I should prefer the company of dullness itself, even as that goddess is described by Pope, to that of this sprightly young man.
Leaving the rest of the group to have their fun, he suddenly turned his attention to me, using a type of flattery that was both new and uncomfortable for me. It’s true that no one can flatter me more or give prettier speeches than Sir Clement Willoughby; however, his language, while a bit over the top, is always gentlemanly. His manners and style are so much better than those of the people in this house that comparing him to Mr. Smith would be really unfair. The latter seems eager to come off as lively and spirited, but his energy is so unrefined, and his behavior is so pushy and unpleasant, that I’d rather spend time with someone completely dull, just as that goddess is depicted by Pope, than with this overly cheerful young man.
He made many apologies that he had not lent his room for our dinner, which he said, he should certainly have done, had he seen me first: and he assured me, that when I came again, he should be very glad to oblige me.
He apologized multiple times for not letting us use his room for our dinner, saying he definitely would have if he had seen me first. He promised that when I came back, he would be happy to help me out.
I told him, and with sincerity, that every part of the house was equally indifferent to me.
I told him sincerely that every part of the house meant just as little to me.
“Why, Ma’am, the truth is, Miss Biddy and Polly take no care of any thing; else, I’m sure, they should be always welcome to my room; for I’m never so happy as in obliging the ladies,-that’s my character, Ma’am:-but, really, the last time they had it, every thing was made so greasy and so nasty, that, upon my word, to a man who wishes to have things a little genteel, it was quite cruel. Now, as to you, Ma’am, it’s quite another thing, for I should not mind if every thing I had was spoilt, for the sake of having the pleasure to oblige you; and I assure you, Ma’am, it makes me quite happy that I have a room good enough to receive you.”
“Honestly, Ma’am, the truth is, Miss Biddy and Polly don’t take care of anything; otherwise, I know they’d always be welcome in my room. I’m never happier than when I can help the ladies—that's just who I am, Ma’am—but really, the last time they were here, everything was so greasy and disgusting that, for someone who likes to keep things a bit classy, it was just awful. Now, with you, Ma’am, it’s a totally different story, because I wouldn’t mind if everything I had got ruined just for the chance to please you. I assure you, Ma’am, it genuinely makes me happy to have a room good enough to welcome you.”
This elegant speech was followed by many others so much in the same style, that to write them would be superfluous; and as he did not allow me a moment to speak to any other person, the rest of the evening was consumed in a painful attention to this irksome young man, who seemed to intend appearing before me to the utmost advantage.
This fancy speech was followed by many others in the same style, making it unnecessary to write them down; and since he didn’t give me a moment to talk to anyone else, the rest of the evening was spent in a frustrating focus on this annoying young man, who seemed determined to show himself off to the best possible advantage.
Adieu, my dear Sir. I fear you will be sick of reading about this family; yet I must write of them, or not of any, since I mix with no other. Happy I shall be when I quit them all, and again return to Berry Hill.
Goodbye, my dear Sir. I worry you’ll get tired of reading about this family; yet I have to write about them, or not at all, since I don’t interact with anyone else. I’ll be so happy when I leave them all behind and go back to Berry Hill.
LETTER XLIII - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION
June 10th THIS morning Mr. Smith called, on purpose, he said, to offer me a ticket for the next Hampstead assembly. I thanked him, but desired to be excused accepting it: he would not, however, be denied, nor answered; and, in a manner both vehement and free, pressed and urged his offer, till I was wearied to death: but, when he found me resolute, he seemed thunderstruck with amazement, and thought proper to desire I would tell him my reasons.
June 10th THIS morning Mr. Smith called, saying he wanted to offer me a ticket to the next Hampstead assembly. I thanked him but asked to be excused from accepting it. However, he wouldn't take no for an answer, and in a very forceful and direct way, he kept pushing his offer until I was completely exhausted. But when he saw I was firm in my decision, he looked shocked and asked me to explain my reasons.
Obvious as they must surely have been to any other person, they were such as I knew not how to repeat to him; and, when he found I hesitated, he said, “Indeed, Ma’am, you are too modest; I assure you the ticket is quite at your service, and I shall be very happy to dance with you; so pray don’t be so coy.”
Obvious as they must have been to anyone else, they were things I didn't know how to relay to him; and when he noticed my hesitation, he said, “Honestly, Ma’am, you’re being too modest; I promise the ticket is completely at your disposal, and I’d be very happy to dance with you, so please don’t be so shy.”
“Indeed, Sir,” returned I, “you are mistaken; I never supposed you would offer a ticket without wishing it should be accepted; but it would answer no purpose to mention the reasons which make me decline it, since they cannot possibly be removed.”
“Of course, Sir,” I replied, “you’re mistaken; I never thought you would give a ticket without wanting it to be accepted. But it wouldn’t make sense to explain the reasons why I’m declining it, since they can’t be changed.”
This speech seemed very much to mortify him; which I could not be concerned at, as I did not choose to be treated by him with so much freedom. When he was, at last, convinced that his application to me was ineffectual, he addressed himself to Madame Duval, and begged she would interfere in his favour; offering at the same time to procure another ticket for herself.
This speech seemed to embarrass him a lot, which I couldn't care less about since I didn't want him to treat me with such familiarity. When he finally realized that his attempts to reach me were useless, he turned to Madame Duval and asked her to help him out, while also offering to get another ticket for herself.
“Ma foi, Sir,” answered she, angrily, “you might as well have had the complaisance to ask me before; for, I assure you, I don’t approve of no such rudeness: however, you may keep your tickets to yourself, for we don’t want none of ‘em.”
“Honestly, Sir,” she replied angrily, “you might as well have had the courtesy to ask me earlier; because I assure you, I don’t approve of that kind of rudeness. However, you can keep your tickets to yourself, because we don’t want any of them.”
This rebuke almost overset him; he made many apologies, and said that he should certainly have first applied to her, but that he had no notion the young lady would have refused him, and, on the contrary, had concluded that she would have assisted him to persuade Madame Duval herself.
This criticism nearly knocked him off balance; he apologized repeatedly, saying that he definitely would have talked to her first, but he had no idea the young woman would say no. On the contrary, he thought she would help him convince Madame Duval herself.
This excuse appeased her; and he pleaded his cause so successfully, that, to my great chagrin, he gained it, and Madame Duval promised that she would go herself, and take me to the Hampstead assembly whenever he pleased.
This excuse satisfied her, and he argued his case so well that, to my great disappointment, he won it, and Madame Duval promised she would personally take me to the Hampstead assembly whenever he wanted.
Mr. Smith then, approaching me with an air of triumph, said, “Well, Ma’am, now I think you can’t possibly keep to your denial.”
Mr. Smith then approached me with a sense of victory and said, “Well, Ma’am, I think it’s impossible for you to stick with your denial now.”
I made no answer; and he soon took leave, tho’ not till he had so wonderfully gained the favour of Madame Duval, that she declared, when he was gone, he was the prettiest young man she had seen since she came to England.
I didn’t respond; and he quickly said goodbye, but not before he had so impressively won over Madame Duval that she declared, after he left, that he was the most handsome young man she had seen since arriving in England.
As soon as I could find an opportunity, I ventured, in the most humble manner, to intreat Madame Duval would not insist upon my attending her to this ball; and represented to her, as well as I was able, the impropriety of my accepting any present from a man so entirely unknown to me: but she laughed at my scruples; called me a foolish, ignorant country-girl; and said she should make it her business to teach me something of the world.
As soon as I found a chance, I politely asked Madame Duval not to insist on my going to this ball with her. I tried to explain, as best as I could, how inappropriate it would be for me to accept a gift from someone I didn’t know at all. But she just laughed at my concerns, called me a silly, naive country girl, and said she would make it her mission to teach me about the world.
This ball is to be next week. I am sure it is not more improper for, than unpleasant to me, and I will use every possible endeavour to avoid it. Perhaps I may apply to Miss Branghton for advice, as I believe she will be willing to assist me, from disliking, equally with myself, that I should dance with Mr. Smith.
This ball is happening next week. I’m sure it's not more inappropriate than it is uncomfortable for me, and I will do everything I can to avoid it. I might ask Miss Branghton for advice, since I think she will be willing to help me, as she also dislikes the idea of me dancing with Mr. Smith.
June 11th
June 11
O, my dear Sir! I have been shocked to death; and yet at the same time delighted beyond expression, in the hope that I have happily been the instrument of saving a human creature from destruction.
Oh, my dear Sir! I’ve been utterly shocked; and yet at the same time, I’m beyond delighted, hoping that I have successfully helped save a human being from destruction.
This morning Madame Duval said she would invite the Branghton family to return our visit to-morrow; and, not choosing to rise herself,-for she generally spends the morning in bed,-she desired me to wait upon them with her message. M. Du Bois, who just then called, insisted upon attending me.
This morning, Madame Duval said she would invite the Branghton family to come back and visit us tomorrow; and since she usually stays in bed during the morning, she asked me to deliver her message. M. Du Bois, who happened to drop by, insisted on accompanying me.
Mr. Branghton was in the shop, and told us that his son and daughter were out; but desired me to step up stairs, as he very soon expected them home. This I did, leaving M. Du Bois below. I went into the room where we had dined the day before; and, by a wonderful chance, I happened to seat myself, that I had a view of the stairs, and yet could not be seen from them.
Mr. Branghton was in the shop and told us that his son and daughter were out, but asked me to go upstairs since he expected them back home soon. I did that, leaving M. Du Bois downstairs. I entered the room where we had dined the day before, and by a stroke of luck, I sat in a spot where I could see the stairs but couldn't be seen from them.
In about ten minutes time, I saw, passing by the door, with a look perturbed and affrighted, the same young man I mentioned in my last letter. Not heeding, as I suppose, how he went, in turning the corner of the stairs, which are narrow and winding, his foot slipped and he fell; but almost instantly rising, I plainly perceived the end of a pistol, which started from his pocket by hitting against the stairs.
In about ten minutes, I saw the same young man I mentioned in my last letter passing by the door, looking distressed and scared. Not paying attention, I guess, to how he was moving, he turned the corner of the narrow, winding stairs, slipped, and fell. But almost immediately, he got back up, and I clearly noticed the end of a pistol that had come out of his pocket when it hit against the stairs.
I was inexpressibly shocked. All that I had heard of his misery occurring to my memory, made me conclude that he was, at that very moment, meditating suicide! Struck with the dreadful idea, all my strength seemed to fail me. He moved on slowly, yet I soon lost sight of him; I sat motionless with terror; all power of action forsook me; and I grew almost stiff with horror; till recollecting that it was yet possible to prevent the fatal deed, all my faculties seemed to return, with the hope of saving him.
I was incredibly shocked. Everything I'd heard about his suffering came flooding back to me, making me think he might be contemplating suicide at that very moment! Overwhelmed by the terrifying thought, I felt all my strength leaving me. He walked away slowly, but I quickly lost sight of him; I sat frozen in fear, completely paralyzed, almost too scared to move; then, remembering that I might still be able to stop him from doing something terrible, all my energy seemed to come back, filled with the hope of saving him.
My first thought was to fly to Mr. Branghton; but I feared, that an instant of time lost might for ever be rued; and, therefore, guided by the impulse of my apprehensions, as well as I was able I followed him up stairs, stepping very softly, and obliged to support myself by the banisters.
My first instinct was to rush to Mr. Branghton, but I worried that even a moment of delay could be regretted forever. So, driven by my fears, I followed him upstairs as quietly as I could, needing to steady myself on the banisters.
When I came within a few stairs of the landing-place I stopped; for I could then see into his room, as he had not yet shut the door.
When I was a few steps away from the landing, I stopped; I could see into his room since he hadn't closed the door yet.
He had put the pistol upon a table, and had his hand in his pocket, whence, in a few moments, he took out another: he then emptied something on the table from a small leather bag; after which, taking up both the pistols, one in each hand, he dropt hastily upon his knees, and called out, “O, God!-forgive me!”
He had placed the pistol on the table and had his hand in his pocket, from where, after a few moments, he pulled out another one. He then poured something from a small leather bag onto the table; after that, picking up both pistols, one in each hand, he quickly dropped to his knees and shouted, “O, God—please forgive me!”
In a moment strength and courage seemed lent to me as by inspiration: I started, and rushing precipitately into the room, just caught his arm, and then, overcome by my own fears, I fell down at his side breathless and senseless. My recovery, however, was, I believe, almost instantaneous; and then the sight of this unhappy man, regarding me with a look of unutterable astonishment, mixed with concern, presently restored to me my recollection. I arose, though with difficulty; he did the same; the pistols, as I soon saw, were both on the floor.
In that moment, I felt a surge of strength and courage, as if inspired. I rushed into the room, grabbed his arm, and then, overwhelmed by my own fears, collapsed next to him, breathless and unconscious. However, my recovery was almost immediate, and seeing this unfortunate man looking at me with a mix of shock and concern brought my senses back. I got up, though it was tough; he did the same. I quickly noticed that both pistols were lying on the floor.
Unwilling to leave them, and, indeed, too weak to move, I leant one hand on the table, and then stood perfectly still; while he, his eyes cast wildly towards me, seemed too infinitely amazed to be capable of either speech or action.
Unwilling to leave them and honestly too weak to move, I rested one hand on the table and stood completely still. He, with his eyes wide and looking at me, seemed so shocked that he couldn't speak or act.
I believe we were some minutes in this extraordinary situation; but, as my strength returned, I felt myself both ashamed and awkward, and moved towards the door. Pale and motionless, he suffered me to pass, without changing his posture, or uttering a syllable; and, indeed,
I think we were in this strange situation for a few minutes; but as I started to feel stronger, I became both embarrassed and uncomfortable, and I made my way to the door. He stood there pale and still, letting me pass without changing his position or saying a word; and, in fact,
He look’d a bloodless image of despair.-POPE.
He looked like a lifeless picture of despair.-POPE.
When I reached the door, I turned round; I looked fearfully at the pistols, and, impelled by an emotion I could not repress, I hastily stepped back, with an intention of carrying them away: but their wretched owner, perceiving my design, and recovering from his astonishment, darting suddenly down, seized them both himself.
When I got to the door, I turned around; I looked anxiously at the pistols, and, driven by an emotion I couldn't control, I quickly stepped back, planning to take them away: but their unfortunate owner, realizing my intention and snapping out of his shock, suddenly rushed down and grabbed both of them himself.
Wild with fright, and scarce knowing what I did, I caught, almost involuntarily, hold of both his arms, and exclaimed, “O, Sir! have mercy on yourself!”
Wild with fear, and barely aware of my actions, I almost uncontrollably grabbed both his arms and exclaimed, “Oh, Sir! Please have mercy on yourself!”
The guilty pistols fell from his hands, which, disengaging from me, he fervently clasped, and cried, “Sweet Heaven! is this thy angel?”
The guilty pistols dropped from his hands, which, pulling away from me, he intensely held together and exclaimed, “Sweet Heaven! Is this your angel?”
Encouraged by such gentleness, I again attempted to take the pistols; but, with a look half frantic, he again prevented me, saying “What would you do?”
Encouraged by such kindness, I tried to take the pistols again; but, with a look that was almost frantic, he stopped me once more, asking, “What are you planning to do?”
“Awaken you,” I cried, with a courage I now wonder at, “to worthier thoughts, and rescue you from perdition.”
“Wake up,” I shouted, with a bravery I now question, “to better thoughts, and save you from destruction.”
I then seized the pistols; he said not a word,-he made no effort to stop me;-I glided quick by him, and tottered down stairs ere he had recovered from the extremest amazement.
I then grabbed the pistols; he didn’t say a word—he didn’t try to stop me—I quickly glided past him and stumbled downstairs before he had a chance to recover from his shock.
The moment I reached again the room I had so fearfully left, I threw away the pistols, and flinging myself on the first chair, gave free vent to the feelings I had most painfully stifled, in a violent burst of tears, which, indeed, proved a happy relief to me.
The moment I got back to the room I had left in such fear, I tossed the pistols aside and collapsed onto the nearest chair, letting all the feelings I had been holding back spill out in a violent burst of tears, which definitely felt like a welcome relief to me.
In this situation I remained some time; but when, at length, I lifted up my head, the first object I saw was the poor man who had occasioned my terror, standing, as if petrified, at the door, and gazing at me with eyes of wild wonder.
In this situation, I stayed for a while; but when I finally lifted my head, the first thing I saw was the poor man who had caused my fear, standing there like a statue at the door, staring at me with eyes full of wild amazement.
I started from the chair; but trembled so excessively, that I almost instantly sunk again into it. He then, though without advancing, and, in a faultering voice, said, “Whoever, or whatever you are, relieve me, I pray you, from the suspense under which my soul labours-and tell me if indeed I do not dream?”
I got up from the chair, but I was trembling so much that I almost immediately sank back into it. He then, without moving closer, said in a shaky voice, “Whoever or whatever you are, please relieve me from this suspense that my soul is burdened with—and tell me if I’m actually dreaming?”
To this address, so singular, and so solemn, I had not then the presence of mind to frame any answer; but as I presently perceived that his eyes turned from me to the pistols, and that he seemed to intend regaining them, I exerted all my strength, and saying, “O, for Heaven’s sake forbear!” I rose and took them myself.
To this unique and serious address, I didn't have the clarity to respond at that moment; however, when I noticed his eyes shifting from me to the pistols and realized he meant to grab them, I summoned all my strength and said, “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, please stop!” I stood up and took them myself.
“Do my sense deceive me!” cried he, “do I live-? And do you?”
“Am I seeing things?!” he exclaimed. “Am I even alive? And are you?”
As he spoke he advanced towards me; and I, still guarding the pistols, retreated, saying, “No, no-you must not-must not have them!”
As he talked, he moved closer to me; and I, still holding the pistols, stepped back, saying, “No, no—you can't—you can't have them!”
“Why-for what purpose, tell me!-do you withhold them?"-
“Why—what's the reason, tell me!—are you keeping them from me?”
“To give you time to think,-to save you from eternal misery; -and, I hope, to reserve you for mercy and forgiveness.”
“To give you time to think, to save you from eternal misery; and, I hope, to set you up for mercy and forgiveness.”
“Wonderful!” cried he, with uplifted hands and eyes, “most wonderful!”
“Awesome!” he exclaimed, raising his hands and eyes, “so awesome!”
For some time he seemed wrapped in deep thought, till a sudden noise of tongues below announcing the approach of the Branghtons, made him start from his reverie: he sprung hastily forward, -dropt on one knee,-caught hold of my gown, which he pressed to his lips; and then, quick as lightning, he rose, and flew up stairs to his own room.
For a while, he appeared lost in thought until a sudden noise of voices below, signaling the arrival of the Branghtons, jolted him from his daydream. He quickly moved forward, dropped to one knee, grabbed my gown, pressed it to his lips, and then, as fast as lightning, he got up and rushed upstairs to his own room.
There was something in the whole of this extraordinary and shocking adventure, really too affecting to be borne; and so entirely had I spent my spirits, and exhausted my courage, that before the Branghtons reached me, I had sunk on the ground without sense or motion.
There was something about this incredible and shocking adventure that was just too overwhelming to handle; I had drained my energy and used up all my courage, and by the time the Branghtons got to me, I had collapsed on the ground, completely unconscious.
I believe I must have been a very horrid sight to them on their entrance into the room; for to all appearance, I seemed to have suffered a violent death, either by my own rashness, or the cruelty of some murderer, as the pistols had fallen close by my side.
I think I must have looked pretty terrible to them when they walked into the room; I appeared to have died a violent death, either because of my own recklessness or at the hands of some killer, since the guns were lying right next to me.
How soon I recovered I know not; but, probably I was more indebted to the loudness of their cries than to their assistance; for they all concluded that I was dead, and, for some time, did not make any effort to revive me.
How soon I recovered, I’m not sure; but it was likely more due to their loud cries than their help, as they all thought I was dead and didn’t try to revive me for a while.
Scarcely could I recollect where, or indeed what, I was, ere they poured upon me such a torrent of questions and enquiries, that I was almost stunned by their vociferation. However, as soon, and as well as I was able, I endeavoured to satisfy their curiosity, by recounting what had happened as clearly as was in my power. They all looked aghast at the recital; but, not being well enough to enter into any discussions, I begged to have a chair called, and to return instantly home.
I could barely remember where I was or what was happening when they bombarded me with so many questions that I felt overwhelmed by their noise. As soon as I could, I tried to satisfy their curiosity by explaining what had happened as clearly as I could. They all looked shocked at my story, but since I wasn't feeling well enough to discuss it further, I asked for a chair to be brought and requested to go home immediately.
Before I left them, I recommended, with great earnestness, a vigilant observance of their unhappy lodger; and that they would take care to keep from him, if possible, all means of self-destruction.
Before I left them, I earnestly recommended that they closely watch their troubled tenant and do their best to keep anything that could be used for self-harm away from him.
M. Du Bois, who seemed extremely concerned at my indisposition, walked by the side of the chair, and saw me safe to my own apartment.
M. Du Bois, who looked very worried about my illness, walked next to my chair and made sure I got back to my room safely.
The rashness and the misery of this ill-fated young man engross all my thoughts. If indeed, he is bent upon destroying himself, all efforts to save him will be fruitless. How much do I wish it were in my power to discover the nature of the malady which thus maddens him and to offer or to procure alleviation to his sufferings! I am sure, my dearest Sir, you will be much concerned for this poor man; and, were you here, I doubt not but you would find some method of awakening him from the error which blinds him, and of pouring the balm of peace and comfort into his afflicted soul.
The recklessness and the pain of this unfortunate young man occupy all my thoughts. If he really is determined to harm himself, then any attempts to save him will be pointless. How much I wish I could understand the nature of the condition that drives him to this madness and find a way to relieve his suffering! I’m sure, my dear Sir, you will be very concerned for this poor man; and if you were here, I have no doubt you would find a way to shake him out of the delusion that blinds him and bring peace and comfort to his troubled soul.
LETTER XLIV - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION Holborn, June 13th.
YESTERDAY all the Branghtons dined here. Our conversation was almost wholly concerning the adventure of the day before. Mr. Branghton said, that his first thought was instantly to turn his lodger out of doors, “Lest,” continued he, “his killing himself in my house should bring me into any trouble: but then I was afraid I should never get the money that he owes me; whereas, if he dies in my house, I have a right to all he leaves behind him, if he goes off in my debt. Indeed, I would put him in prison,-but what should I get by that? he could not earn anything there to pay me: so I considered about it some time, and then I determined to ask him, point-blank, for my money out of hand. And so I did; but he told me he’d pay me next week: however, I gave him to understand, that though I was no Scotchman, yet, I did not like to be over-reached any more than he: so he then gave me a ring, which, to my certain knowledge, must be worth ten guineas, and told me he would not part with it for his life, and a good deal more such sort of stuff, but that I might keep it until he could pay me.”
YESTERDAY all the Branghtons had dinner here. Our conversation was mostly about what happened the day before. Mr. Branghton said that his first thought was to kick his lodger out, “Just in case,” he continued, “his killing himself in my house might get me into some trouble. But then I worried I wouldn’t get the money he owes me; if he dies in my place, I’m entitled to everything he leaves behind if he dies in my debt. Honestly, I would put him in jail—but what would I gain from that? He couldn't earn anything in there to pay me back. So I thought about it for a while and then I decided to ask him directly for my money. And I did; but he told me he’d pay me next week. Still, I made it clear that even though I’m not Scottish, I don’t like being taken advantage of any more than he does. Then he gave me a ring, which I know is worth at least ten guineas, and told me he wouldn’t part with it for anything, and a lot more talk like that, but that I could keep it until he could pay me back.”
“It is ten to one, father,” said young Branghton, “if he came fairly by it.”
“It’s ten to one, Dad,” said young Branghton, “that he got it honestly.”
“Very likely not,” answered he; “but that will make no great difference, for I shall be able to prove my right to it all one.”
“Probably not,” he replied; “but that won't make much difference, because I'll be able to prove that it's all mine eventually.”
What principles! I could hardly stay in the room.
What principles! I could barely stay in the room.
“I’m determined,” said the son, “I’ll take some opportunity to affront him soon, now I know how poor he is, because of the airs he gave himself when he first came.”
“I’m determined,” said the son, “I’ll find a chance to confront him soon, now that I know how broke he is, because of the attitude he had when he first arrived.”
“And pray how was that, child?” said Madame Duval.
“And how was that, kid?” asked Madame Duval.
“Why, you never knew such a fuss in your life as he made, because one day at dinner I only happened to say, that I supposed he had never got such a good meal in his life before he came to England: there, he fell in such a passion as you can’t think: but for my part, I took no notice of it: for to be sure, thinks I, he must needs be a gentleman, or he’d never go to be so angry about it. However, he won’t put his tricks upon me again in a hurry.”
“Honestly, you’ve never seen someone make such a big deal over anything as he did when I casually mentioned at dinner that I figured he’d never had such a great meal in his life before coming to England. He got so upset, it was unbelievable. But I just brushed it off because I figured he must be a gentleman; otherwise, he wouldn’t have gotten so angry about it. Still, he won’t pull that nonsense on me again anytime soon.”
“Well,” said Miss Polly, “he’s grown quite another creature to what he was, and he doesn’t run away from us, nor hide himself, nor any thing; and he’s as civil as can be, and he’s always in the shop, and he saunters about the stairs, and he looks at every body as comes in.”
“Well,” said Miss Polly, “he's completely changed from how he used to be. He doesn't run away from us or hide anymore, and he's super polite. He's always in the shop, wandering around the stairs, and he looks at everyone who comes in.”
“Why, you may see what he’s after plain enough,” said Mr. Branghton; “he wants to see Miss again.”
“Look, you can clearly see what he’s after,” said Mr. Branghton; “he wants to see Miss again.”
“Ha, ha, ha! Lord, how I should laugh,” said the son, “if he should have fell in love with Miss!”
“Ha, ha, ha! Oh my, how I would laugh,” said the son, “if he actually fell in love with her!”
“I’m sure,” said Miss Branghton, “Miss is welcome; but, for my part, I should be quite ashamed of such a beggarly conquest.”
“I’m sure,” said Miss Branghton, “she's welcome; but honestly, I would feel pretty embarrassed about such a pathetic victory.”
Such was the conversation till tea-time, when the appearance of Mr. Smith gave a new turn to the discourse.
Such was the conversation until tea-time, when Mr. Smith showed up and changed the direction of the discussion.
Miss Branghton desired me to remark with what a smart air he entered the room, and asked me if he had not very much a quality look?
Miss Branghton wanted me to notice how stylishly he entered the room and asked me if he didn't have a rather distinguished appearance.
“Come,” cried he, advancing to us, “you ladies must not sit together; wherever I go I always make it a rule to part the ladies.”
“Come on,” he called, moving toward us, “you ladies shouldn’t sit together; wherever I go, I always make it a rule to separate the ladies.”
And then, handing Miss Branghton to the next chair, he seated himself between us.
And then, after leading Miss Branghton to the next chair, he sat down between us.
“Well, now, ladies, I think we sit very well. What say you? for my part I think it was a very good motion.”
"Well, now, ladies, I think we’re in a great position. What do you say? Personally, I believe it was a really good suggestion."
“If my cousin likes it,” said Miss Branghton, “I’m sure I’ve no objection.”
“If my cousin likes it,” said Miss Branghton, “I’m sure I don’t mind.”
“O,” cried he, “I always study what the ladies like,-that’s my first thought. And, indeed, it is but natural that you should like best to sit by the gentlemen, for what can you find to say to one another?”
“Oh,” he exclaimed, “I always pay attention to what the ladies enjoy—that’s my first thought. And honestly, it’s only natural that you’d prefer to sit with the gentlemen, because what could you possibly talk about with each other?”
“Say!” cried young Branghton; “O, never you think of that, they’ll find enough to say, I’ll be sworn. You know the women are never tired of talking.”
“Say!” shouted young Branghton; “Oh, don’t even think about it, they’ll have plenty to say, I swear. You know women never get tired of talking.”
“Come, come, Tom,” said Mr. Smith, “don’t be severe upon the ladies; when I’m by, you know I always take their part.”
“Come on, Tom,” said Mr. Smith, “don't be hard on the ladies; you know I always stand up for them when I'm around.”
Soon after, when Miss Branghton offered me some cake, this man of gallantry said, “Well, if I was that lady, I’d never take any thing from a woman.”
Soon after, when Miss Branghton offered me some cake, this chivalrous guy said, “Well, if I were that lady, I’d never accept anything from a woman.”
“Why not, Sir?”
"Why not, Sir?"
“Because I should be afraid of being poisoned for being so handsome.”
“Because I should be worried about being poisoned for being so good-looking.”
“Who is severe upon the ladies now?” said I.
“Who is being harsh with the ladies now?” I asked.
“Why, really, Ma’am, it was a slip of the tongue; I did not intend to say such a thing; but one can’t always be on one’s guard.”
“Honestly, Ma’am, it was just a slip of the tongue; I didn’t mean to say that; but you can’t always be on your guard.”
Soon after, the conversation turning upon public places, young Branghton asked if I had ever been to George’s at Hampstead?
Soon after, as the conversation shifted to public places, young Branghton asked if I had ever been to George’s at Hampstead?
“Indeed, I never heard the place mentioned.”
“Honestly, I’ve never heard anyone mention that place.”
“Didn’t you, Miss,” cried he eagerly; “why, then you’ve a deal of fun to come, I’ll promise you; and, I tell you what, I’ll treat you there some Sunday, soon. So now, Bid and Poll, be sure you don’t tell Miss about the chairs, and all that, for I’ve a mind to surprise her; and if I pay, I think I’ve a right to have it my own way.”
“Didn’t you, Miss?” he exclaimed eagerly. “Then you have a lot of fun ahead, I promise you. And you know what? I’ll take you there one Sunday soon. So now, Bid and Poll, make sure you don’t mention anything to Miss about the chairs and all that, because I want to surprise her. If I’m paying, I think I should get to do things my way.”
“George’s at Hampstead!” repeated Mr. Smith contemptuously; “how came you to think the young lady would like to go to such a low place as that! But, pray, Ma’am, have you ever been to Don Saltero’s at Chelsea?”
“George’s at Hampstead!” Mr. Smith said dismissively. “What made you think the young lady would want to go to such a low place? But, I must ask, Ma’am, have you ever been to Don Saltero’s at Chelsea?”
“No, Sir.”
“No, sir.”
“No!-nay, then I must insist on having the pleasure of conducting you there before long. I assure you, Ma’am, many genteel people go, or else, I give you my word, I should not recommend it.”
“No! Then I must insist on taking you there soon. I promise you, Ma’am, many respectable people go, or else I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Pray, cousin,” said Mr. Branghton, “have you been at Sadler’s Wells yet?”
“Please, cousin,” said Mr. Branghton, “have you been to Sadler’s Wells yet?”
“No, Sir.”
“No, sir.”
“No! why, then you’ve seen nothing!”
“No! Then you haven't seen anything!”
“Pray, Miss,” said the son, “how do you like the Tower of London?”
“Please, Miss,” said the son, “what do you think of the Tower of London?”
“I have never been to it, Sir.”
"I've never been there, sir."
“Goodness!” exclaimed he, “not seen the Tower!-why, may be, you ha’n’t been o’ top of the Monument, neither?”
“Goodness!” he exclaimed, “haven't you seen the Tower? Well, maybe you haven't been to the top of the Monument either?”
“No, indeed, I have not.”
“No, I haven't.”
“Why, then, you might as well not have come to London for aught I see, for you’ve been no where.”
“Why, then, you might as well not have come to London at all, because you haven’t been anywhere.”
“Pray, Miss,” said Polly, “have you been all over Paul’s Church yet?”
“Excuse me, Miss,” said Polly, “have you visited all of Paul’s Church yet?”
“No, Ma’am.”
“No, ma'am.”
“Well, but, Ma’am,” said Mr. Smith, “how do you like Vauxhall and Marybone?”
“Well, Ma’am,” Mr. Smith said, “how do you like Vauxhall and Marybone?”
“I never saw either, Sir.”
"I never saw either, Sir."
“No-God bless me!-you really surprise me,-why Vauxhall is the first pleasure in life!-I know nothing like it.-Well, Ma’am, you must have been with strange people, indeed, not to have taken you to Vauxhall. Why you have seen nothing of London yet. However, we must try if we can’t make you amends.”
“No—God bless me! You really surprise me—Vauxhall is the ultimate pleasure in life! I haven't experienced anything like it. Well, ma'am, you must have been with some unusual people not to have taken you to Vauxhall. You haven’t seen anything of London yet. However, we’ll see if we can make it up to you.”
In the course of this catechism, many other places were mentioned, of which I have forgotten the names; but the looks of surprise and contempt that my repeated negatives incurred were very diverting.
During this catechism, many other places were mentioned, but I've forgotten the names; however, the looks of surprise and disdain I got from my constant "no" responses were quite entertaining.
“Come,” said Mr. Smith, after tea, “as this lady has been with such a queer set of people, let’s show her the difference; suppose we go somewhere to-night!-I love to do things with spirit!-Come, ladies, where shall we go? For my part I should like Foote’s-but the ladies must choose; I never speak myself.”
“Come on,” said Mr. Smith after tea, “since this lady has been around such a strange group of people, let’s show her the difference; how about we go out somewhere tonight? I love to do things with energy! Come on, ladies, where should we go? Personally, I’d like to hit Foote’s, but the ladies should pick; I never say anything myself.”
“Well, Mr. Smith is always in such spirits!” said Miss Branghton.
“Well, Mr. Smith is always in such a good mood!” said Miss Branghton.
“Why, yes, Ma’am, yes, thank God, pretty good spirits;-I have not yet the cares of the world upon me;-I am not married,-ha, ha, ha!-you’ll excuse me, ladies,-but I can’t help laughing!”
“Why, yes, ma’am, yes, thank God, I'm feeling pretty good; I don’t have the worries of the world on my shoulders; I’m not married—ha, ha, ha! You'll forgive me, ladies, but I can’t help laughing!”
No objection being made, to my great relief we all proceeded to the little theatre in the Haymarket, where I was extremely entertained by the performance of the Minor and the Commissary.
No one objected, so to my great relief, we all went to the little theater in the Haymarket, where I was really entertained by the performance of the Minor and the Commissary.
They all returned hither to supper.
They all came back here for dinner.
LETTER XLV - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION June 15th.
YESTERDAY morning Madame Duval again sent me to Mr. Branghton’s, attended by M. Du Bois, to make some party for the evening, because she had had the vapours the preceding day from staying at home.
YESTERDAY morning, Madame Duval once again sent me to Mr. Branghton’s, accompanied by M. Du Bois, to arrange a gathering for the evening since she had been feeling down the day before from being cooped up at home.
As I entered the shop, I perceived the unfortunate North Briton seated in a corner, with a book in his hand. He cast his melancholy eyes up as we came in; and, I believe, immediately recollected my face-for he started, and changed colour. I delivered Madame Duval’s message to Mr. Branghton, who told me I should find Polly up stairs, but that the others were gone out.
As I walked into the shop, I noticed the unfortunate North Brit sitting in a corner, holding a book. He looked up with a sad expression as we entered, and I think he recognized my face right away—he jumped a bit and turned pale. I relayed Madame Duval’s message to Mr. Branghton, who told me I would find Polly upstairs, but that the others had gone out.
Up stairs, therefore, I went; and, seated on a window, with Mr. Brown at her side, sat Miss Polly. I felt a little awkward at disturbing them, and much more so at their behaviour afterwards; for, as soon as the common enquiries were over, Mr. Brown grew so fond and so foolish, that I was extremely disgusted. Polly, all the time, only rebuked him with, “La, now, Mr. Brown, do be quiet, can’t you?-you should not behave so before company.-Why, now, what will Miss think of me?"-While her looks plainly showed not merely the pleasure, but the pride which she took in his caresses.
Upstairs, I went; and sitting by the window, with Mr. Brown beside her, was Miss Polly. I felt a bit awkward about interrupting them, and even more so at how they acted afterward; because, as soon as the usual greetings were done, Mr. Brown became so affectionate and silly that it really annoyed me. Polly, the whole time, just scolded him with, “Oh, Mr. Brown, can you please be quiet? You shouldn’t act like that in front of company. What will Miss think of me?"—while her expression clearly showed not just her enjoyment but also her pride in his attention.
I did not by any means think it necessary to punish myself by witnessing their tenderness; and therefore telling them I would see if Miss Branghton were returned home, I soon left them, and against descended into the shop.
I definitely didn’t feel the need to torture myself by watching their affection, so I told them I would check if Miss Branghton was back home, and I quickly left them and went downstairs into the shop.
“So, Miss, you’ve come again,” said Mr. Branghton; “what, I suppose you’ve a mind to sit a little in the shop, and see how the world goes, hey, Miss?”
“So, Miss, you’re back again,” said Mr. Branghton; “what, I guess you want to hang out in the shop a bit, and see what’s happening in the world, huh, Miss?”
I made no answer; and M. Du Bois instantly brought me a chair.
I didn't respond, and M. Du Bois immediately brought me a chair.
The unhappy stranger, who had risen at my entrance, again seated himself; and though his head leant towards his book, I could not help observing, his eyes were most intently and earnestly turned towards me.
The unhappy stranger, who had stood up when I walked in, sat down again; and even though his head was tilted toward his book, I couldn't help but notice that his eyes were focused intently and earnestly on me.
M. Du Bois, as well as his broken English would allow him, endeavoured to entertain us till the return of Miss Branghton and her brother.
M. Du Bois, as much as his broken English would permit, tried to keep us entertained until Miss Branghton and her brother got back.
“Lord, how tired I am!” cried the former; “I have not a foot to stand upon.” And, then, without any ceremony, she flung herself into the chair from which I had risen to receive her.
“Lord, I'm so tired!” exclaimed the former; “I can't even stand.” Then, without any hesitation, she tossed herself into the chair I had just gotten up from to greet her.
“You tired!” said the brother; “why, then, what must I be, that have walked twice as far?” And, with equal politeness, he paid the same compliment to M. Du Bois which his sister had done to me.
“You're tired!” said the brother; “then what must I be, having walked twice as far?” And, with the same politeness, he paid the same compliment to M. Du Bois that his sister had given me.
Two chairs and three stools completed the furniture of the shop; and Mr. Branghton, who chose to keep his own seat himself, desired M. Du Bois to take another; and then seeing that I was without any, called out to the stranger, “Come, Mr. Macartney, lend us your stool.”
Two chairs and three stools made up the furniture of the shop, and Mr. Branghton, who preferred to keep his own seat, asked M. Du Bois to take another one. Then, noticing I had no seat, he called out to the stranger, “Come on, Mr. Macartney, can you lend us your stool?”
Shocked at their rudeness, I declined the offer; and, approaching Miss Branghton, said, “If you will be so good as to make room for me on your chair, there will be no occasion to disturb that gentleman.”
Shocked by their rudeness, I turned down the offer and walked over to Miss Branghton, saying, “If you could please make some room for me on your chair, we won't need to disturb that gentleman.”
“Lord, what signifies that?” cried the brother; “he has had his share of sitting, I’ll be sworn.”
“Lord, what does that even mean?” shouted the brother; “he’s definitely had his turn sitting, I’m sure of it.”
“And, if he has not,” said the sister, “he has a chair up stairs; and the shop is our own, I hope.”
“And if he hasn’t,” said the sister, “he has a chair upstairs; and the shop is ours, I hope.”
This grossness so much disgusted me, that I took the stool, and carrying it back to Mr. Macartney myself, I returned him thanks as civilly as I could for his politeness, but said that I had rather stand.
This grossness disgusted me so much that I took the stool and carried it back to Mr. Macartney myself. I thanked him as politely as I could for his kindness but said that I would rather stand.
He looked at me as if unaccustomed to such attention, bowed very respectfully, but neither spoke nor yet made use of it.
He looked at me like he wasn't used to that kind of attention, bowed respectfully, but didn't say anything or take advantage of it.
I soon found that I was an object of derision to all present, except M. Du Bois; and therefore, I begged Mr. Branghton would give me an answer for Madame Duval, as I was in haste to return.
I quickly realized that I was the target of mockery from everyone there, except for M. Du Bois; so I asked Mr. Branghton to give me a reply for Madame Duval, since I was eager to get back.
“Well, then, Tom,-Biddy, where have you a mind to go tonight? your aunt and Miss want to be abroad and amongst them.”
“Well, then, Tom, Biddy, where do you feel like going tonight? Your aunt and Miss want to be out and about with everyone.”
“Why, then, Papa,” said Miss Branghton, “we’ll go to Don Saltero’s. Mr. Smith likes that place, so may be he’ll go along with us.”
“Why, then, Dad,” said Miss Branghton, “we’ll go to Don Saltero’s. Mr. Smith likes that place, so maybe he’ll join us.”
“No, no,” said the son, “I’m for White-Conduit House; so let’s go there.”
“No, no,” said the son, “I’m going to White-Conduit House; so let’s head there.”
“White-Conduit House, indeed!” cried his sister; “no, Tom, that I won’t.”
“White-Conduit House, really!” his sister exclaimed; “no, Tom, I won’t do that.”
“Why, then, let it alone; nobody wants your company;-we shall do as well without you, I’ll be sworn, and better too.”
"Then just leave it alone; nobody wants to be around you. We'll manage just fine without you, I swear we will, and probably even better."
“I’ll tell you what, Tom, if you don’t hold your tongue, I’ll make you repent it,-that I assure you.”
"I'll tell you what, Tom, if you don't keep quiet, I'll make you regret it—that I promise you."
Just then Mr. Smith came into the shop, which he seemed to intend passing through; but when he saw me, he stopped, and began a most courteous enquiry after my health, protesting, that, had he known I was there, he should have come down sooner. “But, bless me, Ma’am,” added he, “what is the reason you stand?” and then he flew to bring me the seat from which I had just parted.
Just then, Mr. Smith walked into the shop, and it looked like he was just going to pass through, but when he saw me, he stopped and politely asked how I was doing. He insisted that if he had known I was there, he would have come down sooner. “But, my goodness, Ma’am,” he added, “why are you standing?” Then he rushed to get the seat I had just left.
“Mr. Smith, you are come in very good time,” said Mr. Branghton, “to end a dispute between my son and daughter, about where they shall all go to-night.”
“Mr. Smith, you’ve arrived just in time,” said Mr. Branghton, “to settle a disagreement between my son and daughter about where they should all go tonight.”
“O, fie, Tom,-dispute with a lady!” cried Mr. Smith. “Now, as for me, I’m for where you will, provided this young lady is of the party;-one place is the same as another to me, so that it be but agreeable to the ladies.-I would go any where with you, Ma’am,” (to me) “unless, indeed, it were to church; -ha, ha, ha!-You’ll excuse me, Ma’am; but, really, I never could conquer my fear of a parson;-ha, ha, ha!-Really, ladies, I beg your pardon for being so rude; but I can’t help laughing for my life!”
“Oh, come on, Tom—arguing with a lady?” exclaimed Mr. Smith. “As for me, I’m up for anything as long as this young lady is along for the ride. One place is just as good as another for me, as long as it’s enjoyable for the ladies. I’d go anywhere with you, Ma’am,” (to me) “unless it’s to church; ha, ha, ha! You’ll forgive me, Ma’am, but I really can’t overcome my fear of a minister; ha, ha, ha! I truly apologize, ladies, for being so rude, but I can’t help laughing!”
“I was just saying, Mr. Smith,” said Miss Branghton, “that I should like to go to Don Saltero’s;-now, pray, where should you like to go?”
“I was just saying, Mr. Smith,” Miss Branghton said, “that I’d like to go to Don Saltero’s; now, please, where would you like to go?”
“Why, really, Miss Biddy, you know I always let the ladies decide; I never fix any thing myself; but I should suppose it would be rather hot at the coffee-house:-however, pray, ladies, settle it among yourselves;-I’m agreeable to whatever you choose.”
“Honestly, Miss Biddy, you know I always let the ladies make the decisions; I never plan anything myself; but I imagine it might be pretty warm at the coffee-house. Anyway, please, ladies, figure it out for yourselves; I’m okay with whatever you decide.”
It was easy for me to discover, that this man, with all his parade of conformity, objects to every thing that is not proposed by himself: but he is so much admired by this family for his gentility, that he thinks himself a complete fine gentleman!
It was easy for me to see that this man, despite all his show of fitting in, is against anything that isn’t his own idea. But his family admires him so much for his social status that he sees himself as a truly refined gentleman!
“Come,” said Mr. Branghton, “the best way will be to put it to the vote, and then every body will speak their minds. Biddy, call Poll down stairs. We’ll start fair.”
“Come on,” said Mr. Branghton, “the best way is to put it to a vote, and then everyone can share their opinions. Biddy, call Poll downstairs. We’ll keep it fair.”
“Lord, Papa,” said Miss Branghton, “why can’t you as well send Tom?-you’re always sending me of the errands.”
“Lord, Dad,” said Miss Branghton, “why can’t you just send Tom? You’re always sending me on errands.”
A dispute then ensued, but Miss Branghton was obliged to yield.
A disagreement then occurred, but Miss Branghton had to give in.
When Mr. Brown and Miss Polly made their appearance, the latter uttered many complaints of having been called, saying, she did not want to come, and was very well where she was.
When Mr. Brown and Miss Polly showed up, Miss Polly expressed several complaints about being summoned, saying she didn’t want to come and was perfectly fine where she was.
“Now, ladies, your votes,” cried Mr. Smith; “and so, Ma’am (to me), we’ll begin with you. What place shall you like best?” and then, in a whisper, he added, “I assure you, I shall say the same as you do, whether I like it or not.”
“Now, ladies, it’s time for your votes,” shouted Mr. Smith; “and so, Ma’am (to me), we’ll start with you. Which place do you prefer?” Then, in a whisper, he added, “I promise I’ll vote the same way you do, whether I like it or not.”
I said, that as I was ignorant what choice was in my power, I must beg to hear their decisions first. This was reluctantly assented to; and then Miss Branghton voted for Saltero’s Coffee-house; her sister, for a party to Mother Red Cap’s; the brother for White-Conduit House; Mr. Brown, for Bagnigge Wells; Mr. Braughton, for Sadler’s Wells; and Mr. Smith, for Vauxhall.
I said that since I didn't know what options I had, I needed to hear their choices first. They agreed to this, though reluctantly. Miss Branghton voted for Saltero’s Coffee-house; her sister voted for a gathering at Mother Red Cap’s; their brother picked White-Conduit House; Mr. Brown chose Bagnigge Wells; Mr. Braughton opted for Sadler’s Wells; and Mr. Smith went with Vauxhall.
“Well now, Ma’am,” said Mr. Smith, “we have all spoken, and so you must give the casting vote. Come, what will you fix upon?”
“Well now, Ma’am,” Mr. Smith said, “we’ve all spoken, so now it’s your turn to give the deciding vote. So, what are you going to decide?”
“Sir,” answered I, “I was to speak last.”
“Sir,” I replied, “I was supposed to speak last.”
“Well, so you will,” said Miss Branghton, “for we’ve all spoke first.”
“Well, you will,” said Miss Branghton, “because we all spoke first.”
“Pardon me,” returned I, “the voting has not yet been quite general.”
“Excuse me,” I replied, “the voting isn't completely final yet.”
And I turned towards Mr. Macartney, to whom I wished extremely to show that I was not of the same brutal nature with those by whom he was treated so grossly.
And I turned to Mr. Macartney, wanting very much to show him that I wasn't as cruel as those who treated him so poorly.
“Why, pray,” said Mr. Branghton, “who have we left out? would you have the cats and dogs vote?”
“Why, may I ask,” said Mr. Branghton, “who did we forget? Do you want the cats and dogs to vote?”
“No, Sir,” cried I, with some spirit, “I would have that gentleman vote,-if, indeed, he is not superior to joining our party.”
“No, Sir,” I exclaimed, with some energy, “I would have that gentleman vote—if he’s not too good to join our party.”
They all looked at me, as if they doubted whether or not they had heard me right: but, in a few moments, their surprise gave way to a rude burst of laughter.
They all stared at me, as if they weren't sure they had heard me correctly: but, after a moment, their surprise turned into a loud burst of laughter.
Very much displeased, I told M. Du Bois that if he was not ready to go, I would have a coach called for myself.
Very upset, I told M. Du Bois that if he wasn't ready to go, I would call a coach for myself.
O yes, he said, he was always ready to attend me.
Oh yes, he said he was always ready to help me.
Mr. Smith then, advancing, attempted to take my hand, and begged me not to leave them till I had settled the evening’s plans.
Mr. Smith then stepped forward, tried to take my hand, and asked me not to leave until I had figured out the evening's plans.
“I have nothing, Sir,” said I, “to do with it, as it is my intention to stay at home; and therefore Mr. Branghton will be so good as to send Madame Duval word what place is fixed upon, when it is convenient to him.”
“I have nothing to do with it, Sir,” I said, “since I plan to stay home; so Mr. Branghton will kindly let Madame Duval know what place is decided on when it works for him.”
And then, making a slight courtesy, I left them.
And then, with a small nod, I left them.
How much does my disgust for these people increase my pity for poor Mr. Macartney! I will not see them when I can avoid so doing; but I am determined to take every opportunity in my power to show civility to this unhappy man, whose misfortunes with this family, only render him an object of scorn. I was, however, very well pleased with M. Du Bois, who, far from joining in their mirth, expressed himself extremely shocked at their ill-breeding.
How much does my disgust for these people make me pity poor Mr. Macartney even more! I’ll avoid seeing them whenever I can, but I’m set on taking every chance I get to be kind to this unfortunate man, whose troubles with this family just make him a target for their scorn. However, I was really happy with M. Du Bois, who, instead of joining in their laughter, was very vocal about how shocked he was by their bad manners.
We had not walked ten yards before we were followed by Mr. Smith, who came to make excuses, and to assure me they were only joking, and hoped I took nothing ill; for if I did, he would make a quarrel of it himself with the Branghtons, rather than I should receive any offense.
We had barely walked ten yards when Mr. Smith caught up with us, ready to make excuses. He assured me they were just joking and hoped I wasn't upset; if I was, he'd confront the Branghtons himself rather than let me be offended.
I begged him not to take any trouble about so immaterial an affair, and assured him I should not myself. He was so officious, that he would not be prevailed upon to return home, till he had walked with us to Mr. Dawkins’s.
I urged him not to worry about such a minor issue, and I promised I wouldn't either. He was so eager to help that he wouldn't agree to head back home until he had walked with us to Mr. Dawkins’s.
Madame Duval was very much displeased that I brought her so little satisfaction. White-Conduit House was at last fixed upon; and, notwithstanding my great dislike of such parties and such places, I was obliged to accompany them.
Madame Duval was really unhappy that I didn't bring her much satisfaction. White-Conduit House was finally decided on, and even though I really didn't like those kinds of parties and places, I had to go with them.
Very disagreeable, and much according to my expectations, the evening proved. There were many people all smart and gaudy, and so pert and low-bred, that I could hardly endure being amongst them; but the party to which, unfortunately, I belonged, seemed all at home.
Very unpleasant, and just as I expected, the evening turned out to be. There were a lot of people, all dressed up and flashy, and so rude and uncouth that I could barely stand being around them; but the group I was unfortunately a part of seemed completely at ease.
LETTER XLVI - EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS Holborn, June 17th.
YESTERDAY Mr. Smith carried his point of making a party for Vauxhall, consisting of Madame Duval, M. Du Bois, all the Branghtons, Mr. Brown, himself,-and me!-for I find all endeavours vain to escape any thing which these people desire I should not.
YESTERDAY Mr. Smith insisted on throwing a party at Vauxhall, including Madame Duval, M. Du Bois, all the Branghtons, Mr. Brown, himself, and me! I realize that all my efforts to avoid anything these people want me to do are pointless.
There were twenty disputes previous to our setting out; first, as to the time of our going: Mr. Branghton, his son, and young Brown, were for six o’clock; and all the ladies and Mr. Smith were for eight;-the latter, however, conquered.
There were twenty disagreements before we left; first, about what time we should go: Mr. Branghton, his son, and young Brown wanted to leave at six o'clock; while all the ladies and Mr. Smith preferred eight. In the end, the latter group won.
Then, as to the way we should go; some were for a boat, others for a coach, and Mr. Branghton himself was for walking; but the boat at length was decided upon. Indeed this was the only part of the expedition that was agreeable to me; for the Thames was delightfully pleasant.
Then, as for how we should get there, some wanted a boat, others preferred a coach, and Mr. Branghton himself wanted to walk; but in the end, we decided on the boat. This was honestly the only part of the trip that I enjoyed, because the Thames was really nice.
The garden is very pretty, but too formal; I should have been better pleased, had it consisted less of straight walks, where
The garden is really beautiful, but it's too formal; I would have enjoyed it more if there were fewer straight paths, where
Grove nods at grove, each alley has its brother.
Grove nods at grove, each alley has its brother.
The trees, the numerous lights, and the company in the circle round the orchestra make a most brilliant and gay appearance; and had I been with a party less disagreeable to me, I should have thought it a place formed for animation and pleasure. There was a concert; in the course of which a hautbois concerto was so charmingly played, that I could have thought myself upon enchanted ground, had I had spirits more gentle to associate with. The hautbois in the open air is heavenly.
The trees, the countless lights, and the people around the orchestra create a vibrant and cheerful scene; if I had been with a group that I liked more, I would have thought it was a place made for fun and excitement. There was a concert, during which a oboe concerto was played so beautifully that I could have felt like I was in a magical place, if I had better company to enjoy it with. The oboe in the open air is divine.
Mr. Smith endeavoured to attach himself to me, with such officious assiduity and impertinent freedom, that he quite sickened me. Indeed M. Du Bois was the only man of the party to whom, voluntarily, I ever addressed myself. He is civil and respectful, and I have found nobody else so since I left Howard Grove. His English is very bad; but I prefer it to speaking French myself, which I dare not venture to do. I converse with him frequently, both to disengage myself from others, and to oblige Madame Duval, who is always pleased when he is attended to.
Mr. Smith tried really hard to get close to me, with such annoying persistence and boldness, that it made me feel sick. In fact, M. Du Bois was the only person in the group I ever talked to willingly. He's polite and respectful, and I haven't found anyone else like that since I left Howard Grove. His English isn’t great, but I’d rather deal with that than attempt to speak French myself, which I’m too intimidated to do. I chat with him often, both to get away from others and to please Madame Duval, who is always happy when he gets some attention.
As we were walking about the orchestra, I heard a bell ring; and, in a moment, Mr. Smith, flying up to me, caught my hand, and, with a motion too quick to be resisted, ran away with me many yards before I had breath to ask his meaning, though I struggled as well as I could, to get from him. At last, however, I insisted upon stopping: “Stopping, Ma’am!” cried he, “why we must run on or we shall lose the cascade!”
As we were walking around the orchestra, I heard a bell ring; and, in a moment, Mr. Smith rushed up to me, grabbed my hand, and, with a motion too quick to resist, ran away with me several yards before I could catch my breath to ask what was going on, even though I struggled as much as I could to get away from him. Finally, however, I insisted we stop: “Stop, Ma’am!” he exclaimed, “we have to keep running or we’ll miss the cascade!”
And then again he hurried me away, mixing with a crowd of people, all running with so much velocity, that I could not imagine what had raised such an alarm. We were soon followed by the rest of the party; and my surprise and ignorance proved a source of diversion to them all, which was not exhausted the whole evening. Young Branghton, in particular, laughed till he could hardly stand.
And then he rushed me along, blending in with a crowd of people, all moving so fast that I couldn't figure out what had sparked such a panic. Soon, the rest of the group caught up with us, and my confusion and lack of understanding became a source of amusement for everyone, which lasted all evening. Young Branghton, especially, laughed so hard he could barely stay on his feet.
The scene of the cascade I thought extremely pretty, and the general effect striking and lively.
I found the scene of the waterfall really pretty, and the overall effect was vivid and impressive.
But this was not the only surprise which was to divert them at my expense; for they led me about the garden purposely to enjoy my first sight of various other deceptions.
But this wasn't the only surprise that they planned to have at my expense; they took me around the garden specifically to let me experience my first view of other tricks.
About ten o’clock, Mr. Smith having chosen a box in a very conpicuous place, we all went to supper. Much fault was found with every thing that was ordered, though not a morsel of any thing was left; and the dearness of the provisions, with conjectures upon what profit was made by them, supplied discourse during the whole meal.
About ten o’clock, Mr. Smith picked a box in a very noticeable spot, and we all went to dinner. Everyone complained about everything that was ordered, even though not a bite was left; the high prices of the food and speculation about the profits made from it kept us talking throughout the entire meal.
When wine and cyder were brought, Mr. Smith said, “Now let’s enjoy ourselves; now is the time, or never. Well, Ma’am, and how do you like Vauxhall?”
When the wine and cider were served, Mr. Smith said, “Let’s have some fun; now is the time, or never. So, Ma’am, how do you like Vauxhall?”
“Like it!” cried young Branghton; “why, how can she help liking it? she has never seen such a place before, that I’ll answer for.”
“Like it!” exclaimed young Branghton; “how could she not like it? She’s never seen a place like this before, that much I can guarantee.”
“For my part,” said Miss Branghton, “I like it because it is not vulgar.”
“For my part,” said Miss Branghton, “I like it because it’s not tacky.”
“This must have been a fine treat for you, Miss,” said Mr. Branghton; “why, I suppose you was never so happy in all your life before?”
"This must have been a great experience for you, Miss," said Mr. Branghton; "I guess you've never been this happy in your entire life before?"
I endeavoured to express my satisfaction with some pleasure; yet, I believe, they were much amazed at my coldness.
I tried to show my satisfaction with some enthusiasm; however, I think they were really surprised by my lack of warmth.
“Miss ought to stay in town till the last night,” said young Branghton; “and then, it’s my belief, she’d say something to it! Why, Lord, it’s the best night of any; there’s always a riot,-and there the folks run about,-and then there’s such squealing and squalling!-and, there, all the lamps are broke,-and the women run skimper scamper.-I declare I would not take five guineas to miss the last night!”
“Miss should stay in town until the last night,” said young Branghton; “and then, I believe she’d say something about it! I mean, it’s the best night of all; there’s always a crazy scene, and people are running around, and then there’s all that screaming and shouting! All the lamps are broken, and the women are running around all frantic. Honestly, I wouldn’t trade five guineas to miss the last night!”
I was very glad when they all grew tired of sitting, and called for the waiter to pay the bill. The Miss Branghtons said they would walk on while the gentlemen settled the account, and asked me to accompany them; which, however, I declined.
I was really happy when they all got tired of sitting and summoned the waiter to pay the bill. The Miss Branghtons said they would take a walk while the guys sorted out the check and asked me to join them; however, I said no.
“You girls may do as you please,” said Madame Duval; “but as to me, I promise you, I sha’n’t go nowhere without the gentlemen.”
“You girls can do whatever you want,” said Madame Duval; “but as for me, I promise you, I’m not going anywhere without the gentlemen.”
“No more, I suppose, will my cousin,” said Miss Branghton, looking reproachfully towards Mr. Smith.
“No more, I guess, will my cousin,” said Miss Branghton, looking disapprovingly at Mr. Smith.
This reflection, which I feared would flatter his vanity, made me most unfortunately request Madame Duval’s permission to attend them. She granted it; and away we went, having promised to meet in the room.
This thought, which I worried would stroke his ego, made me unfortunately ask Madame Duval for permission to join them. She agreed, and off we went, having promised to meet in the room.
To the room, therefore, I would immediately have gone: but the sisters agreed that they would first have a little pleasure; and they tittered and talked so loud, that they attracted universal notice.
To the room, I would have gone right away: but the sisters decided they wanted to have a bit of fun first; and they giggled and talked so loudly that they caught everyone's attention.
“Lord, Polly,” said the eldest, “suppose we were to take a turn in the dark walks!”
“Wow, Polly,” said the oldest, “how about we take a walk in the dark paths!”
“Aye, do,” answered she; “and then we’ll hide ourselves, and then Mr. Brown will think we are lost.”
“Yeah, let’s do that,” she replied. “Then we’ll hide ourselves, and Mr. Brown will think we’re gone.”
I remonstrated very warmly against this plan, telling them it would endanger our missing the rest of the party all the evening.
I strongly protested against this plan, telling them it would risk us missing the rest of the party all evening.
“O dear,” cried Miss Branghton, “I thought how uneasy Miss would be without a beau!”
“O dear,” exclaimed Miss Branghton, “I was thinking how restless Miss would be without a boyfriend!”
This impertinence I did not think worth answering; and, quite by compulsion, I followed them down a long alley, in which there was hardly any light.
This rudeness didn't seem worth responding to, so, with little choice, I followed them down a long, dimly lit alley.
By the time we came near the end, a large party of gentlemen, apparently very riotous, and who were hallooing, leaning on one another, and laughing immoderately, seemed to rush suddenly from behind some trees, and meeting us face to face, put their arms at their sides, and formed a kind of circle, which first stopped our proceeding, and then our retreating, for we were presently entirely enclosed. The Miss Branghtons screamed aloud, and I was frightened exceedingly; our screams were answered with bursts of laughter, and for some minutes we were kept prisoners, till at last one of them, rudely seizing hold of me, said I was a pretty little creature.
By the time we got close to the end, a large group of guys, apparently really rowdy, came rushing out from behind some trees, shouting, leaning on each other, and laughing a lot. They met us head-on, put their arms at their sides, and formed a circle around us, which first stopped us from moving forward and then from going back, since we were suddenly completely surrounded. The Miss Branghtons screamed loudly, and I was extremely scared; our screams were met with bursts of laughter, and for a few minutes, we were held as prisoners until finally, one of them grabbed me roughly and said I was a pretty little thing.
Terrified to death, I struggled with such vehemence to disengage myself from him, that I succeeded, in spite of his efforts to detain me; and immediately, and with a swiftness which fear only could have given me, I flew rather than ran up the walk, hoping to secure my safety by returning to the lights and company we had so foolishly left: but before I could possibly accomplish my purpose, I was met by another party of men, one of whom placed himself so directly in my way, calling out, “Whither so fast, my love?"-that I could only have proceeded by running into his arms.
Terrified, I struggled intensely to break free from him, and despite his attempts to hold me back, I managed to escape. In a burst of speed that only fear could fuel, I dashed up the path, hoping to find safety by returning to the lights and people we had foolishly left behind. But before I could reach them, I was confronted by another group of men, one of whom stepped right in front of me, shouting, “Where are you off to in such a hurry, my love?”—leaving me no choice but to run straight into his arms.
In a moment both my hands, by different persons, were caught hold of, and one of them, in a most familiar manner, desired, when I ran next, to accompany me in a race; while the rest of the party stood still and laughed.
In an instant, both my hands were grabbed by different people, and one of them, in a very friendly way, asked if they could join me in a race the next time I ran, while the others just stood there and laughed.
I was almost distracted with terror, and so breathless with running, that I could not speak; till another, advancing, said, I was as handsome as an angel, and desired to be of the party. I then just articulated, “For Heaven’s sake, gentlemen, let me pass!”
I was so scared and out of breath from running that I couldn’t speak; until someone else came forward and said I was as good-looking as an angel and wanted to join the group. I then barely managed to say, “For Heaven’s sake, guys, let me through!”
Another then rushing suddenly forward, exclaimed, “Heaven and earth! What voice is that?-”
Another suddenly rushed forward and exclaimed, “Heaven and earth! What voice is that?”
“The voice of the prettiest little actress I have seen this age,” answered one of my persecutors.
“The voice of the cutest actress I’ve seen at this age,” answered one of my tormentors.
“No,-no,-no-” I panted out, “I am no actress-pray let me go,-pray let me pass-”
“No, no, no,” I gasped, “I’m not an actress—please let me go—please let me pass—”
“By all that’s sacred,” cried the same voice, which I then knew for Sir Clement Willoughby’s, “’tis herself!”
“By all that’s sacred,” shouted the same voice, which I then recognized as Sir Clement Willoughby’s, “it’s really her!”
“Sir Clement Willoughby!” cried I. “O, Sir, assist-assist me-or I shall die with terror!”
“Sir Clement Willoughby!” I screamed. “Oh, Sir, please help me—or I’m going to die from fear!”
“Gentlemen,” cried he, disengaging them all from me in an instant, “pray leave this lady to me.”
“Gentlemen,” he exclaimed, instantly pulling them all away from me, “please leave this lady to me.”
Loud laughs proceeded from every mouth, and two or three said Willoughby has all the luck! But one of them, in a passionate manner, vowed he would not give me up, for that he had the first right to me, and would support it.
Loud laughs came from everyone, and a couple of them said, "Willoughby has all the luck!" But one of them, quite passionately, declared that he wouldn’t let me go, insisting that he had the first claim on me and would stand by it.
“You are mistaken,” said Sir Clement, “this lady is-I will explain myself to you another time; but, I assure you, you are all mistaken.”
“You're wrong,” said Sir Clement, “this lady is—I'll explain myself to you another time; but I assure you, you're all mistaken.”
And then taking my willing hand, he led me off, amidst the loud acclamations, laughter, and gross merriment of his impertinent companions.
And then, taking my willing hand, he led me away, amidst the loud cheers, laughter, and raucous fun of his rude friends.
As soon as we had escaped from them, Sir Clement, with a voice of surprise, exclaimed, “My dearest creature, what wonder, what strange revolution, has brought you to such a place as this?”
As soon as we got away from them, Sir Clement, sounding surprised, exclaimed, “My dearest, what a surprise, what strange twist of fate has brought you to a place like this?”
Ashamed of my situation, and extremely mortified to be thus recognized by him, I was for some time silent; and when he repeated his question, only stammered out, “I have,-I hardly know how,-lost from my party-”
Ashamed of my situation and really embarrassed to be recognized by him, I stayed silent for a while. When he asked his question again, I could only stammer, “I have— I barely know how— lost from my group—”
He caught my hand, and eagerly pressing it, in a passionate voice said, “O that I had sooner met with thee!”
He grabbed my hand and, squeezing it eagerly, said in a passionate voice, “I wish I had met you sooner!”
Surprised at a freedom so unexpected, I angrily broke from him, saying, “Is this the protection you give me, Sir Clement?”
Surprised by such unexpected freedom, I pulled away from him angrily, saying, “Is this the protection you offer me, Sir Clement?”
And then I saw, what the perturbation of my mind had prevented my sooner noticing, that he had led me, though I know not how, into another of the dark alleys, instead of the place whither I meant to go.
And then I realized, what my troubled mind had kept me from noticing sooner, that he had somehow led me into another one of the dark alleys, instead of the place I intended to go.
“Good God!” I cried, “where am I?-What way are you going?”
“Good God!” I shouted, “where am I? Which direction are you heading?”
“Where,” answered he, “we shall be least observed!”
“Where,” he replied, “we'll be the least noticed!”
Astonished at this speech, I stopped short, and declared I would go no further.
Astonished by what I just heard, I stopped in my tracks and said I wouldn't go any further.
“And why not, my angel?” again endeavouring to take my hand.
“And why not, my angel?” he said again, trying to take my hand.
My heart beat with resentment; I pushed him away from me with all my strength, and demanded how he dared treat me with such insolence?
My heart raced with anger; I shoved him away from me with all my strength and asked how he could treat me with such disrespect.
“Insolence!” repeated he.
“Insolence!” he repeated.
“Yes, Sir Clement, insolence; from you, who know me, I had a claim for protection,-not to such treatment as this.”
“Yes, Sir Clement, this is disrespect; from you, who know me, I expected protection—not treatment like this.”
“By Heaven,” cried he, with warmth, “you distract me;-why, tell me,-why do I see you here?-Is this a place for Miss Anville?-these dark walks!-no party! no companion!-by all that’s good I can scarce believe my senses!”
“By Heaven,” he exclaimed passionately, “you’re distracting me—why, tell me—why are you here? Is this a place for Miss Anville? These dark paths! No party! No companion! By all that’s good, I can hardly believe what I’m seeing!”
Extremely offended at this speech, I turned angrily from him: and, not deigning to make any answer, walked on towards that part of the garden whence I perceived the lights and company.
Extremely offended by what he said, I turned away from him in anger and, refusing to respond, walked towards the area of the garden where I noticed the lights and people.
He followed me; but we were both some time silent.
He followed me, but we both stayed quiet for a while.
“So you will not explain to me your situation?” said he, at length.
“So you’re not going to explain your situation to me?” he finally said.
“No, Sir,” answered I, disdainfully.
“No, sir,” I replied, disdainfully.
“Nor yet-suffer me to make my own interpretation?-”
“Or can I at least interpret it my own way?”
I could not bear this strange manner of speaking; it made my very soul shudder,-and I burst into tears.
I couldn't handle this weird way of talking; it made my very soul shudder, and I broke down in tears.
He flew to me, and actually flung himself at my feet, as if regardless who might see him, saying, “O, Miss Anville,-loveliest of women,-forgive my,-my,-I beseech you forgive me;-if I have offended-if I have hurt you-I could kill myself at the thought!-”
He rushed over to me and literally threw himself at my feet, not caring who might see him, saying, “Oh, Miss Anville—most beautiful of women—please forgive me—I beg you to forgive me; if I’ve upset you—if I’ve hurt you—I could never forgive myself for even thinking that!”
“No matter, Sir, no matter,” cried I; “if I can but find my friends,-I will never speak to-never see you again!”
“No worries, Sir, no worries,” I shouted; “as long as I can find my friends, I will never talk to you again or see you!”
“Good God!-good Heaven! My dearest life, what is it I have done?-what is it I have said?-”
“Good God! Good Heaven! My dearest life, what have I done? What have I said?”
“You best know, Sir, what and why: but don’t hold me here,-let me be gone; and do you!”
“You know best, Sir, what and why: but don’t keep me here—let me go; and you too!”
“Not till you forgive me!-I cannot part with you in anger.”
“Not until you forgive me! I can’t let you go while we're still angry.”
“For shame, for shame, Sir!” cried I, indignantly, “do you suppose I am to be thus compelled?-do you take advantage of the absence of my friends to affront me?”
“For shame, for shame, Sir!” I exclaimed, angrily. “Do you really think I can be forced into this? Are you trying to take advantage of my friends not being here to insult me?”
“No, Madam,” cried he, rising: “I would sooner forfeit my life than act so mean a part. But you have flung me into amazement unspeakable, and you will not condescend to listen to my request of giving me some explanation.”
“No, ma'am,” he exclaimed, standing up. “I'd rather lose my life than play such a low role. But you've left me utterly speechless, and you won't even bother to hear my request for some explanation.”
“The manner, Sir,” said I, “in which you spoke that request, made, and will make, me scorn to answer it.”
“The way you made that request, Sir,” I said, “made, and will make, me feel too proud to respond to it.”
“Scorn!-I will own to you, I expected not such displeasure from Miss Anville.”
“Disgust! I’ll be honest, I didn’t expect such anger from Miss Anville.”
“Perhaps, Sir, if you had, you would less voluntarily have merited it.”
“Maybe, Sir, if you had, you would have deserved it less willingly.”
“My dearest life, surely it must be known to you, that the man does not breathe who adores you so passionately, so fervently, so tenderly as I do!-Why, then, will you delight in perplexing me?-in keeping me in suspense?-in torturing me with doubt?”
"My dearest love, you must know that no one breathes who adores you as passionately, fervently, and tenderly as I do! So why do you enjoy confusing me? Keeping me in suspense? Torturing me with doubt?"
“I, Sir, delight in perplexing you!-you are much mistaken.-Your suspense, your doubts, your perplexities,-are of your own creating; and believe me, Sir, they may offend, but they can never delight me:-but as you have yourself raised, you must yourself satisfy them.”
“I, Sir, enjoy confusing you! You are quite mistaken. Your suspense, your doubts, and your confusion are all of your own making; and believe me, Sir, they might annoy me, but they can never please me. But since you created them yourself, you must also resolve them.”
“Good God!-that such haughtiness and such sweetness can inhabit the same mansion!”
“Good God! That such arrogance and such kindness can exist in the same house!”
I made no answer; but quickening my pace I walked on silently and sullenly, till this most impetuous of men, snatching my hand, which he grasped with violence, besought me to forgive him with such earnestness of supplication, that, merely to escape his importunities, I was forced to speak, and in some measure to grant the pardon he requested; though it was accorded with a very ill grace: but, indeed, I knew not how to resist the humility of his intreaties: yet never shall I recollect the occasion he gave me of displeasure, without feeling it renewed.
I didn't respond, but I picked up my pace and walked on in silence and frustration, until this very impulsive man grabbed my hand with a tight hold and pleaded with me to forgive him so earnestly that, just to get him to stop bothering me, I felt compelled to say something and somewhat grant the pardon he was asking for; although I did it very reluctantly. Honestly, I didn’t know how to turn down his humble requests, but I will never forget the reason he gave me to feel upset without feeling that anger come back.
We now soon arrived in the midst of the general crowd; and, my own safety being then insured, I grew extremely uneasy for the Miss Branghtons, whose danger, however imprudently incurred by their own folly, I too well knew how to tremble for. To this consideration all my pride of heart yielded, and I determined to seek my party with the utmost speed; though not without a sigh did I recollect the fruitless attempt I had made after the opera, of concealing from this man my unfortunate connections, which I was now obliged to make known.
We soon arrived in the middle of the crowd; and now that I felt safe, I became really anxious for the Miss Branghtons, whose risk, though foolishly taken, I knew all too well could be serious. To this thought, all my pride melted away, and I decided to find my friends as quickly as possible; though I couldn't help but sigh as I remembered my earlier, pointless attempt to hide my unfortunate connections from this man, which I now had to reveal.
I hastened, therefore, to the room, with a view of sending young Branghton to the aid of his sisters. In a very short time I perceived Madame Duval, and the rest, looking at one of the paintings.
I quickly went to the room to send young Branghton to help his sisters. In no time, I saw Madame Duval and the others looking at one of the paintings.
I must own to you honestly, my dear Sir, that an involuntary repugnance seized me at presenting such a set to Sir Clement,-he who had been used to see me in parties so different!-My pace slackened as I approached them,-but they presently perceived me.
I have to honestly admit to you, my dear Sir, that I felt a strong aversion to presenting such a group to Sir Clement—especially since he was used to seeing me in very different company! My steps slowed as I got closer to them, but they soon noticed me.
“Ah, Mademoiselle!” cried M. Du Bois, “Que je suis charm-e; de vous voir!”
“Ah, Miss!” exclaimed Mr. Du Bois, “How delightful it is to see you!”
“Pray, Miss,” cried Mr. Brown, “where’s Miss Polly?”
“Excuse me, Miss,” Mr. Brown exclaimed, “where’s Miss Polly?”
“Why, Miss, you’ve been a long while gone,” said Mr. Branghton; “we thought you’d been lost. But what have you done with your cousins?”
“Why, Miss, you’ve been gone a long time,” Mr. Branghton said. “We thought you were lost. But what have you done with your cousins?”
I hesitated,-for Sir Clement regarded me with a look of wonder.
I hesitated, because Sir Clement was looking at me with a sense of wonder.
“Pardi,” cried Madame Duval, “I shan’t let you leave me again in a hurry. Why, here we’ve been in such a fright!-and all the while, I suppose, you’ve been thinking nothing about the matter.”
“Pardi,” shouted Madame Duval, “I won’t let you leave me so quickly again. We’ve been so scared! And all this time, I bet you haven’t thought about it at all.”
“Well,” said young Branghton,” as long as Miss is come back, I don’t mind; for as to Bid and Poll, they can take care of themselves. But the best joke is, Mr. Smith is gone all about a looking for you.”
“Well,” said young Branghton, “as long as Miss is back, I don’t care; as for Bid and Poll, they can look after themselves. But the funniest part is, Mr. Smith is out everywhere looking for you.”
These speeches were made almost in a breath: but when, at last, they waited for an answer, I told them, that, in walking up one of the long alleys, we had been frightened and separated.
These speeches were made almost in one breath: but when they finally waited for a response, I told them that while walking up one of the long paths, we had been scared and separated.
“The long alleys!” repeated Mr. Branghton, “and pray, what had you to do in the long alleys? why, to be sure, you must all of you have had a mind to be affronted!”
“The long alleys!” repeated Mr. Branghton, “and tell me, what were you doing in the long alleys? Surely, you all must have wanted to be offended!”
This speech was not more impertinent to me, than surprising to Sir Clement, who regarded all the party with evident astonishment. However, I told young Branghton, no time ought to be lost, for that his sisters might require his immediate protection.
This speech was not more disrespectful to me than it was surprising to Sir Clement, who looked at everyone with clear astonishment. However, I told young Branghton that we shouldn't waste any time, as his sisters might need his immediate protection.
“But how will they get it?” cried this brutal brother: “if they’ve a mind to behave in such a manner as that, they ought to protect themselves; and so they may for me.”
“But how will they get it?” yelled this brutal brother. “If they want to act like that, they should take care of themselves; and as far as I’m concerned, they can.”
“Well,” said the simple Mr. Brown, “whether you go or not, I think I may as well see after Miss Polly.”
“Well,” said the straightforward Mr. Brown, “whether you go or not, I think I might as well check on Miss Polly.”
The father then interfering, insisted that his son should accompany him; and away they went.
The father then stepped in and insisted that his son go with him; and off they went.
It was now that Madame Duval first perceived Sir Clement; to whom, turning with a look of great displeasure, she angrily said, “Ma foi, so you are comed here, of all the people in the world!-I wonder, child, you would let such a-such a person as that keep company with you.”
It was at this moment that Madame Duval first noticed Sir Clement; turning to him with a look of great displeasure, she angrily said, “Wow, so you’re here, of all people! I’m surprised, dear, that you would let someone like that be around you.”
“I am very sorry, Madam,” said Sir Clement, in a tone of surprise, “if I had been so unfortunate as to offend you; but I believe you will not regret the honour I now have of attending Miss Anville, when you hear that I have been so happy as to do her some service.”
“I’m really sorry, ma’am,” said Sir Clement, sounding surprised, “if I’ve been unfortunate enough to offend you; but I think you won’t regret the honor of my attending Miss Anville when you hear that I’ve been lucky enough to do her some good.”
Just as Madame Duval, with her usual Ma foi, was beginning to reply, the attention of Sir Clement was wholly drawn from her, by the appearance of Mr. Smith, who, coming suddenly behind me, and freely putting his hands of my shoulders, cried, “O ho, my little runaway, have I found you at last? I have been scampering all over the gardens for you, for I was determined to find you, if you were above ground.-But how could you be so cruel as to leave us?”
Just as Madame Duval, in her usual way, was starting to respond, Sir Clement's full attention was drawn away from her by Mr. Smith, who suddenly appeared behind me and cheerfully placed his hands on my shoulders, exclaiming, “Oh, there you are, my little runaway! I’ve been searching all over the gardens for you because I was determined to find you if you were above ground. But how could you be so cruel as to leave us?”
I turned round to him, and looked with a degree of contempt that I hoped would have quieted him: but he had not the sense to understand me; and, attempting to take my hand, he added, “Such a demure-looking lady as you are, who’d have thought of your leading one such a dance?-Come, now, don’t be so coy; only think what a trouble I have had in running after you!”
I turned to him and looked at him with a hint of contempt, hoping it would shut him up. But he didn’t get the hint. Trying to grab my hand, he said, “With a demure look like yours, who would’ve thought you’d lead someone on such a wild chase? Come on, don’t be so shy; just think about the trouble I went through to chase after you!”
“The trouble, Sir,” said I, “was of your own choice,-not mine.” And I walked round to the other side of Madame Duval.
“The problem, Sir,” I said, “was your own choice—not mine.” And I walked around to the other side of Madame Duval.
Perhaps I was too proud;-but I could not endure that Sir Clement, whose eyes followed him with looks of the most surprised curiosity, should witness his unwelcome familiarity.
Maybe I was too proud; but I couldn't stand the thought of Sir Clement, whose eyes were filled with the most surprised curiosity, witnessing his unwanted familiarity.
Upon my removal he came up to me, and, in a low voice, said, “You are not, then, with the Mirvans?”
Upon my removal, he approached me and, in a quiet voice, said, “So, you’re not with the Mirvans?”
“No, Sir.”
“No, sir.”
“And pray,-may I ask you,-have you left them long?”
"And please, can I ask you, have you been away from them for a while?"
“No, Sir.”
“No, sir.”
“How unfortunate I am!-but yesterday I sent to acquaint the Captain I should reach the Grove by to-morrow noon! However, I shall get away as fast as possible. Shall you be long in town?”
“How unfortunate I am! But yesterday I informed the Captain that I would arrive at the Grove by tomorrow noon! However, I will leave as quickly as I can. Will you be in town for a while?”
“I believe not, Sir.”
“I don't think so, sir.”
“And then, when you leave it-which way-will you allow me to ask, which way you shall travel?”
“And then, when you leave it—which way—can I ask which direction you'll be taking?”
“Indeed,-I don’t know.”
"Honestly, I don't know."
“Not know!-But do you return to the Mirvans any more?”
“Not know! But do you still go back to the Mirvans?”
“I-I can’t tell, Sir.”
“I-I can’t say, Sir.”
And then I addressed myself to Madame Duval, with such a pretended earnestness, that he was obliged to be silent.
And then I spoke to Madame Duval with such fake seriousness that he had to keep quiet.
As he cannot but observe the great change in my situation, which he knows not how to account for, there is something in all these questions, and this unrestrained curiosity, that I did not expect from a man who, when he pleases, can be so well-bred as Sir Clement Willoughby. He seems disposed to think that the alteration in my companions authorises an alteration in his manners. It is true, he has always treated me with uncommon freedom, but never before with so disrespectful an abruptness. This observation, which he has given me cause to make, of his changing with the tide, has sunk him more in my opinion than any other part of his conduct.
Since he can’t help but notice the big change in my situation, which he doesn’t know how to explain, there’s something in all these questions and his intense curiosity that I didn’t expect from a man who can be so polite when he wants to, like Sir Clement Willoughby. He seems to think that the change in my friends justifies a change in his behavior. It’s true that he has always treated me quite freely, but never before with such a disrespectful abruptness. This shift in his demeanor, which he has led me to observe, has lowered my opinion of him more than any other aspect of his behavior.
Yet I could almost have laughed when I looked at Mr. Smith, who no sooner saw me addressed by Sir Clement, than, retreating aloof from the company, he seemed to lose at once all his happy self-sufficiency and conceit; looking now at the baronet, now at himself; surveying, with sorrowful eyes, his dress; struck with his air, his gestures, his easy gaiety, he gazed at him with envious admiration, and seemed himself, with conscious inferiority, to shrink into nothing.
Yet I could almost laugh when I looked at Mr. Smith. The moment he saw me being addressed by Sir Clement, he stepped back from the group and suddenly lost all his usual confidence and arrogance. He glanced at the baronet, then at himself, sadly examining his outfit. Captivated by Sir Clement's demeanor, gestures, and relaxed charm, he looked at him with envious admiration and seemed to shrink into nothing, acutely aware of his own inferiority.
Soon after, Mr. Brown, running up to us, called out, “La, what, i’n’t Miss Polly come yet?”
Soon after, Mr. Brown ran up to us and called out, “Hey, hasn’t Miss Polly shown up yet?”
“Come,” said Mr. Branghton; “why, I thought you went to fetch her yourself, didn’t you?”
“Come on,” said Mr. Branghton; “I thought you went to get her yourself, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but I couldn’t find her;-yet I daresay I’ve been over half the garden.”
“Yes, but I couldn’t find her; yet I’m sure I’ve been over half the garden.”
“Half? but why did not you go over it all?”
“Half? But why didn’t you go through it all?”
“Why, so I will: but only I thought I’d just come and see if she was here first.”
"Sure, I will. I just thought I'd check to see if she was here first."
“But where’s Tom?”
"But where's Tom at?"
“Why, I don’t know; for he would not stay with me, all as ever I could say: for we met some young gentlemen of his acquaintance, and so he bid me go and look by myself; for he said, says he, I can divert myself better another way, says he.”
“Honestly, I have no idea; he just wouldn’t stick around with me no matter what I said. We ran into some young guys he knew, and then he told me to go entertain myself. He said, 'I can have more fun doing something else.'”
This account being given, away again went this silly young man; and Mr. Branghton, extremely incensed, said he would go and see after them himself.
This story being told, off went the foolish young man again; and Mr. Branghton, very angry, said he would go check on them himself.
“So, now”, cried Madame Duval, “he’s gone too! why, at this rate, we shall have to wait for one or other of them all night!”
“So, now,” cried Madame Duval, “he’s gone too! At this rate, we’re going to have to wait for one or the other of them all night!”
Observing that Sir Clement seemed disposed to renew his enquiries, I turned towards one of the paintings, and, pretending to be very much occupied in looking at it, asked M. Du Bois some questions concerning the figures.
Noticing that Sir Clement looked ready to ask more questions, I turned to one of the paintings and, pretending to be really focused on it, asked M. Du Bois a few questions about the figures.
“O! Mon Dieu!” cried Madame Duval, “don’t ask him; your best way is to ask Mr. Smith, for he’s been here the oftenest. Come, Mr. Smith, I dare say you can tell us all about them.”
“O! My God!” cried Madame Duval, “don’t ask him; your best bet is to ask Mr. Smith, since he’s been here the most. Come, Mr. Smith, I bet you can tell us all about them.”
“Why, yes, Ma’am, yes,” said Mr. Smith: who, brightening up at this application, advanced towards us with an air of assumed importance, which, however, sat very uneasily upon him, and begged to know what he should explain first: “For I have attended,” said he, “to all these paintings, and know every thing in them perfectly well; for I am rather fond of pictures, Ma’am; and, really, I must say, I think, a pretty pictures is a-a very-is really a very-is something very pretty-”
“Why, yes, Ma’am, yes,” Mr. Smith said, looking more cheerful at this request. He walked towards us with an air of false importance that didn’t quite suit him and asked what he should explain first. “I’ve really looked at all these paintings and know everything in them perfectly well because I’m quite fond of pictures, Ma’am. And honestly, I have to say, I think a pretty picture is a—a very—is really a very—something very pretty—”
“So do I too,” said Madame Duval; “but pray now, Sir, tell us who that is meant for,” pointing to a figure of Neptune.
“Me too,” said Madame Duval; “but please, sir, tell us who that’s supposed to be,” pointing to a figure of Neptune.
“That!-why, that, Ma’am, is,-Lord bless me, I can’t think how I come to be so stupid, but really I have forgot his name;-and yet, I know it as well as my own too:-however, he’s a General, Ma’am, they are all Generals.”
“Wow! I mean, that, Ma’am, is—goodness, I can’t believe I’m being so forgetful, but I honestly can’t remember his name—but I know it just as well as my own! Anyway, he’s a General, Ma’am; they’re all Generals.”
I saw Sir Clement bite his lips; and, indeed, so did I mine.
I saw Sir Clement bite his lips; and honestly, I did the same.
“Well,” said Madame Duval, “it’s the oddest dress for a general ever I see!”
“Well,” said Madame Duval, “it’s the strangest outfit for a general I’ve ever seen!”
“He seems so capital a figure,” said Sir Clement, to Mr. Smith, “that I imagine he must be Generalissimo of the whole army.”
“He seems like such an important figure,” said Sir Clement to Mr. Smith, “that I imagine he must be the Generalissimo of the entire army.”
“Yes, Sir, yes,” answered Mr. Smith, respectfully bowing, and highly delighted at being thus referred to, “you are perfectly right;-but I cannot for my life think of his name;-perhaps, Sir, you may remember it?”
“Yes, Sir, yes,” replied Mr. Smith, respectfully bowing and feeling very pleased to be addressed this way, “you are absolutely right—but I just can’t recall his name for the life of me; maybe, Sir, you remember it?”
“No, really,” replied Sir Clement, “my acquaintance among the generals is not so extensive.”
“No, seriously,” replied Sir Clement, “I don’t know that many generals.”
The ironical tone of voice in which Sir Clement spoke entirely disconcerted Mr. Smith; who again retiring to an humble distance, seemed sensibly mortified at the failure of his attempt to recover his consequence.
The ironic tone that Sir Clement used completely threw Mr. Smith off balance; he stepped back to a respectful distance, looking genuinely embarrassed by his unsuccessful attempt to regain his status.
Soon after, Mr. Branghton returned with his youngest daughter, who he had rescued from a party of insolent young men; but he had not yet been able to find the eldest. Miss Polly was really frightened, and declared she would never go into the dark walks again. Her father, leaving her with us, went in quest of her sister.
Soon after, Mr. Branghton came back with his youngest daughter, whom he had saved from a group of rude young men; but he still hadn't been able to find the oldest. Miss Polly was genuinely scared and said she would never go into the dark paths again. Her father, leaving her with us, went off to look for her sister.
While she was relating her adventures, to which nobody listened more attentively than Sir Clement, we saw Mr. Brown enter the room. “O, la!” cried Miss Polly, “let me hide myself, and don’t tell him I’m come.”
While she was sharing her adventures, and no one was paying closer attention than Sir Clement, we saw Mr. Brown walk into the room. “Oh, no!” exclaimed Miss Polly, “let me hide, and don’t tell him I’m here.”
She then placed herself behind Madame Duval, in such a manner that she could not be seen.
She then positioned herself behind Madame Duval so that she wouldn't be seen.
“So Miss Polly is not come yet!” said the simple swain: “well, I can’t think where she can be! I’ve been looking, and looking, and looking all about, and can’t find her all I can do.”
“So Miss Polly hasn’t arrived yet!” said the simple guy. “Well, I can’t figure out where she could be! I’ve been searching and searching and searching everywhere, and I can’t find her no matter what I do.”
“Well, but, Mr. Brown,” said Mr. Smith, “sha’n’t you go and look for the lady again?”
“Well, Mr. Brown,” said Mr. Smith, “aren’t you going to go look for the lady again?”
“Yes, Sir,” said he, sitting down; “but I must rest me a little bit first. You can’t think how tired I am.”
“Yes, Sir,” he said, sitting down. “But I need to rest for a bit first. You can’t imagine how tired I am.”
“O fie, Mr. Brown, fie,” cried Mr. Smith, winking at us, “tired of looking for a lady! Go, go, for shame!”
“O shame on you, Mr. Brown, shame,” Mr. Smith exclaimed, winking at us, “tired of looking for a woman! Go on, go, that's disgraceful!”
“So I will, Sir, presently; but you’d be tired too, if you had walked so far: besides, I think she’s gone out of the garden, or else I must have seen something or other of her.”
“So I will, Sir, right away; but you’d be tired too if you’d walked that far. Besides, I think she’s left the garden, or I would have noticed her.”
A he, he he! of the tittering Polly, now betrayed her, and so ended this ingenious little artifice.
A ha, ha, ha! of the giggling Polly, now gave her away, and so ended this clever little trick.
At last appeared Mr. Branghton and Miss Biddy, who, with a face of mixed anger and confusion, addressing herself to me, said, “So, Miss, so you ran away from me! Well, see if I don’t do as much by you some day or other! But I thought how it would be; you’d no mind to leave the gentlemen, though you run away from me.”
At last, Mr. Branghton and Miss Biddy showed up. With a look of frustration and confusion, she said to me, “So, you ran away from me! Just wait, I’ll do the same to you someday! But I knew how it would go; you didn’t care about leaving the guys, even though you ran away from me.”
I was so much surprised at this attack, that I could not answer her for very amazement; and she proceeded to tell us how ill she had been used, and that two young men had been making her walk up and down the dark walks by absolute force, and as fast as ever they could tear her along; and many other particulars, which I will not tire you with relating. In conclusion, looking at Mr. Smith, she said, “But to be sure, thought I, at least all the company will be looking for me; so I little expected to find you all here, talking as comfortably as ever you can. However, I know I may thank my cousin for it!”
I was so surprised by this attack that I couldn't respond out of sheer shock. She went on to tell us how poorly she had been treated, explaining that two young men had been forcing her to walk up and down the dark paths as fast as they could drag her along, along with many other details that I won’t bore you with. In the end, looking at Mr. Smith, she said, “But I thought everyone must be looking for me, so I didn’t expect to find you all here, chatting as comfortably as ever. Still, I guess I have my cousin to thank for that!”
“If you mean me, Madam,” said I, very much shocked, “I am quite ignorant in what manner I can have been accessary to your distress.”
“If you’re talking about me, ma'am,” I said, feeling really shocked, “I have no idea how I could have contributed to your distress.”
“Why, by running away so. If you’d stayed with us, I’ll answer for it Mr. Smith and M. Du Bois would have come to look for us; but I suppose they could not leave your ladyship.”
“Why did you run away like that? If you had stayed with us, I’m sure Mr. Smith and M. Du Bois would have come to look for us; but I guess they couldn’t leave you, my lady.”
The folly and unreasonableness of this speech would admit of no answer. But what a scene was this for Sir Clement! his surprise was evident; and I must acknowledge my confusion was equally great.
The foolishness and absurdity of this speech left no room for a response. But what a sight it was for Sir Clement! His shock was clear, and I must admit my own confusion was just as intense.
We had now to wait for young Branghton, who did not appear for some time; and during this interval it was with difficulty that I avoided Sir Clement, who was on the rack of curiosity, and dying to speak to me.
We now had to wait for young Branghton, who didn't show up for a while; and during this time, I had a hard time avoiding Sir Clement, who was incredibly curious and eager to talk to me.
When, at last, the hopeful youth returned, a long and frightful quarrel ensued between him and his father, in which his sisters occasionally joined, concerning his neglect; and he defended himself only by a brutal mirth, which he indulged at their expense.
When the hopeful young man finally returned, a long and intense argument broke out between him and his father, with his sisters occasionally chiming in, all about his neglect. He only defended himself with a cruel sense of humor that he aimed at them.
Every one now seemed inclined to depart,-when, as usual, a dispute arose upon the way of our going, whether in a coach or a boat. After much debating, it was determined that we should make two parties, one by the water and the other by land; for Madame Duval declared she would not, upon any account, go into a boat at night.
Everyone now seemed ready to leave when, as usual, a disagreement came up about how we should go, whether by coach or by boat. After a lot of discussion, it was decided that we would split into two groups, one by the water and the other by land; because Madame Duval insisted she would absolutely not go in a boat at night.
Sir Clement then said, that if she had no carriage in waiting, he should be happy to see her and me safe home, as his was in readiness.
Sir Clement then said that if she didn't have a carriage waiting, he would be happy to take her and me home since his was ready.
Fury started into her eyes, and passion inflamed every feature, as she answered, “Pardi, no-you may take care of yourself, if you please; but as to me, I promise you I sha’n’t trust myself with no such person.”
Fury flashed in her eyes, and passion lit up her face as she replied, “No way—you can take care of yourself if you want; but as for me, I promise you I won’t trust myself with someone like that.”
He pretended not to comprehend her meaning; yet, to waive a discussion, acquiesced in her refusal. The coach-party fixed upon, consisted of Madame Duval, M. Du Bois, Miss Branghton, and myself.
He acted like he didn't understand what she meant; however, to avoid a debate, he accepted her refusal. The coach group we decided on included Madame Duval, M. Du Bois, Miss Branghton, and me.
I now began to rejoice, in private, that at least our lodgings would be neither seen nor known by Sir Clement. We soon met with a hackney-coach, into which he handed me, and then took leave.
I started to feel relieved, secretly, that at least Sir Clement wouldn't see or know about our place. We quickly came across a cab, and he helped me into it before saying goodbye.
Madame Duval having already given the coachman her direction, he mounted the box, and we were just driving off, when Sir Clement exclaimed, “By Heaven, this is the very coach I had in waiting for myself!”
Madame Duval had already given the driver her instructions, so he climbed up to the front, and just as we were about to leave, Sir Clement shouted, “By Heaven, this is the exact coach I had waiting for me!”
“This coach, your honour!” said the man; “no, that it i’n’t.”
“This coach, your honor!” said the man; “no, that isn’t it.”
Sir Clement, however, swore that it was; and presently, the man, begging his pardon, said he had really forgotten that he was engaged.
Sir Clement, however, insisted that it was true; and soon, the man, apologizing, said he had completely forgotten that he was supposed to be somewhere.
I have no doubt but that this scheme occurred to him at the moment, and that he made some sign to the coachman, which induced him to support it; for there is not the least probability that the accident really happened, as it is most likely his own chariot was in waiting.
I have no doubt that this plan came to him right then, and that he signaled to the driver, which made him go along with it; because it's highly unlikely that the accident actually happened, as it's very probable his own carriage was nearby.
The man then opened the coach-door, and Sir Clement, advancing to it, said “I don’t believe there is another carriage to be had, or I would not incommode you; but, as it may be disagreeable to you to wait here any longer, I beg you will not get out, for you shall be set down before I am carried home, if you will be so good as to make a little room.”
The man then opened the coach door, and Sir Clement, stepping forward, said, “I don’t think there’s another carriage available, or I wouldn’t trouble you. But since it might be uncomfortable for you to wait here much longer, please don’t get out. I’ll make sure you get dropped off before I head home, if you could just make a bit of room.”
And so saying, in he jumped, and seated himself between M. Du Bois and me, while our astonishment at the whole transaction was too great for speech. He then ordered the coachman to drive on, according to the directions he had already received.
And with that, he jumped in and sat down between M. Du Bois and me, while our shock at the whole situation left us speechless. He then told the driver to go ahead, following the directions he had already gotten.
For the first ten minutes no one uttered a word; and then, Madame Duval, no longer able to contain herself, exclaimed, “Ma foi, if this isn’t one of the most impudentest things ever I see!”
For the first ten minutes, no one said a word; and then, Madame Duval, unable to hold back any longer, exclaimed, “Wow, if this isn’t one of the most outrageous things I’ve ever seen!”
Sir Clement, regardless of this rebuke, attended only to me; however I answered nothing he said, when I could possibly avoid so doing. Miss Branghton made several attempts to attract his notice, but in vain, for he would not take the trouble of paying her any regard.
Sir Clement, despite this criticism, focused only on me; however, I didn’t respond to anything he said whenever I could avoid it. Miss Branghton tried several times to get his attention, but it was pointless since he wouldn’t put in the effort to acknowledge her.
Madame Duval, during the rest of the ride, addressed herself to M. Du Bois in French, and in that language exclaimed, with great vehemence, against boldness and assurance.
Madame Duval, for the remainder of the ride, spoke to M. Du Bois in French and passionately complained about boldness and confidence.
I was extremely glad when I thought our journey must be nearly at an end, for my situation was very uneasy to me, as Sir Clement perpetually endeavoured to take my hand. I looked out of the coach-window, to see if we were near home: Sir Clement, stooping over me, did the same; and then, in a voice of infinite wonder, called out, “Where the d-l is the man driving to?-Why we are in Broad Street, St. Giles’s!”
I was really happy when I thought our journey was almost over, because I was feeling really uncomfortable with Sir Clement constantly trying to take my hand. I looked out of the coach window to see if we were close to home; Sir Clement leaned over me and did the same. Then, in a voice full of disbelief, he shouted, "Where the hell is the driver going? We're in Broad Street, St. Giles's!"
“O, he’s very right,” cried Madame Duval, “so never trouble your head about that; for I sha’n’t go by no directions of your’s, I promise you.”
“Oh, he’s absolutely right,” exclaimed Madame Duval, “so don’t worry about that; I promise I won’t follow any of your directions.”
When, at last, we stopped at an hosier’s in High Holborn,-Sir Clement said nothing, but his eyes, I saw, were very busily employed in viewing the place, and the situation of the house. The coach, he said, belong to him, and therefore he insisted upon paying for it; and then he took leave. M. Du Bois walked home with Miss Branghton, and Madame Duval and I retired to our apartments.
When we finally stopped at a clothing store in High Holborn, Sir Clement didn’t say anything, but I noticed his eyes were busy taking in the place and the layout of the house. He mentioned that the coach belonged to him, so he insisted on paying for it, and then he said goodbye. M. Du Bois walked home with Miss Branghton, while Madame Duval and I went to our rooms.
How disagreeable an evening’s adventure! not one of the party seemed satisfied, except Sir Clement, who was in high spirits: but Madame Duval was enraged at meeting with him; Mr. Branghton, angry with his children; the frolic of the Miss Branghtons had exceeded their plan, and ended in their own distress; their brother was provoked that there had been no riot; Mr. Brown was tired, and Mr. Smith mortified. As to myself, I must acknowledge, nothing could be more disagreeable to me, than being seen by Sir Clement Willoughby with a party at once so vulgar in themselves, and so familiar to me.
What an unpleasant evening! No one in the group seemed happy except for Sir Clement, who was in a great mood. Madame Duval was furious to run into him; Mr. Branghton was upset with his kids; the fun that the Miss Branghtons planned had gone too far and ended up causing them trouble; their brother was annoyed that there hadn't been any chaos; Mr. Brown felt exhausted, and Mr. Smith was embarrassed. As for me, I must admit nothing was more uncomfortable than being seen by Sir Clement Willoughby with a crowd that was both so low-class and so familiar to me.
And you, too, my dear Sir, will, I know, be sorry that I have met him; however, there is no apprehension of his visiting here, as Madame Duval is far too angry to admit him.
And you, too, my dear Sir, will, I know, be upset that I have met him; however, there's no fear of him coming here, since Madame Duval is way too angry to let him in.
LETTER XLVII - EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS. Holborn, June 18th.
MADAME DUVAL rose very late this morning, and, at one o’clock, we had but just breakfasted, when Miss Branghton, her brother, Mr. Smith, and Monsieur Du Bois, called to enquire after our healths.
MADAME DUVAL got up very late this morning, and by one o'clock, we had just finished breakfast when Miss Branghton, her brother, Mr. Smith, and Monsieur Du Bois stopped by to check on how we were doing.
The civility in young Branghton, I much suspect, was merely the result of his father’s commands; but his sister and Mr. Smith, I soon found, had motives of their own. Scarce had they spoken to Madame Duval, when, advancing eagerly to me, “Pray, Ma’am,” said Mr. Smith, “who was that gentleman?”
The politeness in young Branghton, I greatly suspect, was just a result of his father's orders; but his sister and Mr. Smith, I soon realized, had their own reasons. Hardly had they talked to Madame Duval when Mr. Smith eagerly approached me and said, “Excuse me, Ma’am, who was that gentleman?”
“Pray, cousin,” cried Miss Branghton, “was not he the same gentleman you ran away with that night at the opera?”
"Please, cousin," shouted Miss Branghton, "wasn't he the same guy you ran off with that night at the opera?"
“Goodness! that he was,” said young Branghton, “and, I declare, as soon as ever I saw him, I thought I knew his face.”
“Wow! he really was,” said young Branghton, “and I swear, as soon as I saw him, I thought I recognized his face.”
“I’m sure, I’ll defy you to forget him,” answered his sister, “if once you had seen him: he is the finest gentleman I ever saw in my life, don’t you think so, Mr. Smith?”
“I'm sure I can challenge you to forget him,” replied his sister, “if you had seen him at least once: he's the best gentleman I've ever seen in my life, don’t you think so, Mr. Smith?”
“Why, you won’t give the lady time to speak,” said Mr. Smith.-“Pray, Ma’am, what is the gentleman’s name?”
“Why, you won’t let the lady speak,” Mr. Smith said. “Excuse me, Ma’am, what is the gentleman’s name?”
“Willoughby, Sir.”
"Sir Willoughby."
“Willoughby! I think I have heard the name. Pray, Ma’am, is he married?”
“Willoughby! I think I've heard that name. Please, ma'am, is he married?”
“Lord, no, that he is not,” cried Miss Branghton; “he looks too smart by a great deal for a married man. Pray, cousin, how did you get acquainted with him?”
“Lord, no, he’s definitely not,” exclaimed Miss Branghton; “he looks way too put together for a married guy. Please, cousin, how did you meet him?”
“Pray, Miss,” said young Branghton, in the same breath, “what’s his business?”
“Please, Miss,” said young Branghton, in the same breath, “what’s his business?”
“Indeed I don’t know,” answered I.
“Honestly, I have no idea,” I replied.
“Something very genteel, I dare say,” added Miss Branghton, “because he dresses so fine.”
“Something really classy, I would say,” added Miss Branghton, “because he dresses so well.”
“It ought to be something that brings in a good income” said Mr. Smith; “for I’m sure that he did not get that suit of clothes he had on under thirty or forty pounds; for I know the price of clothes pretty well.-Pray, Ma’am, can you tell me what he has a-year?”
“It should be something that generates a decent income,” said Mr. Smith, “because I’m sure he didn’t get that suit he’s wearing for less than thirty or forty pounds; I know clothing prices pretty well. Excuse me, Ma’am, can you tell me what his annual income is?”
“Don’t talk no more about him,” cried Madame Duval, “for I don’t like to hear his name: I believe he’s one of the worst persons in the world; for though I never did him no manner of harm, nor so much as hurt a hair of his head, I know he was an accomplice with the fellow, Captain Mirvan, to take away my life.”
“Don’t talk about him anymore,” shouted Madame Duval, “because I don’t want to hear his name. I believe he’s one of the worst people in the world; even though I’ve never done him any harm or hurt a hair on his head, I know he was working with that guy, Captain Mirvan, to try to take my life.”
Everybody, but myself, now crowding around her for an explanation, a violent rapping at the street-door was unheard; and, without any previous notice, in the midst of her narration, Sir Clement Willoughby entered the room. They all started; and, with looks of guilty confusion, as if they feared his resentment for having listened to Madame Duval, they scrambled for chairs, and in a moment were all formally seated.
Everyone except me was crowded around her, wanting an explanation, when a loud knock at the front door went unnoticed. Suddenly, in the middle of her story, Sir Clement Willoughby walked into the room. They all jumped, looking guilty and flustered, as if they were afraid he would be angry for overhearing Madame Duval. They hurried to grab chairs and quickly sat down formally.
Sir Clement, after a general bow, singling out Madame Duval, said with his usual easiness, “I have done myself the honour of waiting on you, Madame, to enquire if you have any commands to Howard Grove, whither I am going to-morrow morning.”
Sir Clement, after a general bow, focusing on Madame Duval, said with his usual ease, “I wanted to honor you, Madame, by asking if you have any requests for Howard Grove, where I’m headed tomorrow morning.”
Then, seeing the storm that gathered in her eyes, before he allowed her time to answer, he addressed himself to me;-“And if you, Madam, have any with which you will honour me, I shall be happy to execute them.”
Then, noticing the storm brewing in her eyes, before she had a chance to respond, he turned to me and said, “And if you, Madam, have any requests you’d like to honor me with, I would be happy to fulfill them.”
“None at all, Sir.”
"Not at all, Sir."
“None! -not to Miss Mirvan!-no message! no letter!”
“None! -not to Miss Mirvan!-no message! no letter!”
“I wrote to Miss Mirvan yesterday by the post.”
“I wrote to Miss Mirvan yesterday by mail.”
“My application should have been earlier, had I sooner known your address.”
"My application would have been submitted earlier if I had known your address sooner."
“Ma foi,” cried Madame Duval, recovering from her surprise, “I believe never nobody saw the like of this!”
“Wow,” exclaimed Madame Duval, regaining her composure, “I don't think anyone has ever seen anything like this!”
“Of what, Madam?” cried the undaunted Sir Clement, turning quick towards her; “I hope no one has offended you!”
“About what, Madam?” exclaimed the fearless Sir Clement, quickly turning toward her. “I hope no one has upset you!”
“You don’t hope no such a thing!” cried she, half choked with passion, and rising from her chair. This motion was followed by the rest; and in a moment, every body stood up.
“You don’t hope for any such thing!” she shouted, half choked with emotion, as she got up from her chair. This action was quickly mirrored by everyone else, and in an instant, everyone was standing.
Still Sir Clement was not abashed; affecting to make a bow of acknowledgment to the company in general, he said, “Pray-I beg-Ladies,-Gentlemen,-pray don’t let me disturb you, pray keep your seats.”
Still, Sir Clement was not embarrassed; pretending to bow to the crowd, he said, “Please—I beg you—Ladies, Gentlemen—don’t let me interrupt you, please stay seated.”
“Pray, Sir,” said Miss Branghton, moving a chair towards him, “won’t you sit down yourself?”
“Please, sir,” said Miss Branghton, moving a chair toward him, “won’t you sit down too?”
“You are extremely good, Ma’am:-rather than make any disturbance-”
“You're really great, Ma'am: I’d rather not cause any trouble—”
And so saying, this strange man seated himself, as did, in an instant every body else, even Madame Duval herself, who, overpowered by his boldness, seemed too full for utterance.
And with that, this unusual man took a seat, and in an instant, everyone else did too, even Madame Duval herself, who, overwhelmed by his confidence, seemed too shocked to speak.
He then, and with as much composure as if he had been an expected guest, began to discourse on the weather,-its uncertainty,-the heat of the public places in summer,-the emptiness of the town,-and other such common topics.
He then, as calmly as if he were an expected guest, started to talk about the weather—its unpredictability—the heat of public places in summer—the town being empty—and other typical subjects.
Nobody, however, answered him; Mr. Smith seemed afraid, young Branghton ashamed, M. Du Bois amazed, Madame Duval enraged, and myself determined not to interfere. All that he could obtain, was the notice of Miss Branghton, whose nods, smiles, and attention, had some appearance of entering into conversation with him.
Nobody answered him, though; Mr. Smith looked scared, young Branghton felt embarrassed, M. Du Bois was taken aback, Madame Duval was furious, and I decided not to get involved. The only one who seemed to pay attention was Miss Branghton, whose nods, smiles, and engagement suggested she was willing to chat with him.
At length, growing tired, I suppose, of engaging every body’s eyes, and nobody’s tongue, addressing himself to Madame Duval and to me, the said, “I regard myself as peculiarly unfortunate, Ladies, in having fixed upon a time for my visit to Howard Grove, when you are absent from it.”
At last, I guess he got tired of catching everyone's attention but not sparking any conversation. He turned to Madame Duval and me and said, “I feel especially unlucky, ladies, for choosing to visit Howard Grove when you aren't here.”
“So I suppose, Sir, so I suppose,” cried Madame Duval, hastily rising, and the next moment as hastily seating herself;-“you’ll be wanting of somebody to make your game of, and so you may think to get me there again;-but, I promise you, Sir, you won’t find it so easy a matter to make me a fool; and besides that,” raising her voice, “I’ve found you out, I assure you; so if ever you go to play your tricks upon me again, I’ll make no more ado, but go directly to a justice of peace; so, Sir, if you can’t think of nothing but making people ride about the country at all hours of the night, just for your diversion, why, you’ll find I know some justices as well as Justice Tyrrell.”
“So I guess, Sir, I guess,” cried Madame Duval, quickly standing up, and the next moment just as quickly sitting back down; “you’ll be looking for someone to play your games with, and you might think about getting me back in on it; but I promise you, Sir, it won’t be so easy to make a fool out of me; and on top of that,” raising her voice, “I’ve figured you out, I assure you; so if you ever try to mess with me again, I won’t hesitate—I’ll go straight to a justice of the peace; so, Sir, if all you can think about is making people ride around the countryside at all hours of the night just for your amusement, well, you’ll find I know some justices just as well as Justice Tyrrell.”
Sir Clement was evidently embarrassed at this attack; yet he affected a look of surprise, and protested he did not understand her meaning.
Sir Clement was clearly embarrassed by this accusation; still, he tried to appear surprised and insisted that he didn't understand what she meant.
“Well,” cried she, “if I don’t wonder where people can get such impudence! if you’ll say that, you’ll say anything: however, if you swear till you’re black in the face, I sha’n’t believe you; for nobody sha’n’t persuade me out of my senses, that I’m resolved.”
“Well,” she exclaimed, “I can't believe how people can be so bold! If you’ll say that, you’ll say anything: however, even if you swear until you’re blue in the face, I won’t believe you; because no one is going to shake my resolve.”
“Doubtless not, Madam,” answered he with some hesitation; “and I hope you do not suspect I ever had such an intention; my respect for you-”
“Definitely not, Ma'am,” he replied with a bit of hesitation; “and I hope you don’t think I ever had such an intention; my respect for you—”
“O, Sir, you’re vastly polite all of a sudden! but I know what it’s all for! it’s only for what you can get!-You could treat me like nobody at Howard Grove; but now you see I’ve a house of my own, you’re mind to wheedle yourself into it; but I sees your design, so you needn’t trouble yourself to take no more trouble about that, for you shall never get nothing at my house,-not so much as a dish of tea:-so now, Sir, you see I can play you trick for trick.”
“Oh, Sir, you're being really polite all of a sudden! But I know what this is all about! It's only because of what you want! You could treat me like nobody back at Howard Grove, but now that I have my own place, you're trying to sweet-talk your way in. But I see your plan, so don’t bother trying anymore because you’re not getting anything at my house—not even a cup of tea—so now, Sir, you see I can match you move for move.”
There was something so extremely gross in this speech, that it even disconcerted Sir Clement, who was too much confounded to make any answer.
There was something so incredibly disgusting in this speech that it even threw Sir Clement off balance, leaving him too stunned to respond.
It was curious to observe the effect which his embarrassment, added to the freedom with which Madame Duval addressed him, had upon the rest of the company. Every one, who before seemed at a loss how or if at all, to occupy a chair, how filled it with the most easy composure: and Mr. Smith, whose countenance had exhibited the most striking picture of mortified envy, now began to recover his usual expression of satisfied conceit. Young Branghton, too, who had been apparently awed by the presence of so fine a gentleman, was again himself, rude and familiar: while his mouth was wide distended into a broad grin, at hearing his aunt give the beau such a trimming.
It was interesting to see how his embarrassment, combined with the way Madame Duval spoke to him so freely, affected the rest of the group. Everyone who had previously seemed unsure about how to sit down now did so with complete ease. Mr. Smith, whose face had been a clear display of envy, started to get back to his usual smug self. Young Branghton, who had seemed intimidated by such a distinguished gentleman, was back to his old rude, familiar self, grinning widely when he heard his aunt give the beau a piece of her mind.
Madame Duval, encouraged by this success, looked around her with an air of triumph, and continued her harangue. “And so, Sir, I suppose you thought to have had it all your own way, and to have comed here as often as you pleased, and to have got me to Howard Grove again, on purpose to have served me as you did before; but you shall see I’m as cunning as you; so you may go and find somebody else to use in that manner, and to put your mask on, and to make a fool of; for as to me, if you go to tell me your stories about the Tower again, for a month together, I’ll never believe ‘m no more: and I’ll promise you, Sir, if you think I like such jokes, you’ll find I’m no such person.”
Madame Duval, feeling triumphant from her success, surveyed her surroundings and continued her speech. “So, Sir, I guess you thought you could have everything your way, come here whenever you wanted, and get me to Howard Grove again just to treat me the way you did before. But you’ll see I’m just as clever as you are; so you can go find someone else to manipulate, to wear your mask, and to make a fool of. As for me, if you think you can keep telling me your stories about the Tower for a month straight, I won’t believe them anymore. And I promise you, Sir, if you think I enjoy such tricks, you’ll find out I’m not that kind of person.”
“I assure you, Ma’am,-upon my honour,-I really don’t comprehend-I fancy there is some misunderstanding-”
“I promise you, Ma’am—on my honor—I truly don’t understand—I think there’s some kind of mix-up—”
“What, I suppose you’ll tell me next you don’t know nothing of the matter?”
“What, I guess you’re gonna say next that you don’t know anything about it?”
“Not a word, upon my honour.”
"I promise, not a word."
O, Sir Clement, thought I, is it thus you prize your honour!
O, Sir Clement, I thought, is this how you value your honor!
“Pardi,” cried Madame Duval, “this is the most provokingest part of all! why, you might as well tell me I don’t know my own name.”
“Pardi,” shouted Madame Duval, “this is the most infuriating part of all! You might as well tell me I don’t know my own name.”
“Here is certainly some mistake; for I assure you, Ma’am-”
“There's definitely been a mistake; I assure you, Ma’am—”
“Don’t assure me nothing,” cried Madame Duval, raising her voice; “I know what I’m saying, and so do you too; for did not you tell me all that about the Tower, and about M. Du Bois?-why M. Du Bois wasn’t never there, nor nigh it, and so it was all your own invention.”
“Don’t you guarantee me anything,” shouted Madame Duval, raising her voice. “I know what I’m talking about, and so do you; didn’t you tell me all that about the Tower and M. Du Bois? Well, M. Du Bois was never there, nor even close, so it was all just your own imagination.”
“May there not be two persons of the same name? the mistake was but natural-”
“Is it possible for two people to have the same name? The mix-up was only natural—”
“Don’t tell me of no mistake, for it was all on purpose: besides, did not you come, all in a mask, to the chariot-door, and help to get me put in that ditch?-I’ll promise you, I’ve had the greatest mind in the world to take the law of you ever since; and if ever you do as much again, so I will, I assure you!”
“Don’t tell me it was a mistake, because it was all intentional: besides, didn’t you come, all masked, to the chariot door and help get me thrown into that ditch? I’ll promise you, I've been thinking about taking legal action against you ever since; and if you ever do anything like that again, I really will, I swear!”
Here Miss Branghton tittered, Mr. Smith smiled contemptously, and young Branghton thrust his handkerchief into his mouth to stop his laughter.
Here Miss Branghton giggled, Mr. Smith smirked disdainfully, and young Branghton stuffed his handkerchief into his mouth to hold back his laughter.
The situation of Sir Clement, who saw all that passed, became now very awkward even to himself, and he stammered very much in saying, “Surely, Madam-surely you-you cannot do me the-the injustice to think-that I had any share in the-the-the misfortune which-”
The situation for Sir Clement, who witnessed everything that happened, became quite awkward even for him, and he stammered as he said, “Surely, Madam—surely you—you can’t think that I had any part in the—the misfortune that—”
“Ma foi, Sir,” cried Madame Duval, with increasing passion, “you’d best not stand talking to me at that rate: I know it was you; and if you stay there, a provoking me in such a manner, I’ll send for a constable this minute.”
“By my word, sir,” shouted Madame Duval, getting more worked up, “you’d better not keep talking to me like that: I know it was you; and if you keep standing there and provoking me like this, I’ll call a cop right now.”
Young Branghton, at these words, in spite of all his efforts, burst into a loud laugh; nor could either his sister or Mr. Smith, though with more moderation, forbear joining in his mirth.
Young Branghton, at these words, despite all his efforts, broke into a loud laugh; nor could his sister or Mr. Smith, though more restrained, help joining in his amusement.
Sir Clement darted his eyes towards them with looks of the most angry contempt; and then told Madame Duval, that he would not now detain her to make his vindication, but would wait on her some time when she was alone.
Sir Clement shot them a look filled with anger and contempt, then told Madame Duval that he wouldn't hold her up to explain himself now, but would meet with her later when she was alone.
“O Pardi, Sir,” cried she, “I don’t desire none of your company; and if you wasn’t the most boldest person in the world, you would not dare look me in the face.”
“O Pardi, Sir,” she exclaimed, “I don’t want any of your company; and if you weren’t the boldest person in the world, you wouldn’t even think about looking me in the face.”
The ha, ha ha’s! and he, he, he’s! grew more and more uncontrollable, as if the restraint, from which they had burst, had added to their violence. Sir Clement could no longer endure being the object who excited them; and, having no answer ready for Madame Duval, he hastily stalked towards Mr. Smith and young Branghton, and sternly demanded what they laughed at?
The ha, ha ha’s! and he, he, he’s! became increasingly uncontrollable, as if the restraint they had broken free from made their laughter even more intense. Sir Clement could no longer stand being the target of their amusement; with no response prepared for Madame Duval, he quickly walked over to Mr. Smith and young Branghton and firmly asked what they were laughing at.
Struck by the air of importance which he assumed, and alarmed at the angry tone of his voice, their merriment ceased as instantaneously as if it had been directed by clock-work; and they stared foolishly, now at him, now at each other, without making any answer but a simple “Nothing, Sir.”
Struck by the serious vibe he projected and startled by the angry tone of his voice, their laughter stopped immediately, as if it were controlled by a switch. They stared blankly, first at him and then at each other, responding only with a simple, “Nothing, Sir.”
“O pour le coup,” cried Madame Duval, “this is too much! Pray, Sir, what business have you to come here a ordering people that comes to see me? I suppose next nobody must laugh but yourself!”
“O for crying out loud,” exclaimed Madame Duval, “this is too much! Seriously, sir, what right do you have to come here and order people around who come to see me? I suppose next you’ll say nobody should laugh but you!”
“With me, Madam,” said Sir Clement, bowing, “a lady may do any thing, and consequently there is no liberty in which I shall not be happy to indulge you: -but it has never been my custom to give the same licence to gentlemen.”
“With me, Madam,” said Sir Clement, bowing, “a lady can do anything, and therefore there’s no freedom I wouldn’t be pleased to grant you: -but I’ve never made it a habit to give the same freedom to gentlemen.”
Then, advancing to me, who had sat very quietly on a window during this scene, he said, “Miss Anville, I may at least acquaint our friends at Howard Grove that I had the honour of leaving you in good health.” And then, lowering his voice, he added, “For Heaven’s sake, my dearest creature, who are these people? and how came you so strangely situated?”
Then, walking over to me, as I sat quietly by the window during all of this, he said, “Miss Anville, I can at least tell our friends at Howard Grove that I had the privilege of leaving you in good health.” And then, lowering his voice, he added, “For heaven's sake, my dearest, who are these people? And how did you end up in such a strange situation?”
“I beg my respects to all the family, Sir,” answered I, aloud; “and I hope you will find them well.”
“I send my regards to the whole family, Sir,” I replied loudly; “and I hope they are all doing well.”
He looked at me reproachfully, but kissed my hand; and then, bowing to Madame Duval and Miss Branghton, passed hastily by the men, and made his exit.
He gave me a disapproving look but kissed my hand; then, after bowing to Madame Duval and Miss Branghton, he quickly walked past the men and left.
I fancy he will not be very eager to repeat his visit; for I should imagine he has rarely, if ever, been before in a situation so awkward and disagreeable.
I doubt he’ll be very enthusiastic about coming back; I can’t imagine he’s ever been in such an uncomfortable and awkward situation before.
Madame Duval has been all spirits and exultation ever since he went, and only wishes Captain Mirvan would call, that she might do the same by him. Mr. Smith, upon hearing that he was a baronet, and seeing him drive off in a very beautiful chariot, declared that he would not have laughed upon any account, had he known his rank; and regretted extremely having missed such an opportunity of making so genteel an acquaintance. Young Branghton vowed, that if he had known as much, he would have asked for his custom: and his sister has sung his praises ever since, protesting she thought all along he was a man of quality by his look.
Madame Duval has been in high spirits and totally thrilled ever since he left, and she just wishes Captain Mirvan would visit so she could treat him the same way. Mr. Smith, after finding out that he was a baronet and seeing him drive away in a really nice carriage, said he wouldn't have laughed at all if he'd known his status; he really regretted missing such a chance to make such a classy friend. Young Branghton declared that if he had known, he would have tried to get his business: and his sister has been singing his praises ever since, insisting she always thought he looked like a man of high status.
LETTER XLVIII - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. June 21st.
THE last three evenings have passed tolerably quiet, for the Vauxhall adventures had given Madame Duval a surfeit of public places: home, however, soon growing tiresome, she determined to-night, she said, to relieve her ennui by some amusement; and it was therefore settled, that we should call upon the Branghtons at their house, and thence proceed to Marybone Gardens.
The last three evenings have been fairly quiet, since the Vauxhall adventures had given Madame Duval enough of public places. However, home was starting to feel boring, so she decided tonight was the night to shake off her boredom with some fun. We agreed to visit the Branghtons at their house and then head over to Marybone Gardens.
But, before we reached Snow Hill, we were caught in a shower of rain: we hurried into the shop, where the first object I saw was Mr. Macartney, with a book in his hand, seated in the same corner where I saw him last; but his looks were still more wretched than before, his face yet thinner, and his eyes sunk almost hollow into his head. He lifted them up as we entered, and I even thought that they emitted a gleam of joy: involuntarily I made to him my first courtesy; he rose and bowed with a precipitation that manifested surprise and confusion.
But before we got to Snow Hill, we got caught in a rain shower. We hurried into the shop, where the first thing I noticed was Mr. Macartney, sitting in the same corner as before, with a book in his hand. He looked even more miserable than last time; his face was thinner, and his eyes seemed almost hollow. He looked up as we came in, and for a moment, I thought I saw a flash of joy in his eyes. Without thinking, I gave him my first greeting; he stood up and bowed quickly, showing surprise and confusion.
In a few minutes were joined by all the family, except Mr. Smith, who fortunately was engaged.
In a few minutes, the whole family joined us, except for Mr. Smith, who luckily was busy.
Had all the future prosperity of our lives depended upon the good or bad weather of this evening, it could not have been treated as a subject of greater importance. “Sure, never anything was so unlucky!”-“Lord, how provoking!”-“It might rain for ever, if it would hold up now."-These, and such expressions, with many anxious observations upon the kennels, filled up all the conversation till the shower was over.
Had all the future success of our lives relied on the good or bad weather this evening, it couldn't have been seen as anything less important. “This is so unlucky!” “Oh, how frustrating!” “It could rain endlessly, if only it would just stop now.” These, along with many worried comments about the puddles, dominated our conversation until the rain passed.
And then a very warm debate arose, whether we should pursue our plan, or defer it to some finer evening. The Miss Branghtons were for the former; their father was sure it would rain again; Madame Duval, though she detested returning home, yet dreaded the dampness of the gardens.
And then a heated discussion started about whether we should go ahead with our plan or put it off for a nicer evening. The Miss Branghtons were all for the first option; their father was convinced it would rain again; Madame Duval, even though she hated going back home, still feared the dampness of the gardens.
M. Du Bois then proposed going to the top of the house, to examine whether the clouds looked threatening or peaceable: Miss Branghton, starting at this proposal, said they might go to Mr. Macartney’s room, if they would, but not to her’s.
M. Du Bois then suggested going to the top of the house to see if the clouds looked threatening or calm. Miss Branghton, surprised by this idea, said they could go to Mr. Macartney’s room if they wanted, but not to hers.
This was enough for the brother; who, with a loud laugh, declared he would have some fun; and immediately led the way, calling to us all to follow. His sisters both ran after, but no one else moved.
This was enough for the brother, who let out a loud laugh and said he was going to have some fun. He immediately took the lead, calling for all of us to follow. His sisters both chased after him, but no one else budged.
In a few minutes young Branghton, coming half-way down stairs, called out, “Lord, why don’t you all come? why, here’s Poll’s things all about the room!”
In a few minutes, young Branghton, coming halfway down the stairs, shouted, “Come on, why don’t you all join us? Look, Poll’s things are scattered all over the room!”
Mr. Branghton then went; and Madame Duval, who cannot bear to be excluded from whatever is going forward, was handed up stairs by M. Du Bois.
Mr. Branghton then left; and Madame Duval, who can't stand being left out of anything happening, was escorted upstairs by M. Du Bois.
I hesitated a few moments whether or not to join them; but, soon perceiving that Mr. Macartney had dropped his book, and that I engrossed his whole attention, I prepared, from mere embarrassment, to follow them.
I paused for a moment, unsure whether to join them, but soon noticing that Mr. Macartney had dropped his book and was fully focused on me, I decided, out of sheer awkwardness, to follow them.
As I went, I heard him move from his chair, and walk slowly after me. Believing that he wished to speak to me, and earnestly desiring myself to know if, by your means, I could possibly be of any service to him, I first slackened my pace, and then turned back. But, though I thus met him half-way, he seemed to want courage or resolution to address me; for, when he saw me returning, with a look extremely disordered, he retreated hastily from me.
As I walked away, I heard him get up from his chair and slowly follow me. Thinking he wanted to talk and really wanting to know if I could help him through you, I slowed down and then turned back. But even though I approached him, he seemed to lack the courage or determination to speak to me; when he saw me coming back, looking very flustered, he quickly stepped back away from me.
Not knowing what I ought to do, I went to the street-door, where I stood some time, hoping he would be able to recover himself; but, on the contrary, his agitation increased every moment; he walked up and down the room in a quick but unsteady pace, seeming equally distressed and irresolute; and, at length, with a deep sigh, he flung himself into a chair.
Not knowing what to do, I went to the front door and stood there for a while, hoping he would calm down. But instead, his agitation grew every moment. He paced the room quickly but unsteadily, looking both upset and uncertain. Finally, with a deep sigh, he collapsed into a chair.
I was so much affected by the appearance of such extreme anguish, that I could remain no longer in the room: I therefore glided by him and went up stairs; but, ere I had gone five steps, he precipitately followed me, and, in a broken voice, called out “Madam!-for Heaven’s sake-”
I was so impacted by the sight of such deep pain that I couldn't stay in the room any longer. I quietly slipped past him and went upstairs; but before I had taken five steps, he quickly followed me and, in a shaky voice, called out, “Ma'am! For heaven's sake—”
He stopped; but I instantly descended, restraining, as well as I was able, the fulness of my own concern. I waited some time, in painful expectation, for his speaking: all that I had heard of his poverty occurring to me, I was upon the point of presenting him my purse; but the fear of mistaking or offending him deterred me. Finding, however, that he continued silent, I ventured to say, “Did you,-Sir, wish to speak to me?”
He stopped, but I immediately went down, trying to hold back my own worries as best as I could. I waited for a while, feeling anxious, hoping he would speak. All the things I had heard about his financial struggles came to mind, and I almost offered him my wallet, but I was afraid I might misinterpret or upset him. However, when I realized he was still silent, I took a chance and asked, “Did you want to talk to me, Sir?”
“I did,” cried he with quickness, “but now-I cannot!-”
“I did,” he exclaimed quickly, “but now—I can’t!”
“Perhaps, Sir, another time,-perhaps if you recollect yourself-”
“Maybe, sir, another time—maybe if you gather your thoughts—”
“Another time?” repeated he mournfully; “alas! I look not forward but to misery and despair!”
“Another time?” he repeated sadly. “Oh no! I only see misery and despair ahead!”
“O, Sir,” cried I, extremely shocked, “you must not talk thus!-If you forsake yourself, how can you expect-”
“O, Sir,” I exclaimed, very shocked, “you can't talk like that! If you abandon yourself, how can you expect—”
I stopped. “Tell me, tell me,” cried he, with eagerness, “who you are?-whence you come?-and by what strange means you seem to be arbitress and ruler of the destiny of such a wretch as I am?”
I stopped. “Tell me, tell me,” he exclaimed eagerly, “who you are? Where do you come from? And how is it that you seem to control the fate of someone as unfortunate as I am?”
“Would to Heaven,” cried I, “I could serve you!”
“Would to Heaven,” I exclaimed, “I wish I could help you!”
“You can!”
"You got this!"
“And how? Pray tell me how?”
“And how? Please tell me how?”
“To tell you-is death to me! yet I will tell you.-I have a right to your assistance,-you have deprived me of the only resource to which I could apply,-and therefore-”
“To tell you this is like death to me! Yet I will tell you. I have a right to your help; you’ve taken away the only option I had to turn to, and therefore—”
“Pray, pray speak,” cried I, putting my hand into my pocket; “they will be down stairs in a moment!”
“Please, please speak,” I cried, reaching into my pocket; “they'll be downstairs any minute!”
“I will, Madam.-Can you-will you-I think you will!-may I then-” he stopped and paused; “say, will you"-then, suddenly turning from me, “Great Heaven, I cannot speak!” and he went back to the shop.
“I will, ma'am. Can you—will you—I think you will! May I then—” he stopped and hesitated; “Say, will you”—then, suddenly turning away from me, “Oh my God, I can’t speak!” and he went back to the shop.
I now put my purse in my hand, and following him, said, “If, indeed, Sir, I can assist you, why should you deny me so great a satisfaction? Will you permit me to-”
I now take my purse in my hand and, following him, said, “If I can help you, why would you deny me such a great satisfaction? Will you let me-”
I dared not go on; but with a countenance very much softened, he approached me and said, “Your voice, Madam, is the voice of compassion!-such a voice as these ears have long been strangers to!”
I didn’t want to continue; but with a much gentler expression, he came closer and said, “Your voice, ma’am, is the voice of compassion! It’s a voice my ears haven’t heard in a long time!”
Just then young Branghton called out vehemently to me to come up stairs. I seized the opportunity of hastening away: and therefore saying, “Heaven, Sir, protect and comfort you!” I let fall my purse upon the ground, not daring to present it to him, and ran up stairs with the utmost swiftness.
Just then, young Branghton called out urgently for me to come upstairs. I took that chance to leave quickly, so I said, “God bless you and give you comfort!” I dropped my purse on the ground, not daring to give it to him, and ran upstairs as fast as I could.
Too well do I know you, my ever honoured Sir, to fear your displeasure for this action: I must, however, assure you, I shall need no fresh supply during my stay in town, as I am at little expense, and hope soon to return to Howard Grove.
I know you well enough, my esteemed Sir, to not worry about your disappointment over this action: I must, however, assure you that I won’t need any more support while I'm in town, as I'm not spending much and hope to return to Howard Grove soon.
Soon, did I say! when not a fortnight is yet expired of the long and tedious month I must linger out here!
Soon, did I say! when not even two weeks have passed of the long and boring month I have to spend out here!
I had many witticisms to endure from the Branghtons, upon account of my staying so long with the Scotch mope, as they call him; but I attended to them very little, for my whole heart was filled with pity and concern. I was very glad to find the Marybone scheme was deferred, another shower of rain having put a stop to the dissension upon this subject; the rest of the evening was employed in most violent quarrelling between Miss Polly and her brother, on account of the discovery made by the latter of the state of her apartment.
I had to put up with a lot of teasing from the Branghtons about how long I was staying with the Scottish guy, as they called him; but I paid them little mind because I was consumed with pity and worry. I was really relieved to find out that the Marybone plan was postponed, as another downpour had ended the arguments about it; the rest of the evening was taken up with a fierce fight between Miss Polly and her brother, triggered by his discovery of how messy her room was.
We came home early; and I have stolen from Madame Duval and M. Du Bois, who is here for ever, to write to my best friend.
We got home early, and I took some time from Madame Duval and M. Du Bois, who is always here, to write to my best friend.
I am most sincerely rejoiced, that this opportunity has offered for my contributing what little relief was in my power to this unhappy man; and I hope it will be sufficient to enable him to pay his debts to this pitiless family.
I’m truly happy that this opportunity has allowed me to provide some relief to this unfortunate man; and I hope it will be enough for him to pay off his debts to this heartless family.
LETTER XLIX - MR. VILLARS TO EVELINA. Berry Hill.
DISPLEASURE? my Evelina!-you have but done your duty; you have but shown that humanity without which I should blush to own my child. It is mine, however, to see that your generosity be not repressed by your suffering from indulging it; I remit to you, therefore, not merely a token of my approbation, but an acknowledgment of my desire to participate in your charity.
DISPLEASURE? my Evelina! You've only done your duty; you've shown the compassion that I would be embarrassed to claim from my child without. It is my responsibility, though, to ensure that your kindness doesn't get stifled by the pain of indulging it. So, I offer you not just a sign of my approval, but an expression of my wish to share in your generosity.
O my child, were my fortune equal to my confidence in thy benevolence, with what transport should I, through thy means, devote it to the relief of indigent virtue! yet let us not repine at the limitation of our power; for while our bounty is proportioned to our ability, the difference of the greater or less donation can weigh but little in the scale of justice.
Oh my child, if my fortune matched my trust in your kindness, how joyfully I would dedicate it to helping those good people in need through you! But let's not complain about the limits of our ability; since our generosity is based on what we can afford, the difference between a larger or smaller gift hardly matters in the grand scheme of justice.
In reading your account of the misguided man, whose misery has so largely excited your compassion, I am led to apprehend that his unhappy situation is less the effect of misfortune than of misconduct. If he is reduced to that state of poverty represented by the Branghtons, he should endeavour, by activity and industry, to retrieve his affairs, and not pass his time in idle reading in the very shop of his creditor.
In reading your account of the misguided man, whose misery has captured your compassion, I realize that his unfortunate situation is more the result of his own actions than of bad luck. If he's in the kind of poverty described by the Branghtons, he should try to improve his situation through hard work and effort, and not waste his time idly reading in the shop of his creditor.
The pistol scene made me shudder; the courage with which you pursued this desperate man, at once delighted and terrified me. Be ever thus, my dearest Evelina, dauntless in the cause of distress! let no weak fears, no timid doubts, deter you from the exertion of your duty, according to the fullest sense of it that Nature has implanted in your mind. Though gentleness and modesty are the peculiar attributes of your sex, yet fortitude and firmness, when occasion demands them, are virtues as noble and as becoming in women as in men: the right line of conduct is the same for both sexes, though the manner in which it is pursued may somewhat vary, and be accommodated to the strength or weakness of the different travellers.
The gun scene gave me chills; the bravery with which you chased after that desperate man both thrilled and scared me. Always be like this, my dearest Evelina, fearless in the face of trouble! Don’t let any weak fears or timid doubts hold you back from doing what you know is right, as Nature has instilled in your mind. While gentleness and modesty are special traits of your gender, courage and determination, when needed, are just as admirable and fitting for women as they are for men: the right path is the same for everyone, though the way we pursue it may differ slightly based on the strengths or weaknesses of each person.
There is, however, something so mysterious in all you have seen or heard of this wretched man, that I am unwilling to stamp a bad impression of his character upon so slight and partial a knowledge of it. Where any thing is doubtful, the ties of society, and the laws of humanity, claim a favourable interpretation; but remember, my dear child, that those of discretion have an equal claim to your regard.
There’s something so mysterious about everything you’ve seen or heard about this unfortunate man that I’m hesitant to judge his character based on such limited and incomplete information. When anything is uncertain, the bonds of society and the principles of humanity deserve a positive interpretation; but remember, my dear child, that those who are wise also deserve your respect.
As to Sir Clement Willoughby, I know not how to express my indignation at his conduct. Insolence so insufferable, and the implication of suspicions so shocking, irritate me to a degree of wrath, which I hardly thought my almost worn-out passions were capable of again experiencing. You must converse with him no more: he imagines, from the pliability of your temper, that he may offend you with impunity; but his behaviour justifies, nay, calls for your avowed resentment; do not, therefore, hesitate in forbidding him your sight.
As for Sir Clement Willoughby, I don’t know how to express my anger at his behavior. His arrogance is unbearable, and the suspicions he implies are shocking, making me angrier than I thought I could be again with my nearly exhausted emotions. You must stop talking to him: he thinks that because you’re so easygoing, he can upset you without consequences. However, his actions deserve, no, demand your open anger; so don’t hesitate to tell him you don’t want to see him anymore.
The Branghtons, Mr. Smith, and young Brown, however ill-bred and disagreeable, are objects too contemptible for serious displeasure; yet I grieve much that my Evelina should be exposed to their rudeness and impertinence.
The Branghtons, Mr. Smith, and young Brown, no matter how badly raised and unpleasant they are, are too pathetic to deserve real anger; still, I’m really upset that my Evelina has to deal with their rudeness and arrogance.
The very day that this tedious month expires, I shall send Mrs. Clinton to town, who will accompany you to Howard Grove. Your stay there will, I hope, be short; for I feel daily an increasing impatience to fold my beloved child to my bosom! ARTHUR VILLARS.
The day this long month ends, I’ll send Mrs. Clinton to town to take you to Howard Grove. I hope your visit there will be brief because I’m growing more and more eager to hold my beloved child in my arms! ARTHUR VILLARS.
LETTER L -- EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS. Holborn, June 27th.
I HAVE just received, my dearest Sir, your kind present, and still kinder letter. Surely, never had orphan so little to regret as your grateful Evelina! Though motherless, though worse than fatherless, bereft from infancy of the two first and greatest blessings of life, never has she had cause to deplore their loss; never has she felt the omission of a parent’s tenderness, care, or indulgence; never, but from sorrow for them, had reason to grieve at the separation! Most thankfully do I receive the token of your approbation, and most studiously will I endeavour so to dispose of it, as may merit your generous confidence in my conduct.
I just got your thoughtful gift and even more thoughtful letter, my dearest Sir. Truly, no orphan has had so little to regret as your grateful Evelina! Even though I’ve lost my mother and, worse yet, my father, and have been without the two greatest blessings in life since childhood, I've never felt the absence of a parent’s love, care, or support; I’ve only felt sorrow for their loss and never had a reason to mourn our separation! I am incredibly grateful for this sign of your approval, and I will make every effort to use it in a way that earns your generous trust in my actions.
Your doubts concerning Mr. Macartney give me some uneasiness. Indeed, Sir, he has not the appearance of a man whose sorrows are the effect of guilt. But I hope, before I leave town, to be better acquainted with his situation, and enabled, with more certainty of his worth, to recommend him to your favour.
Your doubts about Mr. Macartney make me a bit uneasy. Honestly, he doesn't seem like a man whose sadness is due to guilt. But I hope that before I leave town, I can learn more about his situation and be more sure of his character so I can recommend him to you.
I am very willing to relinquish all acquaintance with Sir Clement Willoughby, as far as it may depend upon myself so to do; but, indeed I know not how I should be able to absolutely forbid him my sight.
I’m more than willing to cut all ties with Sir Clement Willoughby, as far as it’s in my control; but honestly, I don’t know how I could completely keep him from seeing me.
Miss Mirvan, in her last letter, informs me that he is now at Howard Grove, where he continues in high favour with the Captain, and is the life and spirit of the house. My time, since I wrote last, has passed very quietly, Madame Duval having been kept at home by a bad cold, and the Branghtons by bad weather. The young man, indeed, has called two or three times; and his behavior, though equally absurd, is more unaccountable than ever: he speaks very little, takes hardly any notice of Madame Duval, and never looks at me without a broad grin. Sometimes he approaches me, as if with intention to communicate intelligence of importance; and then, suddenly stopping short, laughs rudely in my face.
Miss Mirvan, in her last letter, tells me that he’s now at Howard Grove, where he still has the Captain’s favor and is the life and soul of the house. Since I last wrote, my time has passed very quietly, as Madame Duval has been stuck at home with a bad cold, and the Branghtons have been held back by bad weather. The young man has called two or three times, and his behavior, while still ridiculous, is more puzzling than ever: he hardly speaks, barely acknowledges Madame Duval, and never looks at me without a big grin. Sometimes he gets close, as if he’s about to share some important news; but then, he suddenly stops short and laughs rudely in my face.
O how happy shall I be, when the worthy Mrs. Clinton arrives!
Oh, how happy I will be when the wonderful Mrs. Clinton arrives!
June 29th.
June 29.
Yesterday morning, Mr. Smith called to acquaint us that the Hampstead assembly was to be held that evening; and then he presented Madame Duval with one ticket, and brought another to me. I thanked him for his intended civility, but told him I was surprised he had so soon forgotten my having already declined going to the ball.
Yesterday morning, Mr. Smith called to let us know that the Hampstead assembly was happening that evening. He then gave Madame Duval one ticket and brought another to me. I thanked him for his kindness but mentioned I was surprised he had forgotten that I had already declined to go to the ball.
“Lord, Ma’am,” cried he, “how should I suppose you was in earnest? come, come, don’t be cross; here’s your Grandmama ready to take care of you, so you can have no fair objection, for she’ll see that I don’t run away with you. Besides, Ma’am, I got the tickets on purpose.”
“Lady, I didn't think you were serious,” he exclaimed. “Come on, don’t be upset; your Grandmama is here to look after you, so you really can’t have any valid complaints, because she’ll make sure I don’t take you away. Plus, I got the tickets just for this.”
“If you were determined, Sir,” said I, “in making me this offer, to allow me no choice of refusal or acceptance, I must think myself less obliged to your intention than I was willing to do.”
“If you were set, Sir,” I said, “on making me this offer without giving me the choice to refuse or accept, I must feel less obligated by your intentions than I was willing to be.”
“Dear Ma’am,” cried he, “you’re so smart, there is no speaking to you;-indeed you are monstrous smart, Ma’am! but come, your Grandmama shall ask you, and then I know you’ll not be so cruel.”
“Dear Ma’am,” he exclaimed, “you’re so clever, it’s impossible to get through to you; truly, you’re incredibly clever, Ma’am! But come on, your Grandmama will ask you, and then I’m sure you won’t be so harsh.”
Madame Duval was very ready to interfere; she desired me to make no further opposition, said she should go herself, and insisted upon my accompanying her. It was in vain that I remonstrated; I only incurred her anger: and Mr. Smith having given both the tickets to Madame Duval with an air of triumph, said he should call early in the evening, and took leave.
Madame Duval was eager to step in; she told me to stop resisting, said she would go herself, and insisted that I join her. No matter how much I protested, it only sparked her anger. Mr. Smith, having handed both tickets to Madame Duval with a sense of triumph, said he would come by early in the evening and then left.
I was much chagrined at being thus compelled to owe even the shadow of an obligation to so forward a young man; but I determined that nothing should prevail upon me to dance with him, however my refusal might give offence.
I was really annoyed at having to owe even the slightest obligation to such a bold young man; but I decided that nothing would make me dance with him, no matter how much my refusal might upset him.
In the afternoon, when he returned, it was evident that he purposed to both charm and astonish me by his appearance: he was dressed in a very showy manner, but without any taste; and the inelegant smartness of his air and deportment, his visible struggle against education to put on the fine gentleman, added to his frequent conscious glances at a dress to which he was but little accustomed, very effectually destroyed his aim of figuring, and rendered all his efforts useless.
In the afternoon, when he came back, it was clear that he intended to both impress and surprise me with his appearance: he was dressed quite flashy, but without any style; and the clumsy way he carried himself, along with his obvious effort to act like a classy guy, combined with his frequent self-conscious looks at a outfit he wasn't used to, completely undermined his goal of standing out and made all his attempts pointless.
During tea entered Miss Branghton and her brother. I was sorry to observe the consternation of the former, when she perceived Mr. Smith. I had intended applying to her for advice upon this occasion, but had been always deterred by her disagreeable abruptness. Having cast her eyes several times from Mr. Smith to me, with manifest displeasure, she seated herself sullenly in the window, scarce answering Madame Duval’s enquiries; and when I spoke to her, turning absolutely away from me.
During tea, Miss Branghton and her brother walked in. I felt bad seeing how distressed she looked when she noticed Mr. Smith. I had planned to ask her for advice this time, but her unpleasant bluntness always held me back. After glancing at Mr. Smith and then at me several times with clear disapproval, she sat down moodily by the window, barely responding to Madame Duval’s questions; and when I tried to talk to her, she completely turned away from me.
Mr. Smith, delighted at this mark of his importance, sat indolently quiet on his chair, endeavouring by his looks rather to display, than to conceal, his inward satisfaction.
Mr. Smith, pleased with this sign of his significance, sat lazily in his chair, trying more to show than hide his inner happiness through his expression.
“Good gracious!” cried young Branghton, “why, you’re all as fine as a five-pence! Why, where are you going?”
“Wow!” exclaimed young Branghton, “you all look amazing! Where are you headed?”
“To the Hampstead ball,” answered Mr. Smith.
“To the Hampstead ball,” replied Mr. Smith.
“To a ball!” cried he. “Why, what, is aunt going to a ball? Ha, ha, ha!”
“To a party!” he exclaimed. “Wait, what, is Aunt going to a party? Ha, ha, ha!”
“Yes, to be sure,” cried Madame Duval; “I don’t know nothing need hinder me.”
“Yes, for sure,” exclaimed Madame Duval; “I don’t see why anything should stop me.”
“And pray, aunt, will you dance too?”
“And please, aunt, will you dance too?”
“Perhaps I may; but I suppose, Sir, that’s none of your business, whether I do or not.”
“Maybe I will; but I think, Sir, that it’s not your concern whether I do or not.”
“Lord! well, I should like to go! I should like to see aunt dance of all things! But the joke is, I don’t believe she’ll get ever a partner.”
“Wow! I really want to go! I want to see my aunt dance of all things! But the funny thing is, I don’t think she’ll ever find a partner.”
“You’re the most rudest boy ever I see,” cried Madame Duval, angrily: “but, I promise you, I’ll tell your father what you say, for I’ve no notion of such vulgarness.”
“You're the rudest boy I've ever seen,” Madame Duval shouted angrily. “But I promise you, I'll tell your father what you said because I have no tolerance for such rudeness.”
“Why, Lord, aunt, what are you so angry for? there’s no speaking a word, but you fly into a passion: you’re as bad as Biddy, or Poll, for that, for you’re always a-scolding.”
“Why, Aunt, what are you so angry about? You can’t say a single word without flying into a rage. You’re just as bad as Biddy or Poll for that; you’re always complaining.”
“I desire, Tom,” cried Miss Branghton, “you’d speak for yourself, and not make so free with my name.”
“I wish, Tom,” Miss Branghton exclaimed, “that you would speak for yourself and stop using my name so casually.”
“There, now, she’s up! There’s nothing but quarrelling with the women; it’s my belief they like it better than victuals and drink.”
“There, she’s up now! All they do is argue with the women; I honestly think they enjoy it more than food and drink.”
“Fie, Tom,” cried Mr. Smith, “you never remember your manners before the ladies: I’m sure you never heard me speak so rude to them.”
“Come on, Tom,” shouted Mr. Smith, “you really need to remember your manners in front of the ladies: I’m sure you’ve never heard me speak so rudely to them.”
“Why, Lord, you are a beau; but that’s nothing to me. So, if you’ve a mind, you may be so polite as to dance with aunt yourself.” Then, with a loud laugh, he declared it would be good fun to see them.
“Why, Lord, you’re quite the charmer; but that’s not important to me. So, if you’re up for it, you can be nice enough to dance with my aunt yourself.” Then, with a hearty laugh, he said it would be entertaining to watch them.
“Let it be never so good, or never so bad,” cried Madame Duval, “you won’t see nothing of it, I promise you; so pray don’t let me hear no more of such vulgar pieces of fun; for, I assure you, I don’t like it. And as to my dancing with Mr. Smith, you may see wonderfuller things than that any day in the week.”
“Whether it’s really good or really bad,” yelled Madame Duval, “you won’t see any of it, I promise you; so please don’t let me hear any more of that tacky nonsense; because, I assure you, I don’t like it. And as for dancing with Mr. Smith, you can see far more impressive things than that any day of the week.”
“Why, as to that, Ma’am,” said Mr. Smith, looking much surprised, “I always thought you intended to play at cards, and so I thought to dance with the young lady.”
“Why, about that, Ma’am,” said Mr. Smith, looking quite surprised, “I always thought you meant to play cards, so I figured I’d dance with the young lady.”
I gladly seized this opportunity to make my declaration, that I should not dance at all.
I happily took this chance to declare that I wouldn’t dance at all.
“Not dance at all!” repeated Miss Branghton; “yes, that’s a likely matter truly, when people go to balls.”
“Not dance at all!” Miss Branghton said again; “yeah, that’s really a thing, especially when people go to parties.”
“I wish she mayn’t,” said the brother; “‘cause then Mr. Smith will have nobody but aunt for a partner. Lord, how mad he’ll be!”
“I wish she won’t,” said the brother; “because then Mr. Smith will have nobody but aunt for a partner. Wow, how angry he’ll be!”
“O, as to that,” said Mr. Smith, “I don’t at all fear of prevailing with the young lady, if once I get her to the room.”
“Oh, about that,” said Mr. Smith, “I’m not worried at all about winning over the young lady, as long as I can get her into the room.”
“Indeed, Sir,” cried I, much offended by his conceit, “you are mistaken; and therefore I beg leave to undeceive you, as you may be assured my resolution will not alter.”
“Actually, Sir,” I exclaimed, quite annoyed by his arrogance, “you’re wrong; and so I’d like to correct you, as you can be sure my decision won’t change.”
“Then, pray, Miss, if it is not impertinent,” cried Miss Branghton, sneeringly, “what do you go for?”
“Then, please, Miss, if it’s not too forward,” said Miss Branghton with a sneer, “what are you going for?”
“Merely and solely,” answered I, “to comply with the request of Madame Duval.”
"Just to go along with what Madame Duval asked," I replied.
“Miss,” cried young Branghton, “Bid only wishes it was she, for she has cast a sheep’s eye at Mr. Smith this long while.”
“Miss,” shouted young Branghton, “Bid only wishes it was her, because she’s been giving Mr. Smith flirty looks for quite some time.”
“Tom,” cried the sister, rising, “I’ve the greatest mind in the world to box your ears! How dare you say such a thing of me!”
“Tom,” shouted the sister, standing up, “I really want to smack you! How dare you say something like that about me!”
“No, hang it, Tom, no, that’s wrong,” said Mr. Smith, simpering; “it is indeed, to tell the lady’s secrets.-But never mind him, Miss Biddy, for I won’t believe him.”
“No way, come on, Tom, that’s not right,” said Mr. Smith, smiling awkwardly; “it really is, to reveal the lady’s secrets. But don’t worry about him, Miss Biddy, because I won’t take him seriously.”
“Why, I know Bid would give her ears to go,” returned the brother; “but only Mr. Smith likes Miss best,-so does every body else.”
“Why, I know Bid would give anything to go,” replied the brother; “but only Mr. Smith likes Miss the most—so does everyone else.”
While the sister gave him a very angry answer, Mr. Smith said to me in a low voice, “Why now, Ma’am, how can you be so cruel as to be so much handsomer than your cousins? Nobody can look at them when you are by.”
While the sister gave him a very angry response, Mr. Smith said to me in a low voice, “Why now, Ma’am, how can you be so cruel as to be so much better looking than your cousins? Nobody can notice them when you’re around.”
“Miss,” cried young Branghton, “whatever he says to you don’t mind him for he means no good; I’ll give you my word for it, he’ll never marry you; for he has told me again and again, he’ll never marry as long as he lives; besides, if he’d any mind to be married, there’s Bid would have had him long ago, and thanked him too.”
“Miss,” shouted young Branghton, “whatever he says to you, don’t pay attention to him because he has bad intentions; I promise you, he’ll never marry you. He has told me time and again that he’ll never marry as long as he lives. Plus, if he really wanted to get married, Bid would have snagged him a long time ago and thanked him for it.”
“Come, come, Tom, don’t tell secrets; you’ll make the ladies afraid of me: but I assure you,” lowering his voice, “if I did marry, it should be your cousin.”
“Come on, Tom, don’t spill secrets; you’ll scare the ladies away from me. But I promise you,” lowering his voice, “if I did get married, it would be your cousin.”
Should be!-did you ever, my dear Sir, hear such unauthorised freedom? I looked at him with a contempt I did not wish to repress, and walked to the other end of the room.
Should be! Did you ever, my dear Sir, hear such unauthorized freedom? I looked at him with a disdain I didn't want to hide and walked to the other end of the room.
Very soon after Mr. Smith sent for a hackney-coach. When I would have taken leave of Miss Branghton, she turned angrily from me, without making any answer. She supposes, perhaps, that I have rather sought, than endeavoured to avoid, the notice and civilities of this conceited young man.
Very soon after, Mr. Smith called for a taxi. When I tried to say goodbye to Miss Branghton, she angrily turned away from me without saying anything. She probably thinks that I have actively sought out the attention and politeness of this arrogant young man, rather than trying to avoid it.
The ball was at the long room at Hampstead.
The ball was in the long room at Hampstead.
This room seems very well named, for I believe it would be difficult to find any other epithet which might with propriety distinguish it, as it is without ornament, elegance, or any sort of singularity, and merely to be marked by its length.
This room seems to be accurately named, as I think it would be hard to find any other word that would properly describe it. It's lacking in decoration, style, or anything unique, and can only be noted for its length.
I was saved from the importunities of Mr. Smith, the beginning of the evening, by Madame Duval’s declaring her intention to dance the first two dances with him herself. Mr. Smith’s chagrin was very evident; but as she paid no regard to it, he was necessitated to lead her out.
I was rescued from Mr. Smith's persistent requests at the start of the evening when Madame Duval announced that she intended to dance the first two dances with him herself. Mr. Smith's disappointment was clear, but since she didn't pay any attention to it, he had no choice but to take her out.
I was, however, by no means pleased, when she said she was determined to dance a minuet. Indeed, I was quite astonished, not having had the least idea she would have consented to, much less proposed, such an exhibition of her person. She had some trouble to make her intentions known, as Mr. Smith was rather averse to speaking to the master of the ceremonies.
I was definitely not happy when she said she was set on dancing a minuet. In fact, I was quite shocked, as I had no idea she would agree to, let alone suggest, such a display of herself. She had a hard time getting her point across since Mr. Smith was pretty reluctant to talk to the master of ceremonies.
During this minuet, how much did I rejoice in being surrounded only with strangers! She danced in a style so uncommon; her age, her showy dress, and an unusual quantity of rouge, drew upon her the eyes, and I fear the derision, of the whole company. Whom she danced with, I know not; but Mr. Smith was so ill-bred as to laugh at her very openly, and to speak of her with as much ridicule as was in his power. But I would neither look at, nor listen to him, nor would I suffer him to proceed with any speech which he began, expressive to his vexation at being forced to dance with her. I told him, very gravely, that complaints upon such a subject might, with less impropriety, be made to every person in the room than to me.
During this dance, I felt so happy to be surrounded by strangers! She danced in such an unusual way; her age, flashy outfit, and the heavy makeup made her the center of everyone's attention, and I worry that they mocked her. I don't know who she was dancing with, but Mr. Smith was rude enough to laugh at her openly and talk about her in the most mocking way he could. I refused to look at him or listen to him, and I wouldn't let him continue any comments he started about his annoyance at having to dance with her. I told him very seriously that complaints about such a thing could be directed at anyone in the room except for me.
When she returned to us, she distressed me very much, by asking what I thought of her minuet. I spoke as civilly as I could; but the coldness of my compliment evidently disappointed her. She then called upon Mr. Smith to secure a good place among the country dancers; and away they went, though not before he had taken the liberty to say to me in a low voice, “I protest to you, Ma’am, I shall be quite out of countenance, if any of my acquaintance should see me dancing with the old lady!”
When she came back to us, she really troubled me by asking what I thought of her minuet. I tried to be as polite as possible, but my lukewarm compliment clearly let her down. She then asked Mr. Smith to get a good spot among the country dancers, and off they went, though not before he had the nerve to whisper to me, “I swear, Ma’am, I’ll be totally embarrassed if any of my friends see me dancing with the old lady!”
For a few moments I very much rejoiced at being relieved from this troublesome man; but scarce had I time to congratulate myself, before I was accosted by another, who begged the favour of hopping a dance with me.
For a few moments, I was really happy to be rid of that annoying guy; but I barely had time to celebrate before another person came up to me and asked if I would dance with him.
I told him that I should not dance at all; but he thought proper to importune me, very freely, not to be so cruel; and I was obliged to assume no little haughtiness before I could satisfy him I was serious.
I told him that I shouldn't dance at all; but he insisted quite persistently that I shouldn't be so harsh. I had to act a bit arrogant before I could make him understand I was serious.
After this, I was addressed much in the same manner, by several other young men; of whom the appearance and language were equally inelegant and low-bred; so that I soon found my situation was both disagreeable and improper, since, as I was quite alone, I fear I must seem rather to invite than to forbid the offers and notice I received; and yet, so great was my apprehension of this interpretation, that I am sure, my dear Sir, you would have laughed had you seen how proudly grave I appeared.
After that, several other young men approached me in a similar way; their looks and manners were just as unrefined and uncouth. I quickly realized my situation was uncomfortable and inappropriate, especially since I was completely alone, which might have made it seem like I was inviting rather than rejecting the attention I received. Yet, I was so worried about that impression that I'm sure, my dear Sir, you would have laughed if you had seen how seriously dignified I acted.
I knew not whether to be glad or sorry, when Madame Duval and Mr. Smith returned. The latter instantly renewed his tiresome intreaties, and Madame Duval said she would go to the card-table; and as soon as she was accommodated, she desired us to join the dancers.
I didn't know whether to feel happy or sad when Madame Duval and Mr. Smith came back. Mr. Smith immediately started his annoying pleas again, and Madame Duval said she would go to the card table. Once she was settled, she asked us to join the dancers.
I will not trouble you with the arguments which followed. Mr. Smith teased me till I was weary of resistance; and I should at last have been obliged to submit, had I not fortunately recollected the affair of Mr. Lovel, and told my persecutor, that it was impossible I should dance with him, even if I wished it, as I had refused several persons in his absence.
I won’t bother you with the arguments that came after. Mr. Smith kept teasing me until I was exhausted from fighting back; I was about to give in, but then I remembered the situation with Mr. Lovel and told my pursuer that it was impossible for me to dance with him, even if I wanted to, because I had turned down several people in his absence.
He was not contented with being extremely chagrined; but took the liberty, openly and warmly, to expostulate with me upon not having said I was engaged.
He wasn't satisfied with just being really upset; instead, he felt free to openly and passionately express his disappointment that I hadn't mentioned I was already involved.
The total disregard with which, involuntarily, I heard him, made him soon change the subject. In truth, I had no power to attend to him; for all my thoughts were occupied in re-tracing the transactions of the two former balls, at which I had been present. The party-the conversation-the company-O how great the contrast!
The complete lack of attention I unintentionally gave him made him quickly switch topics. Honestly, I couldn't focus on him at all; my mind was busy going over what happened at the last two parties I attended. The gathering—the discussions—the people—oh, what a huge difference!
In a short time, however, he contrived to draw my attention to himself, by his extreme impertinence; for he chose to express what he called his admiration of me, in terms so open and familiar, that he forced me to express my displeasure with equal plainness.
In a short time, though, he managed to get my attention by being extremely rude; he decided to show what he called his admiration for me in such direct and casual terms that I had to make my annoyance clear as well.
But how was I surprised, when I found he had the temerity-what else can I call it?-to impute my resentment to doubts of his honour: for he said, “My dear Ma’am, you must be a little patient; I assure you I have no bad designs, I have not upon my word; but, really, there is no resolving upon such a thing as matrimony all at once; what with the loss of one’s liberty, and what with the ridicule of all one’s acquaintance,-I assure you Ma’am you are the first lady who ever made me even demur upon this subject; for, after all, my dear Ma’am, marriage is the devil.”
But I was so surprised when I realized he had the boldness—what else can I call it?—to suggest that my anger was due to doubts about his integrity. He said, “My dear Ma’am, you need to be a little patient; I promise you I have no bad intentions, truly I don’t; however, you can’t just decide on something like marriage all at once. Between losing your freedom and facing the ridicule of everyone you know—I assure you, Ma’am, you’re the first woman who’s ever made me hesitate on this topic; because, honestly, my dear Ma’am, marriage is a nightmare.”
“Your opinion, Sir,” answered I, “of either the married or the single life, can be of no manner of consequence to me; and therefore I would by no means trouble you to discuss their different merits.”
“Your opinion, Sir,” I replied, “about either married or single life doesn’t matter to me at all; so I wouldn’t want to bother you to discuss their different merits.”
“Why, really, Ma’am, as to your being a little out of sorts, I must own I can’t wonder at it; for, to be sure, marriage is all in all with the ladies; but with us gentlemen it’s quite another thing! Now only put yourself in my place;-suppose you had such a large acquaintance of gentlemen as I have,-and that you had always been used to appear a little-a little smart among them-why, now could you like to let your self down all at once into a married man?”
“Honestly, Ma’am, I can understand why you might be feeling a bit off; after all, marriage is everything for the ladies. But for us guys, it’s a whole different story! Just think about it from my perspective—imagine you had as many connections with gentlemen as I do, and you were used to standing out a bit among them. Would you really want to suddenly drop down into being just a married man?”
I could not tell what to answer; so much conceit, and so much ignorance, both astonished and silenced me.
I didn't know how to respond; the combination of arrogance and ignorance left me both shocked and speechless.
“I assure you, Ma’am,” added he, “there is not only Miss Biddy,-though I should have scored to mention her, if her brother had not blab’d, for I’m quite particular in keeping ladies’ secrets,-but there are a great many other ladies that have been proposed to me;-but I never thought twice of any of them, that is, not in a serious way:-so you may very well be proud,” offering to take my hand; “for I assure you, there is nobody so likely to catch me at last as yourself.”
“I promise you, Ma’am,” he added, “it’s not just Miss Biddy—though I wouldn’t have brought her up if her brother hadn’t spilled the beans, because I’m really careful about keeping ladies’ secrets—but there are many other ladies who have been suggested to me; but I never seriously considered any of them. So you can be quite proud,” he said, reaching for my hand, “because I honestly believe no one is more likely to win my heart in the end than you.”
“Sir, “cried I, drawing myself back as haughtily as I could, “you are totally mistaken, if you imagine you have given me any pride I felt not before, by this conversation; on the contrary, you must allow me to tell you, I find it too humiliating to bear with it any longer.”
“Sir,” I exclaimed, pulling myself away as proudly as I could, “you’re completely wrong if you think you’ve given me any pride I didn’t have before with this conversation; on the contrary, I must tell you that I find it too humiliating to endure any longer.”
I then placed myself behind the chair of Madame Duval: who, when she heard of the partners I had refused, pitied my ignorance of the world, but no longer insisted upon my dancing.
I then positioned myself behind Madame Duval's chair. When she heard about the partners I had turned down, she felt sorry for my lack of worldly experience, but she didn't push me to dance anymore.
Indeed, the extreme vanity of this man, makes me exert a spirit which I did not, till now, know that I possessed: but I cannot endure that he should think me at his disposal.
Indeed, this man's intense vanity pushes me to show a resolve I didn't realize I had until now; however, I can't stand the idea of him believing I'm at his beck and call.
The rest of the evening passed very quietly, as Mr. Smith did not again attempt speaking to me; except, indeed, after we had left the room and while Madam Duval was seating herself in the coach, he said, in a voice of pique, “Next time I take the trouble to get any tickets for a young lady, I’ll make a bargain before-hand, that she shan’t turn me over to her grandmother.”
The rest of the evening went by very quietly, as Mr. Smith didn’t try to talk to me again. The only time he did was after we’d left the room and while Madam Duval was getting into the coach. He said, with a hint of annoyance, “Next time I bother to get tickets for a young lady, I’ll make sure to bargain first that she won’t hand me off to her grandmother.”
We came home very safe; and thus ended this so long projected and most disagreeable affair.
We got home safely, and that’s how this long-planned and quite unpleasant situation came to an end.
LETTER LI - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION.
I HAVE just received a most affecting letter from Mr. Macartney. I will inclose it, my dear Sir, for your perusal. More than ever have I cause to rejoice that I was able to assist him. Mr. Macartney to Miss Anville.
I just got a very touching letter from Mr. Macartney. I will include it, my dear Sir, for you to read. I have more reasons than ever to be glad that I could help him. Mr. Macartney to Miss Anville.
Madam,
Ma'am,
IMPRESSED with deepest, the most heartfelt sense of the exalted humanity with which you have rescued from destruction an unhappy stranger, allow me, with humblest gratitude, to offer you my fervent acknowledgments, and to implore your pardon for the terror I have caused you.
IMPACTED by the profound and sincere understanding of the noble humanity with which you have saved an unfortunate stranger from ruin, I humbly express my deepest gratitude and ask for your forgiveness for the distress I have caused you.
You bid me, Madam, live: I have now, indeed, a motive for life, since I should not willingly quit the world, while I withhold from the needy and distressed any share of that charity which a disposition so noble would otherwise bestow upon them.
You asked me, Madam, to live: I now actually have a reason to stay alive, since I wouldn't want to leave this world while I deny the needy and suffering any part of the kindness that someone as noble as you would otherwise give them.
The benevolence with which you have interested yourself in my affairs, induces me to suppose you would wish to be acquainted with the cause of that desperation from which you snatched me, and the particulars of that misery of which you have so wonderfully been a witness. Yet, as this explanation will require that I should divulge secrets of a nature the most delicate, I must intreat you to regard them as sacred, even though I forbear to mention the names of the parties concerned.
The kindness you've shown in taking an interest in my life leads me to think you would want to know what caused the desperation from which you saved me, as well as the details of the suffering you have so incredibly witnessed. However, since this explanation will require me to share very sensitive secrets, I must ask you to treat them as confidential, even though I won’t mention the names of those involved.
I was brought up in Scotland, though my mother, who had the sole care of me, was an English-woman, and had not one relation in that country. She devoted to me her whole time. The retirement in which we lived, and the distance from our natural friends, she often told me, were the effect of an unconquerable melancholy with which she was seized upon the sudden loss of my father, some time before I was born.
I grew up in Scotland, but my mother, who took care of me all on her own, was English and had no relatives in that country. She dedicated all her time to me. The isolation where we lived and the distance from our natural friends, she often said, were a result of the deep sadness that took hold of her after my father passed away shortly before I was born.
At Aberdeen, where I finished my education, I formed a friendship with a young man of fortune, which I considered as the chief happiness of my life:-but, when he quitted his studies, I considered it as my chief misfortune; for he immediately prepared, by direction of his friends, to make the tour of Europe. As I was designed for the church, and had no prospect even of maintenance but from my own industry, I scarce dared permit even a wish of accompanying him. It is true, he would joyfully have borne my expenses: but my affection was as free from meanness as his own; and I made a determination the most solemn, never to lessen its dignity by submitting to pecuniary obligations.
At Aberdeen, where I completed my education, I developed a friendship with a wealthy young man, which I regarded as the greatest happiness of my life. However, when he finished his studies, I saw it as my biggest misfortune because he immediately began preparing, at his friends' urging, to travel around Europe. Since I was meant for the church and had no financial support except through my own efforts, I hardly dared to even wish to accompany him. It's true that he would happily have covered my expenses, but my feelings were as free from selfishness as his were; I made a solemn decision never to compromise its dignity by being dependent on financial favors.
We corresponded with great regularity, and the most unbounded confidence, for the space of two years, when he arrived at Lyons in his way home.
We kept in touch regularly and shared complete trust for two years, until he reached Lyons on his way home.
He wrote me thence the most pressing invitation to meet him at Paris, where he intended to remain some time. My desire to comply with his request, and shorten our absence, was so earnest, that my mother, too indulgent to control me lent me what assistance was in her power, and, in an ill-fated moment, I set out for that capital.
He sent me a very urgent invitation to meet him in Paris, where he planned to stay for a while. I was so eager to accept his request and reduce our time apart that my mother, too lenient to stop me, gave me whatever help she could, and in a moment of bad judgment, I left for the city.
My meeting with this dear friend was the happiest event of my life: he introduced me to all his acquaintance; and so quickly did time seem to pass at that delightful period, that the six weeks I had allotted for my stay were gone, ere I was sensible I had missed so many days. But I must now own, that the company of my friend was not the sole subject of my felicity: I became acquainted with a young lady, daughter of an Englishman of distinction, with whom I formed an attachment, which I have a thousand times vowed, a thousand times sincerely thought, would be lasting as my life. She had but just quitted a convent in which she had been placed when a child, and though English by birth, she could scarcely speak her native language. Her person and disposition were equally engaging; but chiefly I adored her for the greatness of the expectation, which, for my sake, she was willing to resign.
My meeting with this dear friend was the happiest moment of my life. He introduced me to all his friends, and time seemed to fly by during that wonderful period; the six weeks I had planned for my stay were over before I even realized how many days had passed. But I have to admit that my friend wasn't the only reason for my happiness: I met a young woman, the daughter of a prominent Englishman, with whom I developed a bond that I have promised many times, and truly believed, would last my whole life. She had just left a convent where she had been since childhood, and even though she was English, she could barely speak her native language. She was equally charming in appearance and character, but what I adored most was the fact that she was willing to give up so much for my sake.
When the time for my residence in Paris expired, I was almost distracted at the idea of quitting her; yet I had not the courage to make our attachment known to her father, who might reasonably form for her such views as would make him reflect, with a contempt which I could not bear to think of, such an offer as mine. Yet I had free access to the house, where she seemed to be left almost wholly to the guidance of an old servant, who was my fast friend.
When my time living in Paris came to an end, I was nearly overwhelmed by the thought of leaving her. Still, I didn’t have the courage to reveal our feelings to her father, who might understandably have plans for her that would lead him to look down on an offer like mine, which I couldn’t bear to imagine. However, I could come and go at the house freely, where she appeared to be mostly under the care of an old servant who was a close friend of mine.
But, to be brief, the sudden and unexpected return of her father, one fatal afternoon, proved the beginning of the misery which has ever since devoured me. I doubt not but he had listened to our conversation; for he darted into the room with the rage of a madman. Heavens! what a scene followed!-what abusive language did the shame of a clandestine affair, and the consciousness of acting ill, induce me to brook! At length, however, his fury exceeded my patience, he called me a beggarly, cowardly Scotchman. Fired at the words, I drew my sword; he, with equal alertness, drew his; for he was not an old man, but, on the contrary, strong and able as myself. In vain his daughter pleaded;-in vain did I, repentant of my anger retreat-his reproaches continued; myself, my country, were loaded with infamy, till no longer constraining my rage,-we fought,-and he fell!
But to keep it short, my father's sudden and unexpected return one fateful afternoon marked the start of the misery that has consumed me ever since. I have no doubt he overheard our conversation; he burst into the room like a madman. Oh, what a scene followed! What hurtful words I had to endure because of the shame of a secret affair and the guilt of doing something wrong! Eventually, though, his fury pushed me past my limits when he called me a pathetic, cowardly Scotsman. Stung by his words, I drew my sword; he quickly did the same, as he was not old but rather as strong and capable as I was. His daughter begged in vain; I, regretting my anger, tried to step back—yet his insults continued, dragging down my name and my country with shame. I could no longer contain my rage—we fought—and he fell!
At that moment I could almost have destroyed myself! The young lady fainted with terror; the old servant, drawn to us by the noise of the scuffle, entreated me to escape, and promised to bring intelligence of what should pass to my apartments. The disturbance which I heard raised in the house obliged me to comply; and, in a state of mind inconceivable wretched, I tore myself away.
At that moment, I could have almost ruined myself! The young lady fainted from fear; the old servant, drawn to us by the noise of the struggle, urged me to get away and promised to keep me updated on what happened in my rooms. The commotion I heard in the house forced me to agree; and, feeling unfathomably miserable, I pulled myself away.
My friend, whom I found at home, soon discovered the whole affair. It was near midnight before the woman came. She told me that her master was living, and her young mistress restored to her senses. The absolute necessity for my leaving Paris, while any danger remained, was forcibly argued by my friend: the servant promised to acquaint him of whatever passed, and he to transmit to me her information. Thus circumstanced, with the assistance of this dear friend, I effected my departure from Paris, and, not long after, I returned to Scotland. I would fain have stopped by the way, that I might have been nearer the scene of all my concerns; but the low state of my finances denied me that satisfaction.
My friend, who I found at home, soon figured out the whole situation. It was almost midnight when the woman arrived. She told me that her master was alive and that her young mistress had regained her senses. My friend strongly insisted that I needed to leave Paris while there was still any danger. The servant promised to keep him updated on everything that happened, and he would pass that information on to me. With this good friend's help, I managed to leave Paris, and not long after, I returned to Scotland. I would have liked to stop along the way to be closer to the source of all my troubles, but my low funds prevented me from doing so.
The miserable situation of my mind was soon discovered by my mother; nor would she rest till I communicated the cause. She heard my whole story with an agitation which astonished me:-the name of the parties concerned seemed to strike her with horror:-but when I said, We fought, and he fell; -“My son,” cried she, “you have then murdered your father!” and she sunk breathless at my feet. Comments, Madam, upon such a scene as this, would to you be superfluous, and to me agonizing: I cannot, for both our sakes, be too concise. When she recovered, she confessed all the particulars of a tale which she had hoped never to have revealed.-Alas! the loss she had sustained of my father was not by death!-bound to her by no ties but those of honour, he had voluntarily deserted her!-Her settling in Scotland was not the effect of choice,-she was banished thither by a family but too justly incensed.-Pardon, Madam, that I cannot be more explicit!
My mother quickly discovered the miserable state of my mind and wouldn't rest until I told her why. She listened to my whole story with a shock that surprised me; just hearing the names of the people involved seemed to terrify her. But when I said, "We fought, and he fell," she cried, "My son, you've murdered your father!" and collapsed breathless at my feet. Comments on a scene like this would be unnecessary for you and painful for me, so I’ll keep it brief. When she recovered, she revealed all the details of a story she had hoped never to tell. Unfortunately, her loss of my father wasn't through death—bound to her only by honor, he had chosen to leave her. Her moving to Scotland wasn't her choice; she was sent there by a family that had every right to be angry. I’m sorry I can’t be more specific!
My senses, in the greatness of my misery, actually forsook me, and, for more than a week, I was wholly delirious. My unfortunate mother was yet more to pitied; for she pined with unmitigated sorrow, eternally reproaching herself for the danger to which her too strict silence had exposed me. When I recovered my reason, my impatience to hear from Paris almost deprived me of it again; and though the length of time I waited for letters might justly be attributed to contrary winds, I could not bear the delay, and was twenty times upon the point of returning thither at all hazards. At length, however, several letters arrived at once, and from the most insupportable of my afflictions I was then relieved; for they acquainted me that the horrors of parricide were not in reserve for me. They informed me also, that as soon as the wound was healed, a journey would be made to England, where my unhappy sister was to be received by an aunt, with whom she was to live.
My senses, overwhelmed by my misery, completely abandoned me, and for more than a week, I was entirely out of my mind. My unfortunate mother had it worse; she was consumed by deep sorrow, constantly blaming herself for putting me in danger because of her overly strict silence. When I finally regained my sanity, my anxiety to hear from Paris almost drove me mad again; and even though the long wait for letters could be explained by opposing winds, I couldn't handle the delay and came close to heading back there at any cost. Eventually, however, several letters arrived all at once, and I was finally freed from one of my worst sufferings; they told me that I wouldn’t have to face the horrors of parricide. They also let me know that once my wound was healed, a trip to England would be arranged, where my poor sister would be taken in by an aunt and live with her.
This intelligence somewhat quieted the violence of my sorrows. I instantly formed a plan of meeting them in London, and, by revealing the whole dreadful story, convincing this irritated parent that he had nothing more to apprehend from his daughter’s unfortunate choice. My mother consented, and gave me a letter to prove the truth of my assertions. As I could but ill afford to make this journey, I travelled in the cheapest way that was possible. I took an obscure lodging,-I need not, Madam, tell you where,-and boarded with the people of the house.
This information calmed my troubled feelings a bit. I quickly came up with a plan to meet them in London and, by sharing the whole awful story, convince this angry parent that he had nothing left to fear from his daughter's unfortunate choice. My mom agreed and gave me a letter to back up my claims. Since I couldn't really afford to make this trip, I traveled in the most budget-friendly way possible. I found a cheap place to stay—not that I need to tell you where—and boarded with the people who lived there.
Here I languished, week after week, vainly hoping for the arrival of my family; but my impetuosity had blinded me to the imprudence of which I was guilty in quitting Scotland so hastily. My wounded father, after his recovery, relapsed, and when I had waited in the most comfortless situation for six weeks, my friend wrote me word that the journey was yet deferred for some time longer.
Here I waited, week after week, hopelessly anticipating the arrival of my family; but my impatience had blinded me to the foolishness of leaving Scotland so abruptly. My injured father, after recovering, fell ill again, and after spending six weeks in the most uncomfortable situation, my friend told me that the trip was postponed for a while longer.
My finances were then nearly exhausted; and I was obliged, though most unwillingly, to beg further assistance from my mother, that I might return to Scotland. Oh, Madam!-my answer was not from herself;-it was written by a lady who had long been her companion, and aquainted me that she had been taken suddenly ill of a fever,-and was no more!
My finances were nearly gone, and I was forced, although very reluctantly, to ask my mother for more help so I could return to Scotland. Oh, Madam! My response didn’t come from her; it was written by a lady who had been her companion for a long time, and she informed me that my mother had fallen ill with a fever— and she was gone!
The compassionate nature of which you have given such noble proofs, assures me I need not, if I could, paint to you the anguish of a mind overwhelmed with such accumulated sorrows.
The kind nature you've shown in such wonderful ways assures me that I don't need to, even if I could, describe to you the pain of a mind burdened by so much accumulated sorrow.
Inclosed was a letter to a near relation, which she had, during her illness, with much difficulty, written; and in which, with the strongest maternal tenderness, she described my deplorable situation, and intreated his interest to procure me some preferment. Yet so sunk was I by misfortune, that a fortnight elapsed before I had the courage or spirit to attempt delivering this letter. I was then compelled to it by want. To make my appearance with some decency, I was necessitated myself to the melancholy task of changing my coloured clothes for a suit of mourning;- and then I proceeded to seek my relation.
Enclosed was a letter to a close relative that she had, during her illness, written with great effort. In it, with deep maternal love, she described my unfortunate situation and urged him to help me find a better position. However, I was so weighed down by misfortune that two weeks passed before I found the courage or drive to deliver this letter. I was then forced to do it out of necessity. To present myself properly, I had to sadly change my colorful clothes for a black outfit, and then I set out to find my relative.
I was informed he was not in town.
I was told he wasn't in town.
In this desperate situation, the pride of my heart, which hitherto had not bowed to adversity, gave way; and I determined to intreat the assistance of my friend, whose offered services I had a thousand times rejected. Yet, Madam, so hard is it to root from the mind its favourite principles or prejudices, call them which you please, that I lingered another week ere I had the resolution to send away a letter, which I regarded as the death of my independence.
In this desperate situation, the pride in my heart, which until now had not submitted to hardship, gave way; and I decided to ask for help from my friend, whose offers I had turned down a thousand times. Yet, Madam, it’s so difficult to let go of our cherished beliefs or prejudices, however you want to call them, that I hesitated for another week before I finally gathered the courage to send a letter, which I saw as the end of my independence.
At length, reduced to my last shilling, shunned insolently by the people of the house, and almost famished, I sealed this fatal letter; and, with a heavy heart, determined to take it to the post office. But Mr. Branghton and his son suffered me not to pass through their shop with impunity; they insulted me grossly, and threatened me with imprisonment, if I did not immediately satisfy their demands. Stung to the soul, I bid them have but a day’s patience, and flung from them in a state of mind too terrible for description.
At last, broke and with just one last coin to my name, ignored and treated harshly by the people in the house, and nearly starving, I sealed this fateful letter and, feeling defeated, decided to take it to the post office. But Mr. Branghton and his son didn’t let me leave their shop so easily; they insulted me openly and threatened to have me arrested if I didn’t pay them right away. Deeply hurt, I asked them to wait just one day and rushed away, feeling a mix of emotions too intense to describe.
My letter which I now found would be received too late to save me from disgrace, I tore into a thousand pieces; and scarce could I refrain from putting an instantaneous, an unlicensed, a period to my existence.
My letter, which I now realized would arrive too late to save me from disgrace, I tore into a thousand pieces; and I could hardly stop myself from putting an immediate, unapproved end to my life.
In this disorder of my senses, I formed the horrible plan of turning foot-pad; for which purpose I returned to my lodging, and collected whatever of my apparel I could part with; which I immediately sold, and with the produce purchased a brace of pistols, powder and shot. I hope, however, you will believe me, when I most solemnly assure you, my sole intention was to frighten the passengers I should assault with these dangerous weapons; which I had not loaded but from a resolution,-a dreadful one, I own,-to save myself from an ignominious death if seized. And, indeed, I thought, that if I could but procure money sufficient to pay Mr. Branghton, and make a journey to Scotland, I should soon be able to, by the public papers, to discover whom I had injured, and to make private retribution.
In this chaotic state of mind, I came up with the terrible idea of becoming a mugger. So, I went back to my place, gathered up any clothes I could part with, sold them, and with the money, I bought a couple of pistols, as well as ammunition. I hope you’ll believe me when I say, as seriously as I can, that my only goal was to scare the people I intended to rob with these dangerous weapons; I hadn't loaded them except because I had made a grim decision—I'll admit it was a dreadful one—to save myself from a shameful death if I got caught. Honestly, I thought that if I could just get enough money to pay Mr. Branghton and make a trip to Scotland, I would soon be able to find out through the newspapers who I had harmed and make personal amends.
But, Madam, new to every species of villainy, my perturbation was so great, that I could with difficulty support myself, yet the Branghtons observed it not as I passed through the shop.
But, Madam, new to every kind of wrongdoing, I was so disturbed that I could barely keep myself together, yet the Branghtons didn’t notice as I walked through the shop.
Here I stop:-what followed is better known to yourself. But no time can ever efface from my memory that moment, when, in the very action of preparing for my own destruction, or the lawless seizure of the property of others, you rushed into the room and arrested my arm!-It was indeed an awful moment!-the hand of Providence seemed to intervene between me and eternity: I beheld you as an angel!-I thought you dropt from the clouds!-The earth, indeed, had never presented to my view a form so celestial!-What wonder, then, that a spectacle so astonishing should, to a man disordered as I was, appear too beautiful to be human?
Here I pause—what happened next is better known to you. But I can never forget that moment when, just as I was about to destroy myself or unlawfully take someone else's property, you burst into the room and stopped my hand! It was truly a terrifying moment! It felt like a higher power intervened between me and eternity: I saw you as an angel! I thought you had fallen from the sky! I had never seen such a divine figure on earth! So it's no wonder that a sight so incredible seemed too beautiful to be real to someone as disturbed as I was.
And now, Madam, that I have performed this painful task, the more grateful one remains of rewarding, as far as is in my power, your generous goodness, by assuring you it shall not be thrown away. You have awakened me to a sense of the false pride by which I have been actuated;-a pride which, while it scorned assistance from a friend, scrupled not to compel it from a stranger, though at the hazard of reducing that stranger to a situation as destitute as my own. Yet, oh! how violent was the struggle which tore my conflicting soul ere I could persuade myself to profit by the benevolence which you were so evidently disposed to exert in my favour!
And now, Madam, after completing this difficult task, I feel even more grateful for the chance to reward your kindness, as much as I can, by assuring you it won’t go to waste. You’ve made me aware of the false pride that has driven me—a pride that refused help from a friend but had no problem demanding it from a stranger, even if it meant putting that stranger in a situation as desperate as my own. Yet, oh! how intense was the struggle within me before I could allow myself to accept the generosity you clearly wanted to offer in my favor!
By means of a ring, the gift of my much-regretted mother, I have for the present satisfied Mr. Branghton; and, by means of your compassion, I hope to support myself either till I hear from my friend, to whom at length I have written, or till the relation of my mother returns to town.
Using a ring that belonged to my dearly missed mother, I've managed to please Mr. Branghton for now; and with your kindness, I hope to get by until I hear back from my friend, to whom I have finally written, or until my mother's relative comes back to town.
To talk to you, Madam, of paying my debt, would be vain; I never can! the service you have done me exceeds all power of return: you have restored me to my senses; you have taught me to curb those passions which bereft me of them; and, since I cannot avoid calamity, to bear it as a man! An interposition so wonderfully circumstanced can never be recollected without benefit. Yet allow me to say, the pecuniary part of my obligation must be settled by my first ability.
Talking to you, Madam, about repaying my debt would be pointless; I never can! The help you’ve given me is beyond anything I could ever repay: you’ve brought me back to my senses; you’ve taught me to control the passions that made me lose them; and, since I can’t avoid misfortune, to endure it like a man! Such an incredible intervention can never be remembered without gratitude. Still, let me say, the financial part of my obligation will be settled as soon as I’m able.
I am, Madam, with the most profound respect, and heartfelt gratitude, Your obedient, and devoted humble servant, J. MACARTNEY.
I am, Madam, with the deepest respect and heartfelt gratitude, Your obedient and devoted humble servant, J. MACARTNEY.
LETTER LII - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. Holborn, July 1.-5 o’clock in the morning.
O SIR, what and adventure have I to write!-all night it has occupied my thoughts, and I am now risen thus early to write it to you.
O Sir, what an adventure I have to share! It has consumed my thoughts all night, and I’ve gotten up this early to write it to you.
Yesterday it was settled that we should spend the evening in Marybone Gardens, where M. Torre, a celebrated foreigner, was to exhibit some fire-works. The party consisted of Madame Duval, all the Branghtons, M. Du Bois, Mr. Smith, and Mr. Brown.
Yesterday, we decided to spend the evening in Marybone Gardens, where M. Torre, a famous foreigner, was going to put on some fireworks. The group included Madame Duval, all the Branghtons, M. Du Bois, Mr. Smith, and Mr. Brown.
We were almost the first persons who entered the Gardens, Mr. Branghton having declared he would have all he could get for his money, which, at best, was only fooled away at such silly and idle places.
We were nearly the first people to enter the Gardens, with Mr. Branghton insisting he would get his money's worth, which, at best, was just wasted at such foolish and pointless places.
We walked in parties, and very much detached from one another. Mr. Brown and Miss Polly led the way by themselves; Miss Branghton and Mr. Smith followed; and the latter seemed determined to be revenged for my behaviour at the ball, by transferring all his former attention for me to Miss Branghton, who received it with an air of exultation; and very frequently they each of them, though from different motives, looked back, to discover whether I observed their good intelligence. Madame Duval walked with M. Du Bois, and Mr. Branghton by himself; but his son would willingly have attached himself wholly to me; saying frequently, “come, Miss, let’s you and I have a little fun together: you see they have all left us, so now let’s leave them.” But I begged to be excused, and went to the other side of Madame Duval.
We walked in groups, but pretty much kept to ourselves. Mr. Brown and Miss Polly took the lead by themselves; Miss Branghton and Mr. Smith followed behind, and he seemed set on getting back at me for how I acted at the ball by shifting all his previous attention towards Miss Branghton, who basked in it proudly. They both often glanced back, for different reasons, to see if I was noticing their connection. Madame Duval walked with M. Du Bois, while Mr. Branghton was on his own. However, his son really wanted to stick with me, often saying, “Come on, Miss, let’s have some fun together! Look, they’ve all abandoned us, so let’s ditch them too.” But I politely declined and moved to the other side of Madame Duval.
This Garden, as it is called, is neither striking for magnificence nor for beauty; and we were all so dull and languid, that I was extremely glad when we were summoned to the orchestra, upon the opening of a concert; in the course of which I had the pleasure of hearing a concerto on the violin by Mr. Barthelemon, who to me seems a player of exquisite fancy, feeling and variety.
This Garden, as it's called, isn't impressive for its grandeur or beauty; we were all feeling so dull and tired that I was really happy when we were called to the orchestra for the start of a concert. During the concert, I enjoyed hearing a violin concerto by Mr. Barthelemon, who to me seems like a player with amazing imagination, emotion, and variety.
When notice was given us that the fire-works were preparing we hurried along to secure good places for the sight; but very soon we were so encircled and incommoded by the crowd, that Mr. Smith proposed the ladies should make interest for a form to stand upon: this was soon effected: and the men then left us to accommodate themselves better; saying, they would return the moment the exhibition was over.
When we were told that the fireworks were being set up, we rushed over to grab good spots to see it. However, we quickly found ourselves surrounded and pushed around by the crowd, so Mr. Smith suggested that the ladies should try to get a spot on something to stand on. That was arranged quickly, and the men then left us to find a better place for themselves, saying they would be back as soon as the show was over.
The fire-work was really beautiful; and told, with wonderful ingenuity, the story of Orpheus and Eurydice: but, at the moment of the fatal look which separated them for ever, there was such an explosion of fire, and so horrible a noise, that we all, as of one accord, jumpt hastily from the form, and ran away some paces, fearing that we were in danger of mischief, from the innumerable sparks of fire which glittered in the air.
The fireworks were truly beautiful and cleverly told the story of Orpheus and Eurydice. But at the moment of the fateful look that separated them forever, there was such an explosion of fire and a terrible noise that we all, in unison, jumped hastily from our seats and ran a few paces away, fearing we were in danger from the countless sparks of fire sparkling in the air.
For a moment or two I neither knew nor considered whither I had run; but my recollection was soon awakened by a stranger’s addressing me with, “Come along with me, my dear, and I’ll take care of you.”
For a moment, I didn't know or think about where I had run; but my memory was quickly stirred by a stranger saying to me, "Come with me, my dear, and I’ll take care of you."
I started; and then, to my great terror, perceived that I had outrun all my companions, and saw not one human being I knew! With all the speed in my power, and forgetful of my first fright, I hastened back to the place I had left;-but found the form occupied by a new set of people.
I took off, and then, to my horror, realized that I had left all my friends behind and didn’t see a single person I knew! With all the speed I could muster, and forgetting my initial fear, I rushed back to the spot I had left—but found it was now filled with a new group of people.
In vain, from side to side, I looked for some face I knew; I found myself in the midst of a crowd, yet without party, friend, or acquaintance. I walked in disordered haste from place to place, without knowing which way to turn, or whither I went. Every other moment I was spoken to by some bold and unfeeling man; to whom my distress, which I think must be very apparent, only furnished a pretence for impertinent witticisms, or free gallantry.
I looked around frantically, searching for a familiar face, but I was surrounded by a crowd and felt completely alone—no friends, no connections. I rushed from one spot to another, unsure of where to go or what to do. Every few moments, some forward and insensitive guy would talk to me, taking my evident distress as an excuse for annoying jokes or inappropriate flirting.
At last a young officer, marching fiercely up to me, said, “You are a sweet pretty creature, and I enlist you in my service;” and then, with great violence, he seized my hand. I screamed aloud with fear; and forcibly snatching it away, I ran hastily up to two ladies, and cried, “for Heaven’s sake, dear ladies, afford me some protection!”
At last, a young officer marched up to me and said, “You’re such a pretty thing, and I’m recruiting you for my service;” then, with a lot of force, he grabbed my hand. I screamed in fear and quickly pulled it away, running over to two ladies, and shouted, “Please, dear ladies, help me!”
They heard me with a loud laugh, but very readily said, “Ay, let her walk between us;” and each of them took hold of an arm.
They laughed out loud but quickly said, “Sure, let her walk between us;” and each of them grabbed an arm.
Then, in a drawling, ironical tone of voice, they asked what had frightened my little Ladyship? I told them my adventure very simply, and intreated they would have the goodness to assist me in finding my friends.
Then, in a long-winded, sarcastic tone, they asked what had scared my little Ladyship. I shared my story with them straightforwardly and requested that they please help me locate my friends.
O yes, to be sure, they said, I should not want for friends, whilst I was with them. Mine, I said, would be very grateful for any civilities with which they might favour me. But imagine, my dear Sir, how I must have been confounded, when I observed, that every other word I spoke produced a loud laugh! However, I will not dwell upon a conversation, which soon, to my inexpressible horror, convinced me I had sought protection from insult, of those who were themselves most likely to offer it! You, my dearest Sir, I well know, will both feel for and pity my terror, which I have no words to describe.
Oh yes, for sure, they said, I wouldn’t be lacking friends while I was with them. I told them that mine would be very grateful for any kindness they showed me. But can you imagine, my dear Sir, how shocked I must have been when I noticed that every other word I uttered triggered loud laughter! Still, I won’t focus on a conversation that soon, to my absolute horror, made it clear I had sought protection from insult from those who were themselves most likely to provide it! You, my dearest Sir, I know will both understand and empathize with my fear, which I can’t even begin to express.
Had I been at liberty, I should have instantly run away from them when I made the shocking discovery: but, as they held me fast, that was utterly impossible: and such was my dread of their resentment or abuse that I did not dare make any open attempt to escape.
If I had been free, I would have immediately run away from them when I made the shocking discovery: but, since they were holding me tightly, that was completely impossible: and I was so afraid of their anger or mistreatment that I didn't dare make any obvious attempt to escape.
They asked me a thousand questions, accompanied by as many halloos, of who I was, what I was, and whence I came? My answers were very incoherent;-but what, good Heaven, were my emotions, when, a few moments afterwards, I perceived advancing our way-Lord Orville!
They asked me a thousand questions, along with just as many cheers, about who I was, what I was, and where I came from. My answers were pretty jumbled, but oh my goodness, what were my feelings when, just moments later, I saw Lord Orville coming our way!
Never shall I forget what I felt at that instant: had I, indeed, been sunk to the guilty state which such companions might lead him to suspect, I could scarce have had feelings more cruelly depressing.
Never will I forget how I felt at that moment: if I had really sunk into the guilty state that such companions might make him think I was in, I could hardly have felt more painfully depressed.
However, to my infinite joy, he passed us without distinguishing me; though I saw that in a careless manner, his eyes surveyed the party.
However, to my immense joy, he walked past us without recognizing me; though I noticed that, rather casually, his eyes scanned the group.
As soon as he was gone, one of these unhappy women said, “Do you know that young fellow?”
As soon as he left, one of these unhappy women said, “Do you know that guy?”
Not thinking it possible she should mean Lord Orville by such a term, I readily answered, “No, Madam.”
Not believing it was possible that she meant Lord Orville by that term, I quickly replied, “No, Madam.”
“Why then,” answered she, “you have a monstrous good stare, for a little county Miss.”
“Why then,” she replied, “you have a really impressive stare for a small-town girl.”
I now found I had mistaken her, but was glad to avoid an explanation.
I realized I had misunderstood her, but was relieved to skip an explanation.
A few minutes after, what was my delight to hear the voice of Mr. Brown, who called out,” Lord, i’n’t that Miss what’s her name?”
A few minutes later, I was thrilled to hear Mr. Brown's voice calling out, "Wow, isn't that Miss what's-her-name?"
“Thank God,” cried I, suddenly springing from them both, “thank God, I have found my party.”
“Thank God,” I exclaimed, jumping up from both of them, “thank God, I’ve found my group.”
Mr. Brown was, however, alone; and, without knowing what I did, I took hold of his arm.
Mr. Brown was, however, alone; and, without realizing what I was doing, I grabbed his arm.
“Lord, Miss,” cried he, “we’ve had such a hunt you can’t think! some of them thought you was gone home: but I says, says I, I don’t think, says I, that she’s like to go home all alone, says I.”
“Lord, Miss,” he exclaimed, “we’ve had such a search you wouldn’t believe! Some of them thought you had gone home: but I said, I don’t think she would go home all by herself.”
“So that gentleman belongs to you, Miss, does he?” said one of the women.
“So that guy is yours, Miss, right?” said one of the women.
“Yes, Madam,” answered I, “and I now thank you for your civility; but as I am safe, will not give you any further trouble.”
“Yes, ma'am,” I replied, “and I appreciate your kindness; but since I'm safe, I won't trouble you any further.”
I courtsied slightly, and would gave walked away; but, most unfortunately, Madame Duval and the two Miss Branghtons just then joined us.
I curtsied slightly and would have walked away; but, unfortunately, Madame Duval and the two Miss Branghtons just then joined us.
They all began to make a thousand enquiries; to which I briefly answered, that I had been obliged to these two ladies for walking with me, and would tell them more another time: for, though I felt great comparative courage, I was yet too much intimidated by their presence, to dare be explicit.
They all started asking a bunch of questions, to which I briefly replied that I owed it to these two ladies for walking with me and that I would share more another time. Even though I felt somewhat brave, I was still too intimidated by their presence to be completely open.
Nevertheless, I ventured once more to wish them a goodnight, and proposed seeking Mr. Branghton. These unhappy women listened to all that was said with a kind of callous curiosity, and seemed determined not to take any hint. But my vexation was terribly augmented when, after having whispered something to each other, they very cavalierly declared, that they intended joining our party! and then, one of them very boldly took hold of my arm, while the other, going round, seized that of Mr. Brown; and thus, almost forcibly, we were moved on between them, and followed by Madame Duval and the Miss Branghton.
Nonetheless, I tried once again to wish them a goodnight and suggested that we look for Mr. Branghton. These unhappy women listened to everything that was said with a kind of indifferent curiosity and seemed set on ignoring any hints. But my frustration was greatly increased when, after whispering to each other, they casually announced that they planned to join our group! Then, one of them boldly grabbed my arm, while the other went around and grabbed Mr. Brown’s arm; and so, almost against our will, we were led forward between them, followed by Madame Duval and the Miss Branghtons.
It would be very difficult to say which was greatest, my fright, or Mr. Brown’s consternation; who ventured not to make the least resistance, though his uneasiness made him tremble almost as much as myself. I would instantly have withdrawn my arm: but it was held so tight I could not move it; and poor Mr. Brown was circumstanced in the same manner on the other side; for I heard him say, “Lord, Ma’am, there’s no need to squeeze one’s arm so!”
It was hard to tell which was worse, my fear or Mr. Brown’s panic. He didn’t try to resist at all, but he was shaking nearly as much as I was. I would have pulled my arm away immediately, but it was held so tightly that I couldn’t move it; and poor Mr. Brown was in the same situation on the other side, because I heard him say, “Oh my, Ma’am, there’s no need to squeeze someone’s arm like that!”
And this was our situation,-for we had not taken three steps, when,-O sir,-we again met Lord Orville!-but not again did he pass quietly by us:-unhappily I caught his eye;-both mine immediately were bent to the ground; but he approached me, and we all stopped.
And this was our situation—after we had taken just three steps, oh, sir—we ran into Lord Orville again! But this time, he didn’t just walk past us. Unfortunately, I caught his eye; I immediately looked down at the ground, but he walked over to me, and we all came to a stop.
I then looked up. He bowed. Good God, with what expressive eyes did he regard me! Never were surprise and concern so strongly marked:-yes, my dear Sir, he looked greatly concerned: and that, the remembrance of that, is the only consolation I feel for an evening the most painful of my life.
I looked up. He bowed. Good God, the way he looked at me with such expressive eyes! I've never seen surprise and concern so clearly shown. Yes, my dear Sir, he seemed very worried: and that memory is the only comfort I have for an evening that was the most painful of my life.
What he said I know not; for indeed, I seemed to have neither ears nor understanding; but I recollect that I only courtsied in silence. He paused for an instant, as if-I believe so,-as if unwilling to pass on; and then, finding the whole party detained, he again bowed, and took leave.
What he said, I don’t know; I really felt like I had neither ears nor understanding; but I remember that I just curtsied in silence. He paused for a moment, as if— I think— unwilling to move on; and then, seeing that everyone was still there, he bowed again and said goodbye.
Indeed, my dear Sir, I thought I should have fainted; so great was my emotion, from shame, vexation, and a thousand other feelings, for which I have no expressions. I absolutely tore myself from the woman’s arms; and then, disengaging myself from that of Mr. Brown, I went to Madame Duval, and besought that she would not suffer me to be again parted from her.
Indeed, my dear Sir, I thought I might faint; my emotions were overwhelming, filled with shame, frustration, and a thousand other feelings I can't even describe. I completely tore myself away from the woman’s embrace; then, freeing myself from Mr. Brown's hold, I went to Madame Duval and begged her not to let me be separated from her again.
I fancy-that Lord Orville saw what passed; for scarcely was I at liberty, ere he returned. Methought, my dear Sir, the pleasure, the surprise of that moment, recompensed me for all the chagrin I had before felt: for do you not think, that his return manifests, for a character so quiet, so reserved as Lord Orville’s, something like solicitude in my concerns? such at least was the interpretation I involuntarily made upon again seeing him.
I think Lord Orville noticed what happened; for barely had I a moment to myself when he came back. I believe, my dear Sir, that the joy and surprise of that moment made up for all the frustration I had felt before: don’t you think that his returning shows, for someone as calm and reserved as Lord Orville, some genuine care for my situation? That was at least the conclusion I couldn’t help but draw when I saw him again.
With a politeness to which I have been sometime very little used, he apologized for returning; and then inquired after the health of Mrs. Mirvan, and the rest of the Howard Grove family. The flattering conjecture which I have just acknowledged, had so wonderfully restored my spirits, that I believe I never answered him so readily, and with so little constraint. Very short, however, was the duration of this conversation; for we were soon most disagreeably interrupted.
With a level of politeness I'm not used to, he apologized for coming back and then asked how Mrs. Mirvan and the rest of the Howard Grove family were doing. The flattering thought I had just entertained had lifted my spirits so much that I believe I never responded to him so quickly and without any awkwardness. However, this conversation didn't last long because we were soon interrupted in a rather unpleasant way.
The Miss Branghtons, though they saw almost immediately the characters of the women to whom I had so unfortunately applied, were, nevertheless, so weak and foolish, as merely to titter at their behaviour. As to Madame Duval, she was for some time so strangely imposed upon, that she thought they were two real fine ladies. Indeed, it is wonderful to see how easily and how frequently she is deceived. Our disturbance, however, arose from young Brown, who was now between the two women, by whom his arms were absolutely pinioned to his sides: for a few minutes his complaints had been only murmured: but he now called out aloud, “Goodness, Ladies, you hurt me like any thing! why, I can’t walk at all, if you keep pinching my arms so!”
The Miss Branghtons quickly recognized the true nature of the women I had so foolishly approached, but they were too weak and silly to do anything more than giggle at their antics. As for Madame Duval, she was for a while strangely fooled into thinking they were two genuine high-class ladies. It's truly remarkable how easily and how often she gets tricked. Our disruption, however, came from young Brown, who was now trapped between the two women, with his arms firmly pinned to his sides: at first, his complaints were only whispered, but he eventually shouted, “Goodness, ladies, you’re hurting me! I can’t walk at all if you keep squeezing my arms like this!”
This speech raised a loud laugh in the women, and redoubled the tittering of the Miss Branghtons. For my own part, I was most cruelly confused: while the countenance of Lord Orville manifested a sort of indignant astonishment; and, from that moment, he spoke to me no more till he took leave.
This speech got a big laugh from the women and increased the giggles from the Miss Branghtons. As for me, I was really embarrassed: Lord Orville looked at me with a mix of angry surprise, and from that point on, he didn’t speak to me again until he said goodbye.
Madame Duval, who now began to suspect her company, proposed our taking the first box we saw empty, bespeaking a supper, and waiting till Mr. Branghton should find us.
Madame Duval, who was starting to get suspicious of the people around her, suggested we take the first empty box we found, order some supper, and wait for Mr. Branghton to find us.
Miss Polly mentioned one she had remarked, to which we all turned. Madame Duval instantly seated herself; and the two bold women, forcing the frightened Mr. Brown to go between them, followed her example.
Miss Polly pointed out someone she had noticed, and we all looked over. Madame Duval immediately sat down; the two fearless women, making the scared Mr. Brown walk between them, did the same.
Lord Orville, with an air of gravity that wounded my very soul, then wished me good night. I said not a word; but my face, if it had any connection with my heart, must have looked melancholy indeed: and so I have some reason to believe it did; for he added with much more softness, though no less dignity, “Will Miss Anville allow me to ask her address, and to pay my respects to her before I leave town?”
Lord Orville, with a serious expression that deeply affected me, then wished me good night. I didn't say anything; however, my face, if it reflected my heart at all, must have looked quite sad: and I have some reason to think it did; for he added, with much more warmth but still maintaining his dignity, “Will Miss Anville let me ask for her address so I can pay my respects before I leave town?”
O how I changed colour at this unexpected request!-yet, what was the mortification I suffered in answering, “My Lord, I am-in Holborn!”
O, how I blushed at this unexpected request! Yet, how embarrassed I felt when I replied, “My Lord, I am in Holborn!”
He then bowed and left us.
He then bowed and left us.
What, what can he think of this adventure! how strangely how cruelly have all appearances turned against me! Had I been blessed with any presence of mind, I should instantly have explained to him the accident which occasioned my being in such terrible company:-but I have none!
What can he think of this adventure! How strangely and cruelly all appearances have turned against me! If I had any presence of mind, I would have immediately explained to him the accident that led to my being in such terrible company—but I don’t!
As to the rest of the evening, I cannot relate the particulars of what passed; for, to you, I only write of what I think; and I can think of nothing but this unfortunate, this disgraceful meeting. These two wretched women continued to torment us all, but especially poor Mr. Brown, who seemed to afford them uncommon diversion, till we were discovered by Mr. Branghton, who very soon found means to release us from their persecutions, by frightening them away. We stayed but a short time after they left us, which was all employed in explanation.
As for the rest of the evening, I can’t remember all the details of what happened; I can only write about what I think, and all I can think about is this unfortunate, embarrassing meeting. Those two miserable women kept bothering us all, but especially poor Mr. Brown, who seemed to entertain them greatly, until Mr. Branghton showed up and quickly figured out how to scare them off. We didn’t stick around long after they left, and those remaining moments were spent in explaining everything.
Whatever may be the construction which Lord Orville may put upon this affair, to me it cannot fail of being unfavourable; to be seen-gracious Heaven! to be seen in company with two women of such character!-How vainly, how proudly have I wished to avoid meeting him when only with the Branghtons and Madame Duval;-but now, how joyful should I be had he seen me to no greater disadvantage!-Holborn, too! what a direction! he who had always-but I will not torment you, my dearest Sir, with any more of my mortifying conjectures and apprehensions: perhaps he may call,-and then I shall have an opportunity of explaining to him all the most shocking part of the adventure. And yet, as I did not tell him at whose house I lived, he may not be able to discover me; I merely said in Holborn; and he, who I suppose saw my embarrassment, forbore to ask any other direction.
No matter how Lord Orville interprets this situation, I can't help but feel it's going to look bad for me. To be seen—oh my goodness!—to be seen with two women like them! How vainly and proudly I tried to avoid running into him when I was only with the Branghtons and Madame Duval, but now I would be so relieved if he had seen me in a slightly better light! Holborn, of all places! He, who has always— but I won't bother you, my dearest Sir, with any more of my embarrassing worries and fears. Maybe he'll come by, and then I can explain the worst part of the whole situation to him. But since I didn't tell him where I lived, he might not be able to find me; I just mentioned Holborn, and he, who I assume noticed my discomfort, didn't press for any other details.
Well, I must take my chance!
Well, I have to take my shot!
Yet let me, in the justice to Lord Orville, and in justice to the high opinion I have always entertained of his honour and delicacy,-let me observe the difference of his behaviour, when nearly in the same situation, to that of Sir Clement Willoughby. He had, at least, equal cause to depreciate me in his opinion, and to mortify and sink me in my own; but far different was his conduct:-perplexed, indeed, he looked, and much surprised:-but it was benevolently, not with insolence. I am even inclined to think, that he could not see a young creature whom he had so lately known in a higher sphere, appear so suddenly, so strangely, so disgracefully altered in her situation, without some pity and concern. But whatever might be his doubts and suspicions, far from suffering them to influence his behaviour, he spoke, he looked with the same politeness and attention with which he had always honoured me when countenanced by Mrs. Mirvan.
Let me give credit to Lord Orville, and to the high regard I’ve always had for his honor and sensitivity. I want to point out how different his behavior was compared to Sir Clement Willoughby in a similar situation. He had just as much reason to judge me negatively and to make me feel ashamed and diminished, but his actions were completely different. He looked confused and surprised, but it was out of kindness, not arrogance. I even think that he couldn’t help but feel some pity and concern for someone he had recently seen in a better position, suddenly appearing so strangely and shamefully changed. Regardless of any doubts or suspicions he might have had, he didn’t let them affect how he treated me; he spoke and glanced at me with the same politeness and attention he always showed when I was with Mrs. Mirvan.
Once again, let me drop this subject.
Once again, let me drop this topic.
In every mortification, every disturbance, how grateful to my heart, how sweet to my recollection, is the certainty of your never-failing tenderness, sympathy and protection! Oh, Sir, could I upon this subject, could I write as I feel,-how animated would be the language of your devoted EVELINA.
In every struggle, every upset, how grateful I feel, how comforting the thought of your constant kindness, understanding, and support! Oh, Sir, if I could write about this the way I truly feel—how passionate the words of your devoted EVELINA would be!
LETTER LIII - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. Holborn, July 1st.
LISTLESS, uneasy, and without either spirit or courage to employ myself, from the time I had finished my last letter, I indolently seated myself at the window, where, while I waited Madame Duval’s summons to breakfast, I perceived, among the carriages which passed by, a coronet-coach, and in a few minutes, from the window of it, Lord Orville! I instantly retreated, but not I believe, unseen; for the coach immediately drove up to our door.
LISTLESS, uneasy, and lacking both energy and the courage to keep myself busy, after I finished my last letter, I lazily settled down by the window. While I waited for Madame Duval’s call to breakfast, I noticed a coronet-coach among the cars that passed by, and in a few moments, there was Lord Orville at the window! I quickly pulled back, but I don’t think I was unnoticed, because the coach came right up to our door.
Indeed, my dear Sir, I must own I was greatly agitated; the idea of receiving Lord Orville by myself,-the knowledge that his visit was entirely to me,-the wish of explaining the unfortunate adventure of yesterday,-and the mortification of my present circumstances,-all these thoughts, occurring to me nearly at the same time, occasioned me more anxiety, confusion, and perplexity, than I can possibly express. I believe he meant to sent up his name; but the maid, unused to such a ceremony, forgot it by the way, and only told me, that a great Lord was below, and desired to see me; and, the next moment, he appeared himself.
Sure, here is the modernized text: Actually, dear Sir, I have to admit I was really nervous; the thought of meeting Lord Orville alone—the fact that his visit was just for me—the need to explain the unfortunate incident from yesterday—and the embarrassment of my current situation—all these thoughts hit me almost at once, causing me more anxiety, confusion, and distress than I can possibly describe. I think he intended to send up his name, but the maid, not used to that kind of thing, forgot it along the way and just told me that a great Lord was downstairs and wanted to see me; and then, in the next moment, he appeared himself.
If, formerly, when in the circle of high life, and accustomed to its manners, I so much admired and distinguished the grace, the elegance of Lord Orville, think Sir, how they must strike me now,-now, when far removed from that splendid circle, I live with those to whom even civility is unknown, and decorum a stranger!
If, in the past, when I was part of high society and used to its ways, I admired and noticed the grace and elegance of Lord Orville, just imagine how much more I appreciate it now—now that I’m so far removed from that glamorous world and living among people who don’t even know what basic politeness is and have never seen good manners!
I am sure I received him very awkwardly: depressed by a situation so disagreeable-could I do otherwise? When his first enquiries were made, “I think myself very fortunate,” he said, “in meeting with Miss Anville at home, and still more so in finding her disengaged.”
I’m sure I came off really awkward: feeling down about such an uncomfortable situation—what else could I do? When he asked his first questions, he said, “I consider myself very lucky to find Miss Anville at home, and even luckier that she’s available.”
I only courtsied. He then talked of Mrs. Mirvan, asked how long I had been in town, and other such general questions, which happily gave me time to recover from my embarrassment. After which he said, “If Miss Anville will allow me the honour of sitting by her a few minutes (for we were both standing) I will venture to tell her the motive which, next to enquiring after her health, has prompted me to wait on her thus early.”
I just curtsied. He then talked about Mrs. Mirvan, asked how long I had been in town, and other general questions, which thankfully gave me time to recover from my embarrassment. After that, he said, “If Miss Anville will allow me the honor of sitting next to her for a few minutes (since we were both standing), I’ll take the chance to explain the reason, besides asking about her health, that motivated me to come see her so early.”
We were then both seated; and, after a short pause, he said, “How to apologize for so great a liberty as I am upon the point of taking, I know not;-shall I, therefore, rely wholly upon your goodness, and not apologize at all?”
We both sat down, and after a brief pause, he said, “I’m not sure how to apologize for such a bold move I’m about to make—should I just count on your kindness and skip the apology altogether?”
I only bowed.
I just bowed.
“I should be extremely sorry to appear impertinent,-yet hardly know how to avoid it.”
"I would feel really sorry to come off as rude, but I can't figure out how to avoid it."
“Impertinent! O, my Lord,” cried I, eagerly, “that, I am sure, is impossible!”
“Impertinent! Oh, my Lord,” I exclaimed eagerly, “that has to be impossible!”
“You are very good,” answered he, “and encourage me to be ingenuous-”
"You’re really nice," he replied, "and you make me want to be open and honest."
Again he stopped: but my expectation was too great for speech. At last, without looking at me, in a low voice, and hesitating manner, he said, “Were those ladies with whom I saw you last night ever in your company before?”
Again he paused: but my anticipation was too intense for words. Finally, without meeting my eyes, in a quiet and hesitant tone, he asked, “Had those ladies I saw you with last night ever been with you before?”
“No, my Lord,” cried I, rising and colouring violently, “nor will they ever be again.”
“No, my Lord,” I exclaimed, standing up and blushing fiercely, “and they will never be again.”
He rose too; and, with an air of the most condescending concern, said, “Pardon, Madam, the abruptness of a question which I knew not how to introduce as I ought, and for which I have no excuse to offer but my respect for Mrs. Mirvan, joined to the sincerest wishes for your happiness: yet I fear I have gone too far!”
He stood up as well and, with an overly polite tone, said, “Excuse me, ma'am, for asking such a direct question that I didn’t know how to bring up properly, and I can only justify it by my respect for Mrs. Mirvan and my genuine hopes for your happiness. But I worry that I may have overstepped!”
“I am very sensible of the honour of your lordship’s attention,” said I; “but-”
“I really appreciate the honor of your lordship’s attention,” I said, “but—”
“Permit me to assure you,” cried he, finding I hesitated, “that officiousness is not my characteristic; and that I would by no means have risked your displeasure, had I not been fully satisfied you were too generous to be offended without a real cause of offence.”
“Let me assure you,” he exclaimed, noticing my hesitation, “that being overly meddlesome isn’t my nature; and I would never have risked upsetting you if I wasn’t completely convinced that you were too kind to take offense without a valid reason.”
“Offended!” cried I, “no, my Lord, I am only grieved-grieved, indeed! to find myself in a situation so unfortunate as to be obliged to make explanations, which cannot but mortify and shock me.”
“Offended!” I exclaimed, “no, my Lord, I am just upset—upset, truly! to find myself in such an unfortunate situation that I have to make explanations, which can only humiliate and shock me.”
“It is I alone,” cried he, with some eagerness, “who am shocked, as it is I who deserve to be mortified. I seek no explanation, for I have no doubt; but in mistaking me, Miss Anville injures herself: allow me therefore, frankly and openly, to tell you the intention of my visit.”
“It’s just me,” he said eagerly, “who’s upset, because I’m the one who should be embarrassed. I don’t want any explanations, because I’m sure of what I feel; but by misunderstanding me, Miss Anville harms herself. So, let me be honest and straightforward about the reason for my visit.”
I bowed, and we both returned to our seats.
I nodded, and we both went back to our seats.
“I will own myself to have been greatly surprised,” continued he, “when I met you yesterday evening, in company with two persons who I was sensible merited not the honour of your notice: nor was it easy for me to conjecture the cause of your being so situated; yet, believe me, my incertitude did not for a moment do you injury. I was satisfied that their characters must be unknown to you; and I thought, with concern, of the shock you would sustain when you discovered their unworthiness. I should not, however, upon so short an acquaintance, have usurped the privilege of intimacy, in giving my unasked sentiments upon so delicate a subject, had I not known that credulity is the sister of innocence, and therefore feared you might be deceived. A something which I could not resist, urged me to the freedom I have taken to caution you; but I shall not easily forgive myself if I have been so unfortunate as to give you pain.”
"I have to admit I was really surprised," he continued, "when I saw you yesterday evening with two people who I knew didn’t deserve your attention. It was hard for me to figure out why you were with them, but trust me, my uncertainty didn’t harm you at all. I was sure you didn’t know their true character, and I worried about the shock you’d feel once you realized how unworthy they are. However, I wouldn’t have overstepped my boundaries to share my unsolicited thoughts on such a sensitive issue if I didn’t believe that naivety can lead to being misled, and I genuinely feared you might get fooled. Something I can’t quite explain compelled me to warn you, but I won’t easily forgive myself if I’ve caused you any pain."
The pride which his first question had excited, now subsided into delight and gratitude; and I instantly related to him, as well as I could, the accident which had occasioned my joining the unhappy women with whom he had met me. He listened with an attention so flattering, seemed so much interested during the recital, and, when I had done, thanked me in terms so polite, for what he was pleased to call my condescension, that I was almost ashamed either to look at or hear him.
The pride his first question had sparked quickly faded into joy and appreciation; I immediately shared with him, as best as I could, the incident that led me to join the unfortunate women he had encountered. He listened with such flattering attention, seemed genuinely interested during my account, and when I finished, he thanked me in such polite terms for what he referred to as my condescension that I felt almost embarrassed to look at or hear him.
Soon after the maid came to tell me, that Madame Duval desired to have breakfast made in her own room.
Soon after, the maid came to tell me that Madame Duval wanted breakfast served in her own room.
“I fear,” cried Lord Orville, instantly rising, “that I have intruded upon your time;-yet who, so situated, could do otherwise?” Then, taking my hand, “Will Miss Anville allow me thus to seal my peace?” he pressed it to his lips, and took leave.
“I’m afraid,” exclaimed Lord Orville, immediately getting up, “that I’ve taken up too much of your time; but who in my position could do anything else?” Then, taking my hand, “Will Miss Anville let me seal my peace like this?” he pressed it to his lips and took his leave.
Generous, noble Lord Orville! how disinterested his conduct! how delicate his whole behaviour! Willing to advise, yet afraid to wound me!-Can I ever, in future, regret the adventure I met with at Marybone, since it has been productive of a visit so flattering? Had my mortifications been still more humiliating, my terrors still more alarming, such a mark of esteem-may I not call it so?-from Lord Orville, would have made me ample amends.
Generous, noble Lord Orville! How selfless his actions! How thoughtful his entire demeanor! Willing to give advice, yet careful not to hurt me—can I ever regret the experience I had at Marybone, since it led to such a flattering visit? Even if my embarrassments had been even more humiliating and my fears more intense, such a sign of respect—can I call it that?—from Lord Orville would have more than compensated for it.
And indeed, my dear Sir, I require some consolation in my present very disagreeable situation; for, since he went, two incidents have happened, that, had not my spirits been particularly elated, would greatly have disconcerted me.
And really, my dear Sir, I need some comfort in my current unpleasant situation; because since he left, two things have happened that, if I hadn't been feeling particularly uplifted, would have really thrown me off.
During breakfast, Madame Duval, very abruptly, asked, if I should like to be married? and added, that Mr. Branghton had been proposing a match for me with his son. Surprised, and, I must own, provoked, I assured her that in thinking of me, Mr. Branghton would very vainly lose his time.
During breakfast, Madame Duval suddenly asked if I wanted to get married and mentioned that Mr. Branghton had been suggesting a match for me with his son. Surprised and, I have to admit, annoyed, I told her that Mr. Branghton was wasting his time by thinking of me.
“Why,” cried she, “I have had grander views for you myself, if once I could get you to Paris, and make you be owned; but if I can’t do that, and you can do no better, why, as you are both my relations, I think to leave my fortune between you; and then, if you marry, you never need want for nothing.”
“Why,” she exclaimed, “I have grander plans for you if I can just get you to Paris and have you recognized. But if I can’t do that, and you can’t do any better, then since you’re both my family, I plan to leave my fortune to you. That way, if you get married, you’ll never have to worry about anything.”
I begged her not to pursue the subject, as, I assured her, Mr. Branghton was totally disagreeable to me; but she continued her admonitions and reflections, with her usual disregard of whatever I could answer. She charged me, very peremptorily, neither wholly to discourage, nor yet to accept Mr. Branghton’s offer, till she saw what could be done for me: the young man, she added, had often intended to speak to me himself, but, not well knowing how to introduce the subject, he had desired her to pave the way for him.
I begged her not to keep discussing it, as I assured her that Mr. Branghton was completely unpleasant to me. But she kept giving me her advice and thoughts, completely ignoring anything I said. She insisted that I should neither completely reject nor accept Mr. Branghton's offer until she figured out what could be done for me. She added that the young man had often wanted to talk to me himself, but since he wasn't sure how to bring it up, he had asked her to help get the conversation started.
I scrupled not, warmly and freely, to declare my aversion to this proposal; but it was to no effect; she concluded, just as she had begun, by saying, that I should not have him, if I could do better.
I didn't hesitate to openly express my dislike for this proposal; but it didn't make any difference; she ended just as she had started, by saying that I shouldn't have him if I could do better.
Nothing, however, shall persuade me to listen to any other person concerning this odious affair.
Nothing, however, will convince me to listen to anyone else about this terrible situation.
My second cause of uneasiness arises, very unexpectedly, from M. Du Bois; who, to my infinite surprise, upon Madame Duval’s quitting the room after dinner, put into my hand a note, and immediately left the house.
My second source of discomfort comes, quite unexpectedly, from M. Du Bois; who, to my complete surprise, handed me a note right after Madame Duval left the room after dinner, and then quickly left the house.
This note contains an open declaration of an attachment to me; which, he says, he should never have presumed to have acknowledged, had he not been informed that Madame Duval destined my hand to young Branghton,-a match which he cannot endure to think of. He beseeches me earnestly to pardon his temerity; professes the most inviolable respect; and commits his fate to time, patience, and pity.
This note openly declares his feelings for me, which he says he never would have admitted if he hadn’t heard that Madame Duval intended for me to marry young Branghton—a match he can't stand to think about. He earnestly asks for my forgiveness for his boldness, expresses the utmost respect, and leaves his fate to time, patience, and compassion.
This conduct in M. du Bois gives me real concern, as I was disposed to think very well of him. It will not, however, be difficult to discourage him; and therefore, I shall not acquaint Madame Duval of his letter, as I have reason to believe it would greatly displease her.
This behavior from M. du Bois really worries me, as I was inclined to think highly of him. However, it won’t be hard to discourage him; therefore, I won’t let Madame Duval know about his letter, since I have reason to believe it would upset her greatly.
LETTER LIV - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. July 3rd.
O SIR, how much uneasiness must I suffer, to counterbalance one short morning of happiness!
O Sir, how much discomfort must I endure to make up for one brief morning of happiness!
Yesterday the Branghtons proposed a party to Kensington Gardens; and, as usual, Madame Duval insisted upon my attendance.
Yesterday, the Branghtons suggested throwing a party at Kensington Gardens, and, as always, Madame Duval insisted that I be there.
We went in a hackney-coach to Piccadilly, and then had a walk through Hyde Park; which in any other company would have been delightful. I was much pleased with Kensington Gardens, and think them infinitely preferable to those of Vauxhall.
We took a cab to Piccadilly and then strolled through Hyde Park, which would have been lovely in any other company. I really enjoyed Kensington Gardens and think they are way better than those at Vauxhall.
Young Branghton was extremely troublesome; he insisted upon walking by my side, and talked with me almost by compulsion; however, my reserve and coldness prevented his entering upon the hateful subject which Madame Duval had prepared me to apprehend. Once, indeed, when I was accidentally a few yards before the rest, he said, “I suppose, Miss, aunt has told you about-you know what?-ha’n’t she, Miss?"-But I turned from him without making any answer. Neither Mr. Smith nor Mr. Brown were of the party; and poor M. Du Bois, when he found that I avoided him, looked so melancholy, that I was really sorry for him.
Young Branghton was really annoying; he insisted on walking next to me and talked to me almost against my will. However, my aloofness and detachment kept him from bringing up the unpleasant topic that Madame Duval had warned me about. Once, when I happened to be a few yards ahead of everyone else, he asked, “I guess your aunt has told you about—you know what?—hasn’t she?” But I just turned away from him without saying anything. Neither Mr. Smith nor Mr. Brown were with us, and poor M. Du Bois looked so sad when he saw me avoiding him that I actually felt bad for him.
While we were strolling round the garden, I perceived, walking with a party of ladies at some distance, Lord Orville! I instantly retreated behind Miss Branghton, and kept out of sight till we had passed him; for I dreaded being seen by him again in a public walk with a party of which I was ashamed.
While we were walking around the garden, I noticed Lord Orville, walking with a group of ladies at a distance! I quickly stepped behind Miss Branghton and stayed out of sight until we had passed him; I was afraid of being seen by him again in a public place with a group I was embarrassed to be part of.
Happily I succeeded in my design, and saw no more of him; for a sudden and violent shower of rain made us all hasten out of the gardens. We ran till we came to a small green-shop, where we begged shelter. Here we found ourselves in company with two footmen, whom the rain had driven into the shop. Their livery I thought I had before seen; and, upon looking from the window, I perceived the same upon a coachman belonging to a carriage, which I immediately recollected to be Lord Orville’s.
I was glad I achieved my goal and didn’t have to see him again; a sudden, heavy rainstorm made us all rush out of the gardens. We ran until we reached a little green-grocer’s shop, where we asked for shelter. Inside, we found ourselves with two footmen who had also sought refuge from the rain. Their uniforms looked familiar, and when I peered out the window, I noticed the same attire on a coachman driving a carriage that I instantly recognized as belonging to Lord Orville.
Fearing to be know, I whispered Miss Branghton not to speak my name. Had I considered but a moment, I should have been sensible of the inutility of such a caution, since not one of the party call me by any other appellation than that of Cousin or of Miss; but I am perpetually involved in some distress or dilemma from my own heedlessness.
Worried about being recognized, I whispered to Miss Branghton not to say my name. If I had thought for just a moment, I would have realized how pointless that warning was, since none of the group call me anything other than Cousin or Miss. Instead, I often find myself caught in some trouble or dilemma because of my own carelessness.
This request excited very strongly her curiosity: and she attacked me with such eagerness and bluntness of enquiry, that I could not avoid telling her the reason of my making it, and, consequently, that I was known to Lord Orville: an acknowledgment which proved the most unfortunate in the world; for she would not rest till she had drawn from me the circumstances attending my first making the acquaintance. Then, calling to her sister, she said, “Lord, Polly, only think! Miss has danced with a Lord!”
This request really piqued her curiosity, and she grilled me with such eagerness and straightforwardness that I couldn’t help but reveal why I was making it and that I knew Lord Orville. Admitting that turned out to be the worst mistake ever because she wouldn’t stop until she got all the details about how we first met. Then, calling out to her sister, she said, “Wow, Polly, just think! Miss has danced with a Lord!”
“Well,” cried Polly, “that’s a thing I should never have thought of! And pray, Miss, what did he say to you?”
“Well,” exclaimed Polly, “that’s something I never would have thought of! So, Miss, what did he say to you?”
This question was much sooner asked than answered; and they both became so very inquisitive and earnest, that they soon drew the attention of Madame Duval and the rest of the party; to whom, in a very short time, they repeated all they had gathered from me.
This question was asked and answered quickly; and they both became so curious and serious that they soon caught the attention of Madame Duval and the rest of the group, to whom, in no time at all, they shared everything they had learned from me.
“Goodness, then,” cried young Branghton, “if I was Miss, if I would not make free with his Lordship’s coach, to take me to town.”
“Wow, then,” exclaimed young Branghton, “if I were Miss, I would totally take his Lordship’s coach to get to town.”
“Why, ay,” said the father, “there would be some sense in that; that would be making some use of a Lord’s acquaintance, for it would save us coach-hire.”
“Yeah,” said the father, “that actually makes sense; that would be putting a Lord’s connection to good use, since it would save us on cab fare.”
“Lord, Miss,” cried Polly, “I wish you would; for I should like of all things to ride in a coronet-coach.”
“Please, Miss,” cried Polly, “I really wish you would; because I would absolutely love to ride in a coronet coach.”
“I promise you,” said Madame Duval, “I’m glad you’ve thought of it, for I don’t see no objection;-so let’s have the coachman called.”
“I promise you,” said Madame Duval, “I’m glad you thought of it, because I don’t see any objections—so let’s call the coachman.”
“Not for the world,” cried I, very much alarmed: “indeed it is utterly impossible.”
“Not for anything in the world,” I exclaimed, very alarmed: “there’s no way that’s happening.”
“Why so?” demanded Mr. Branghton: “pray, where’s the good of your knowing a Lord, if your never the better for him?”
“Why is that?” asked Mr. Branghton. “Seriously, what’s the point of knowing a Lord if it doesn’t benefit you at all?”
“Ma foi, child,” said Madame Duval, “you don’t know no more of the world that if you was a baby. Pray, Sir, (to one of the footmen) tell that coachman to draw up, for I wants to speak to him.”
“Really, child,” said Madame Duval, “you don’t know any more about the world than if you were a baby. Please, Sir,” (to one of the footmen) “tell that coachman to pull up, because I want to speak to him.”
The man stared, but did not move. “Pray, pray, Madame,” said I, “pray, Mr. Branghton, have the goodness to give up this plan; I know but very little of his Lordship, and cannot, upon any account, take so great a liberty.”
The man stared but didn’t budge. “Please, please, Madame,” I said, “please, Mr. Branghton, kindly reconsider this plan; I know very little about his Lordship and can’t, under any circumstances, take such a significant liberty.”
“Don’t say nothing about it,” said Madam Duval, “for I shall have it my own way: so, if you won’t call the coachman, Sir, I’ll promise you I’ll call him myself.”
“Don’t say anything about it,” said Madam Duval, “because I’m going to do it my way: so, if you won’t call the coachman, Sir, I promise I’ll call him myself.”
The footman, very impertinently, laughed and turned upon his heel. Madame Duval, extremely irritated, ran out in the rain, and beckoned the coachman, who instantly obeyed her summons. Shocked beyond all expression, I flew after her, and entreated her, with the utmost earnestness, to let us return in a hackney coach:-but, oh!-she is impenetrable to persuasion! She told the man she wanted him to carry her directly to town, and that she would answer for him to Lord Orville. The man, with a sneer, thanked her, but said he should answer for himself; and was driving off; when another footman came up to him, with information that his Lord was gone into Kensington Palace, and would not want him for an hour or two.
The footman, very rudely, laughed and turned away. Madame Duval, extremely annoyed, ran out into the rain and signaled to the coachman, who quickly responded to her call. Shocked beyond words, I rushed after her and earnestly begged her to let us take a cab—but, oh!—she is impossible to persuade! She told the man she wanted him to take her straight to town, and that she would vouch for him to Lord Orville. The man, with a smirk, thanked her but said he would take responsibility for himself, and started to drive off. Just then, another footman approached him with news that his Lordship had gone to Kensington Palace and wouldn’t need him for an hour or two.
“Why, then, friend,” said Mr. Branghton (for we were followed by all the party), “where will be the great harm of your taking us to town?”
“Why, then, friend,” said Mr. Branghton (since we were followed by the whole group), “what’s the big deal about you taking us to town?”
“Besides,” said the son, “I’ll promise you a pot of beer for my own share.”
“Besides,” said the son, “I’ll promise you a keg of beer for my part.”
These speeches had no other answer from the coachman than a loud laugh, which was echoed by the insolent footmen. I rejoiced at their resistance; though I was certain that, if their Lord had witnessed their impertinence, they would have been instantly dismissed his service.
These speeches got nothing but a loud laugh from the coachman, which was echoed by the rude footmen. I was happy about their defiance; although I knew that if their Lord had seen their disrespect, they would have been fired right away.
“Pardi,” cried Madame Duval, “if I don’t think all the footmen are the most impudentest fellows in the kingdom! But I’ll promise you I’ll have your master told of your airs; so you’ll get no good by ‘em.”
“Pardi,” shouted Madame Duval, “I really think all the footmen are the most arrogant guys in the kingdom! But I promise you, I’ll make sure your boss hears about your attitude; so you won’t benefit from it.”
“Why, pray,” said the coachman, rather alarmed, “did my Lord give you leave to use the coach?”
“Why, may I ask,” said the coachman, somewhat concerned, “did my Lord allow you to use the coach?”
“It’s no matter for that,” answered she; “I’m sure if he’s a gentleman, he’d let us have it sooner than we should be wet to the skin; but I’ll promise you he shall know how saucy you’ve been, for this young lady knows him very well.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she replied. “I’m sure if he’s a gentleman, he’ll let us have it before we get soaked; but I promise you, he’ll find out how cheeky you’ve been, because this young lady knows him very well.”
“Ay, that she does,” said Miss Polly; “and she’s danced with him too.”
“Ay, she really has,” said Miss Polly; “and she’s danced with him too.”
Oh, how I repented my foolish mismanagement! The men bit their lips, and looked at one another in some confusion. This was perceived by our party; who, taking advantage of it, protested they would write Lord Orville word of their ill behaviour without delay. This quite startled them; and one of the footmen offered to run to the palace, and ask his Lord’s permission for our having the carriage.
Oh, how I regretted my foolish mismanagement! The men bit their lips and looked at each other in confusion. Our group noticed this and, taking advantage of the moment, declared they would inform Lord Orville of their bad behavior right away. This really startled them; one of the footmen even offered to dash to the palace to ask for his Lordship's permission for us to use the carriage.
This proposal really made me tremble, and the Branghtons all hung back upon it; but Madame Duval is never to be dissuaded from a scheme she has once formed. “Do so,” cried she; “and give this child’s compliments to your master; and tell him, as we ha’n’t no coach here, we should be glad to go just as far as Holborn in his.”
This proposal really shook me, and the Branghtons all hesitated about it; but Madame Duval is never swayed from a plan she has decided on. “Go ahead,” she said; “and give this child's regards to your boss; and let him know that since we don't have a coach here, we would be happy to go as far as Holborn in his.”
“No, no, no!” cried I; “don’t go,-I know nothing of his Lordship,-I send no message,-I have nothing to say to him!”
“No, no, no!” I shouted; “don’t go—I don’t know anything about his Lordship—I’m not sending any message—I have nothing to say to him!”
The men, very much perplexed, could with difficulty restrain themselves from resuming their impertinent mirth. Madame Duval scolded me vary angrily, and then desired them to go directly. “Pray, then,” said the coachman, “what name is to be given to my Lord?”
The men, clearly confused, struggled to hold back their rude laughter. Madame Duval scolded me quite angrily and then told them to leave immediately. “So, what name should we give to my Lord?” the coachman asked.
“Anville,” answered Madame Duval; “tell him Miss Anville wants the coach; the young lady he danced with once.”
“Anville,” replied Madame Duval; “tell him Miss Anville wants the coach; the young lady he danced with once.”
I was really in an agony; but the winds could not have been more deaf to me, than those to whom I pleaded! and therefore the footman, urged by the repeated threats of Madame Duval, and perhaps recollecting the name himself, actually went to the palace with this strange message!
I was really in pain; but the winds could not have been more unresponsive to me than those I was pleading with! So, the footman, pushed by Madame Duval's constant threats and maybe remembering the name himself, actually went to the palace with this strange message!
He returned in a few minutes; and, bowing to me with the greatest respect, said, “My Lord desires his compliments, and his carriage will be always at Miss Anville’s service.”
He came back in a few minutes, and bowing to me with the utmost respect, said, “My Lord sends his regards, and his carriage will always be at Miss Anville’s service.”
I was so much affected by this politeness, and chagrined at the whole affair, that I could scarce refrain from tears. Madame Duval, and the Miss Branghtons eagerly jumped into the coach, and desired me to follow. I would rather have submitted to the severest punishment; but all resistance was vain.
I was so impacted by this politeness and frustrated by the whole situation that I could barely hold back my tears. Madame Duval and the Miss Branghtons quickly jumped into the coach and asked me to follow. I would have preferred to face the harshest punishment, but any resistance was pointless.
During the whole ride I said not a word: however, the rest of the party were so talkative, that my silence was very immaterial. We stopped at our lodgings; but, when Madame Duval and I alighted, the Branghtons asked if they could not be carried on to Snow-Hill? The servants, now all civility, made no objection. Remonstrances from me would, I too well knew, be fruitless; and therefore, with a heavy heart, I retired to my room, and left them to their own direction.
During the whole ride, I didn't say a word; however, the rest of the group was so chatty that my silence didn't really matter. We stopped at our accommodations, but when Madame Duval and I got out, the Branghtons asked if they could be taken to Snow-Hill instead. The servants, now quite polite, didn't object. I knew that any protests from me would be pointless, so with a heavy heart, I went to my room and left them to do as they pleased.
Seldom have I passed a night in greater uneasiness.-So lately to have cleared myself in the good opinion of Lord Orville,-so soon to forfeit it!-to give him reason to suppose I presumed to boast of his acquaintance!-to publish his having danced with me!-to take with him a liberty I should have blushed to have taken with the most intimate of my friends!-to treat with such impertinent freedom, one who has honoured me with such distinguished respect!-Indeed, Sir, I could have met with no accident that would so cruelly have tormented me!
I can hardly remember a night when I felt more uneasy. Just when I had earned Lord Orville's good opinion, I ended up losing it! To give him a reason to think I was bragging about knowing him! To make it public that he danced with me! To act so presumptuously with him, someone I would never dream of treating that way, even with my closest friends! To show such disrespect to someone who has treated me with such honor! Honestly, I can't think of anything that could have upset me more!
If such were, then, my feelings, imagine,-for I cannot describe, what I suffered during the scene I am now going to write.
If that was how I felt, just imagine—because I can't describe it—what I went through during the scene I'm about to write.
This morning, while I was alone in the dining-room, young Branghton called. He entered with a most important air; and, strutting up to me, said, “Miss, Lord Orville sends his compliments to you.”
This morning, while I was alone in the dining room, young Branghton came by. He walked in with a really serious attitude and, swaggering over to me, said, "Miss, Lord Orville sends his regards to you."
“Lord Orville!” repeated I, much amazed.
“Lord Orville!” I repeated, feeling quite surprised.
“Yes, Miss, Lord Orville; for I know his Lordship now, as well as you.-And a very civil gentleman he is, for all he’s a Lord.”
“Yes, Miss, Lord Orville; I know his Lordship now just like you do. And he’s a very polite gentleman, considering he’s a Lord.”
“For Heaven’s sake,” cried I, “explain yourself.”
“For heaven’s sake,” I exclaimed, “just explain yourself.”
“Why, you must know, Miss, after we left you, we met with a little misfortune; but I don’t mind it now, for it’s all turned out for the best: but, just as we were a-going up Snow-Hill, plump we comes against a cart, with such a jogg it almost pulled the coach-wheel off. However, that i’n’t the worst; for, as I went to open the door in a hurry, a-thinking the coach would be broke down, as ill-luck would have it, I never minded that the glass was up, and so I poked my head fairly through it.-Only see, Miss, how I’ve cut my forehead!”
“Honestly, you should know, Miss, after we left you, we ran into a bit of trouble; but I don’t mind it now since it all turned out for the best: just as we were going up Snow Hill, we bumped right into a cart, and it was such a jolt that it almost broke the coach wheel. But that’s not even the worst part; as I rushed to open the door, thinking the coach would break down, and as luck would have it, I didn’t realize the window was up, so I ended up sticking my head right through it. Just look, Miss, at how I've cut my forehead!”
A much worse accident to himself would not, I believe, at that moment have given me any concern for him: however, he proceeded with his account, for I was too much confounded to interrupt him.
A much worse accident to himself wouldn't, I think, have worried me at that moment: however, he continued with his story, as I was too stunned to interrupt him.
“Goodness, Miss, we were in such a stew, us, and the servants, and all, as you can’t think; for, besides the glass being broke, the coachman said how the coach wouldn’t be safe to go back to Kensington. So we didn’t know what to do; however, the footmen said they’d go and tell his Lordship what had happened. So then father grew quite uneasy like, for fear of his Lordship’s taking offence, and prejudicing us in our business; so he said I should go this morning and ask his pardon, cause of having broke the glass. So then I asked the footmen the direction, and they told me he lived in Berkeley-square; so this morning I went,-and I soon found out the house.”
“Wow, Miss, we were in such a mess, us and the servants, you can't imagine; because, besides the glass being broken, the coachman said the coach wouldn’t be safe to go back to Kensington. So we didn’t know what to do; however, the footmen said they’d go and tell his Lordship what had happened. Then father got really nervous, worried that his Lordship might take offense and ruin our chances in business; so he said I should go this morning and ask for his forgiveness for breaking the glass. So I asked the footmen for the directions, and they told me he lived in Berkeley Square; so this morning I went, and I quickly found the house.”
“You did!” cried I, quite out of breath with apprehension.
"You did!" I exclaimed, completely out of breath with worry.
“Yes, Miss, and a very fine house it is.-Did you ever see it?”
“Yes, Miss, and it’s a really nice house. Have you ever seen it?”
“No.”
“Nope.”
“No!-why, then, Miss, I know more of his Lordship than you do, for all you knew him first. So, when I came to the door, I was in a peck of troubles, a-thinking what I should say to him: however, the servants had no mind I should see him; for they told me he was busy, but I might leave my message. So I was just a-coming away, when I bethought myself to say I came from you.”
“No! Well, Miss, I know more about his Lordship than you do, even if you knew him first. When I got to the door, I was really worried about what I should say to him. The servants didn't want me to see him; they told me he was busy, but I could leave my message. I was just about to leave when I thought to say I was coming from you.”
“From me!”
"From me!"
“Yes, Miss, for you know, why should I have such a long walk as that for nothing? So I says to the porter, says I, tell his Lordship, says I, one wants to speak to him as comes from one Miss Anville, says I.”
“Yeah, Miss, because you know, why should I have such a long walk for no reason? So I told the porter, I said, tell his Lordship, I want to speak to him since I’m coming from one Miss Anville, I said.”
“Good God,” cried I, “and by what authority did you take such a liberty?”
“Good God,” I exclaimed, “and who gave you the right to do that?”
“Goodness, Miss don’t be in such a hurry, for you’ll be as glad as me, when you hear how well it all turned out. So then they made way for me, and said his Lordship would see me directly: and there I was led through such a heap of servants, and so many rooms, that my heart quite misgave me; for I thought, thinks I, he’ll be so proud he’ll hardly let me speak; but he’s no more proud than I am, and he was as civil as if I’d been a lord myself. So then I said, I hoped he wouldn’t take it amiss about the glass, for it was quite an accident; but he bid me not mention it, for it did not signify. And then he said he hoped you got safe home, and wasn’t frightened so I said yes, and I gave your duty to him.”
“Whoa, Miss, don’t rush, because you’ll be just as happy as I am when you hear how great everything turned out. So they made way for me and said his Lordship would see me right away. I was led through so many servants and rooms that it made my heart race; I thought, he’ll be so full of himself he’ll hardly let me talk. But he’s not any more proud than I am, and he was as polite as if I were a lord myself. I then said I hoped he wouldn’t mind about the glass, since it was just an accident, but he told me not to mention it because it didn’t matter. Then he asked if you got home safely and weren’t scared, and I said yes, and I sent your regards to him.”
“My duty to him!” exclaimed I,-“and who gave you leave?-who desired you?”
“My duty to him!” I exclaimed, “and who gave you permission? Who asked you?”
“O, I did it out of my own head, just to make him think I came from you. But I should have told you before, how the footman said he was going out of town to-morrow evening, and that his sister was soon to be married, and that he was a-ordering a heap of things for that; so it come into my head, as he was so affable, that I’d ask him for his custom. So I says, says I, my Lord, says I, if your Lordship i’n’t engaged particularly, my father is a silversmith, and he’ll be very proud to serve you, says I; and Miss Anville, as danced with you, is his cousin, and she’s my cousin too, and she’d be very much obligated to you, I’m sure.”
“O, I came up with it on my own, just to make him think I was sent by you. But I should have told you earlier how the footman mentioned he was leaving town tomorrow evening and that his sister was about to get married, so he was ordering a lot of things for that. Since he was so friendly, I thought I’d ask him for his business. So I said, my Lord, if you’re not particularly busy, my father is a silversmith and he would be thrilled to serve you; and Miss Anville, who danced with you, is his cousin, and she’s my cousin too, and she would really appreciate it, I’m sure.”
“You’ll drive me wild,” cried I, starting from my seat, “you have done me an irreparable injury;-but I will hear no more!”-and then I ran into my own room.
“You’re driving me crazy,” I shouted, jumping up from my seat, “you’ve done me serious harm—but I won’t listen to any more of this!” Then I ran into my own room.
I was half frantic, I really raved; the good opinion of Lord Orville seemed now irretrievable lost: a faint hope, which in the morning I had vainly encouraged, that I might see him again, and explain the transaction, wholly vanished, now I found he was so soon to leave town: and I could not but conclude, that, for the rest of my life, he would regard me as an object of utter contempt.
I was almost in a panic; I was really losing it. It felt like I'd completely lost Lord Orville's good opinion. The faint hope I had in the morning of seeing him again to explain everything disappeared when I realized he was leaving town so soon. I couldn't help but think that for the rest of my life, he would see me as someone to look down on.
The very idea was a dagger to my heart!-I could not support it, and-but I blush to proceed-I fear your disapprobation; yet I should not be conscious of having merited it, but that the repugnance I feel to relate to you what I have done, makes me suspect I must have erred. Will you forgive me, if I won that I first wrote an account of this transaction to Miss Mirvan?-and that I even thought of concealing it from you?-Short-lived, however, was the ungrateful idea, and sooner will I risk the justice of your displeasure, than unworthily betray your generous confidence.
The very idea was a dagger to my heart! I couldn't handle it, and—I’m embarrassed to say—I fear your disapproval; yet I wouldn’t feel deserving of it if it weren’t for the discomfort I feel in telling you what I have done, which makes me think I must have made a mistake. Will you forgive me if I admit that I first wrote about this situation to Miss Mirvan? And that I even considered keeping it from you? However, that ungrateful thought didn’t last long, and I’d rather face your disappointment than betray your trust.
You are now probably prepared for what follows-which is a letter-a hasty letter, that, in the height of my agitation, I wrote to Lord Orville.
You’re probably ready for what’s coming next—a letter—a quick letter that I wrote to Lord Orville in the middle of my excitement.
“My Lord,
“I am so infinitely ashamed of the application made yesterday
for your Lordship’s carriage in my name, and so greatly
shocked at hearing how much it was injured, that I cannot
forbear writing a few lines, to clear myself from the
imputation of an impertinence which I blush to be suspected
of, and to acquaint you, that the request for your carriage
was made against my consent, and the visit with which you were
importuned this morning without my knowledge.
“My Lord,
“I am extremely embarrassed about the request made yesterday for your carriage in my name, and I’m very upset to hear how badly it was damaged. I can't help but write a few lines to defend myself against the suggestion that I would be so rude, which I am embarrassed to be thought capable of. I want to let you know that the request for your carriage was made without my agreement, and the visit you were pressured to make this morning was arranged without my knowledge.
“I am inexpressibly concerned at having been the instrument,
however innocently, of so much trouble to your Lordship; but I
beg you to believe, that the reading these lines is the only
part of it which I have given voluntarily. I am, my Lord,
“I am incredibly worried that I’ve been the cause, even if unintentionally, of so much trouble for you, my Lord; but please understand that reading this message is the only part I’ve chosen to do willingly. I am, my Lord,
“Your Lordship’s most Humble servant, “EVELINA ANVILLE.”
“Your Lordship’s most humble servant, “EVELINA ANVILLE.”
I applied to the maid of the house to get this note conveyed to Berkley-square; but scarce had I parted with it, before I regretted having written at all; and I was flying down stairs to recover it, when the voice of Sir Clement Willoughby stopped me. As Madame Duval had ordered we should be denied to him, I was obliged to return up stairs; and after he was gone, my application was too late, as the maid had given it to a porter.
I asked the maid of the house to deliver this note to Berkley Square; but barely had I handed it over before I wished I hadn't written it at all. I started rushing downstairs to take it back when Sir Clement Willoughby's voice stopped me. Since Madame Duval had instructed that we shouldn't see him, I had to go back upstairs. After he left, my request was too late, as the maid had already given it to a porter.
My time did not pass very serenely while he was gone; however, he brought me no answer, but that Lord Orville was not at home. Whether or not he will take the trouble to send any,-or whether he will condescend to call,-or whether the affair will rest as it is, I know not;-but, in being ignorant, am most cruelly anxious.
My time wasn’t exactly peaceful while he was away; however, he didn’t bring me any answers, just that Lord Orville was not home. I don’t know if he will bother to send anything, or if he will lower himself to call, or if this situation will just stay as it is—but not knowing has me feeling extremely anxious.
LETTER LV - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. July 4th.
YOU may now, my dear Sir, send Mrs. Clinton for your Evelina with as much speed as she can conveniently make the journey, for no further opposition will be made to her leaving this town: happy had it perhaps been for her had she never entered it!
YOU may now, my dear Sir, send Mrs. Clinton for your Evelina as quickly as she can manage the trip, because there will be no more objections to her leaving this town: perhaps it would have been better for her if she had never come here!
This morning Madame Duval desired me to go to Snow-Hill, with an invitation to the Branghtons and Mr. Smith to spend the evening with her; and she desired M. Du Bois, who breakfasted with us, to accompany me. I was very unwilling to obey her, as I neither wished to walk with M. Du Bois, nor yet to meet young Branghton. And, indeed, another, a yet more powerful reason, added to my reluctance;-for I thought it possible that Lord Orville might send some answer, or perhaps might call, during my absence; however, I did not dare dispute her commands.
This morning, Madame Duval asked me to go to Snow-Hill to invite the Branghtons and Mr. Smith to spend the evening with her; she also asked M. Du Bois, who had breakfast with us, to join me. I really didn’t want to follow her request, as I didn’t want to walk with M. Du Bois or run into young Branghton. In fact, there was an even stronger reason for my hesitation—I thought it might be possible for Lord Orville to send a reply, or maybe even stop by, while I was gone; however, I didn’t dare challenge her orders.
Poor M. Du Bois spoke not a word during our walk, which was, I believe, equally unpleasant to us both. We found all the family assembled in the shop. Mr. Smith, the moment he perceived me, addressed himself to Miss Branghton, whom he entertained with all the gallantry in his power. I rejoice to find that my conduct at the Hampstead ball has had so good an effect. But young Branghton was extremely troublesome; he repeatedly laughed in my face, and looked so impertinently significant, that I was obliged to give up my reserve to M. Du Bois, and enter into conversation with him merely to avoid such boldness.
Poor M. Du Bois didn’t say a word during our walk, which I think was equally unpleasant for both of us. We found the whole family gathered in the shop. The moment Mr. Smith saw me, he directed his attention to Miss Branghton, entertaining her with all the charm he could muster. I'm glad to see that my behavior at the Hampstead ball had such a positive effect. However, young Branghton was extremely annoying; he kept laughing in my face and had such an obnoxious look that I had to drop my reserve with M. Du Bois and start a conversation with him just to avoid that kind of boldness.
“Miss,” said Mr. Branghton, “I’m sorry to hear from my son that you wasn’t pleased with what we did about that Lord Orville: but I should like to know what it was you found fault with, for we did all for the best.”
“Miss,” said Mr. Branghton, “I’m sorry to hear from my son that you weren't happy with what we did about that Lord Orville, but I’d like to know what you had a problem with, because we did everything with good intentions.”
“Goodness!” cried the son, “why, if you’d seen Miss, you’d have been surprised-she went out of the room quite in a huff, like-”
“Goodness!” cried the son, “if you’d seen Miss, you would have been surprised—she left the room all in a huff, like—”
“It is too late, now,” said I, “to reason upon this subject; but, for the future, I must take the liberty to request, that my name may never be made use of without my knowledge. May I tell Madame Duval that you will do her the favour to accept her invitation?”
“It’s too late now,” I said, “to discuss this topic, but in the future, I have to insist that my name isn’t used without my knowledge. Can I tell Madame Duval that you’ll be kind enough to accept her invitation?”
“As to me, Ma’am,” said Mr. Smith, “I am much obliged to the old lady, but I have no mind to be taken in by her again; you’ll excuse me, Ma’am.”
“As for me, Ma’am,” said Mr. Smith, “I really appreciate the old lady, but I have no intention of being fooled by her again; please excuse me, Ma’am.”
All the rest promised to come, and I then took leave; but, as I left the shop, I heard Mr. Branghton say, “Take courage, Tom, she’s only coy.” And, before I had walked ten yards, the youth followed.
All the others promised to show up, and I said my goodbyes; but as I was leaving the shop, I heard Mr. Branghton say, “Hang in there, Tom, she’s just being shy.” And before I had walked ten steps, the young man followed me.
I was so much offended that I would not look at him, but began to converse with M. Du Bois, who was now more lively than I had ever before seen him; for, most unfortunately, he misinterpreted the reason of my attention to him.
I was so offended that I wouldn’t look at him and started talking to M. Du Bois, who was now more lively than I had ever seen him before. Unfortunately, he misunderstood why I was paying attention to him.
The first intelligence I received when I came home, was, that two gentlemen had called, and left cards. I eagerly enquired for them, and read the names of Lord Orville and Sir Clement Willoughby. I by no means regretted that I missed seeing the latter, but perhaps I may all my life regret that I missed the former; for probably he has now left town,-and I may see him no more!
The first thing I learned when I got home was that two gentlemen had stopped by and left their cards. I quickly asked about them and read the names of Lord Orville and Sir Clement Willoughby. I definitely wasn't upset about missing the latter, but I might regret missing the former my whole life; he’s probably already left town, and I might never see him again!
“My goodness,” cried young Branghton, rudely looking over me, “only think of that Lord’s coming all this way! It’s my belief he’d got some order ready for father, and so he’d a mind to call and ask you if I’d told him the truth.”
“My goodness,” exclaimed young Branghton, rudely looking over me, “can you believe that Lord came all this way! I think he had some instructions for my dad, and he wanted to check with you if I told him the truth.”
“Pray, Betty,” cried I, “how long has he been gone?”
“Please, Betty,” I exclaimed, “how long has he been gone?”
“Not two minutes, Ma’am.”
"Not two minutes, Ma'am."
“Why then, I’ll lay you any wager, “said young Branghton, “he saw you and I a-walking up Holborn Hill.”
“Why then, I’ll bet you anything,” said young Branghton, “he saw you and me walking up Holborn Hill.”
“God forbid!” cried I, impatiently; and, too much chagrined to bear with any more of his remarks, I ran up stairs; but I heard him say to M. Du Bois, “Miss is so uppish this morning, that I think I had better not speak to her again.”
“God forbid!” I exclaimed, feeling impatient; and, too annoyed to listen to any more of his comments, I rushed upstairs. But I heard him say to M. Du Bois, “Miss is so stuck-up this morning that I think I should probably just avoid talking to her again.”
I wish M. Du Bois had taken the same resolution; but he chose to follow me into the dining-room, which he found empty.
I wish M. Du Bois had made the same choice; instead, he decided to follow me into the dining room, which he found to be empty.
“Vous ne l’aimez donc pas, ce garcon, Mademoiselle!” cried he.
"You don't like that boy, do you, Miss!" he exclaimed.
“Me!” cried I, “no, I detest him!” for I was sick at heart.
"Me!" I cried, "No, I can't stand him!" because I felt sick to my stomach.
“Ah, tu me rends la vie!” cried he; and, flinging himself at my feet, he had just caught my hand as the door was opened by Madame Duval.
“Ah, you bring me to life!” he cried; and, throwing himself at my feet, he had just grabbed my hand as Madame Duval opened the door.
Hastily, and with marks of guilty confusion in his face, he arose; but the rage of that lady quite amazed me! Advancing to the retreating M. Du Bois, she began, in French, an attack, which her extreme wrath and wonderful volubility almost rendered unintelligible; yet I understood but too much, since her reproaches convinced me she had herself proposed being the object of his affection.
Hastily, and with signs of guilty confusion on his face, he stood up; but the fury of that lady completely shocked me! Moving towards the retreating M. Du Bois, she started, in French, a tirade that was nearly impossible to follow due to her extreme anger and incredible speed of speech; yet I understood more than enough, as her accusations made it clear that she had been the one to suggest that she be the object of his affection.
He defended himself in a weak and evasive manner; and, upon her commanding him from her sight, very readily withdrew: and then, with yet greater violence, she upbraided me with having seduced his heart, called me an ungrateful, designing girl, and protested she would neither take me to Paris, nor any more interest herself in my affairs, unless I would instantly agree to marry young Branghton.
He defended himself in a weak and evasive way; and when she ordered him out of her sight, he quickly left. Then, even more aggressively, she accused me of having seduced his heart, called me an ungrateful, scheming girl, and insisted that she would neither take me to Paris nor get involved in my life anymore unless I immediately agreed to marry young Branghton.
Frightened as I had been at her vehemence, this proposal restored all my courage; and I frankly told her, that in this point I never could obey her. More irritated than ever, she ordered me to quit the room.
Frightened as I had been by her intensity, this suggestion gave me back all my courage; and I honestly told her that I could never agree to it. More annoyed than ever, she told me to leave the room.
Such is the present situation of affairs. I shall excuse myself from seeing the Branghtons this afternoon: indeed, I never wish to see them again. I am sorry, however innocently, that I have displeased Madame Duval; yet I shall be very glad to quit this town, for I believe it does not now contain one person I ever wish to again meet. Had I but seen Lord Orville, I should regret nothing: I could then have more fully explained what I so hastily wrote; yet it will always be a pleasure to me to recollect that he called, since I flatter myself it was in consequence of his being satisfied with my letter.
This is the current state of things. I’m going to skip seeing the Branghtons this afternoon; in fact, I never want to see them again. I feel bad, even if it was unintentional, that I’ve upset Madame Duval; however, I’ll be really happy to leave this town because I don’t think there’s anyone here I’d want to see again. If only I had seen Lord Orville, I wouldn’t regret anything: I could have explained more fully what I wrote so quickly; still, it will always be nice to remember that he came by, since I like to think it was because he was pleased with my letter.
Adieu, my dear Sir; the time now approaches when I hope once more to receive your blessing, and to owe all my joy, all my happiness, to your kindness.
Goodbye, my dear Sir; the time is coming when I hope to receive your blessing again, and to owe all my joy and happiness to your kindness.
LETTER LVI - MR. VILLARS TO EVELINA. Berry Hill, July 7th.
WELCOME, thrice welcome, my darling Evelina, to the arms of the truest, the fondest of your friends! Mrs. Clinton, who shall hasten to you with these lines, will conduct you directly hither; for I can consent no longer to be parted from the child of my bosom!-the comfort of my age!-the sweet solace of all my infirmities! Your worthy friends at Howard Grove must pardon me that I rob them of the visit you proposed to make them before your return to Berry Hill, for I find my fortitude unequal to a longer separation.
WELCOME, three times welcome, my dear Evelina, to the embrace of the truest, most affectionate of your friends! Mrs. Clinton, who will be bringing you this letter, will take you straight here; I can no longer bear to be apart from the child of my heart—the joy of my life—the sweet comfort during all my hardships! Your good friends at Howard Grove will have to forgive me for stealing you away from the visit you planned to make them before heading back to Berry Hill, as I find my strength isn’t enough to handle a longer separation.
I have much to say to you, many comments to make upon your late letters, some parts of which give me no little uneasiness; but I will reserve my remarks for our future conversations. Hasten, then, to the spot of thy nativity, the abode of thy youth, where never yet care or sorrow had power to annoy thee.-O that they might ever be banished this peaceful dwelling!
I have a lot to say to you and many thoughts about your recent letters, some of which make me quite uneasy; but I’ll hold off on my comments until our next conversations. So please hurry back to your hometown, to the place of your youth, where you’ve never had to deal with worry or sadness. Oh, how I wish they could always stay away from this peaceful place!
Adieu, my dearest Evelina! I pray but that thy satisfaction at our approaching meeting may bear any comparison with mine! ARTHUR VILLARS.
Goodbye, my dearest Evelina! I hope your excitement for our upcoming meeting is anywhere close to mine! ARTHUR VILLARS.
LETTER LVII - EVELINA TO MISS MIRVAN. Berry Hill, July 14th.
MY Sweet Maria will be much surprised, and I am willing to flatter myself, concerned, when, instead of her friend, she receives this letter;-this cold, this inanimate letter, which will but ill express the feelings of the heart which indites it.
MY Sweet Maria will be very surprised, and I like to think I’ll be a little concerned, when, instead of her friend, she gets this letter; this cold, lifeless letter, which won’t do justice to the feelings of the heart that writes it.
When I wrote to you last Friday, I was in hourly expectation of seeing Mrs. Clinton, with whom I intended to have set out for Howard Grove. Mrs. Clinton came; but my plan was necessarily altered, for she brought me a letter,-the sweetest that ever was penned, from the best and kindest friend that ever orphan was blessed with, requiring my immediate attendance at Berry Hill.
When I wrote to you last Friday, I was eagerly waiting to see Mrs. Clinton, with whom I planned to leave for Howard Grove. Mrs. Clinton did arrive, but my plans had to change because she brought me a letter—the most heartfelt one ever written, from the sweetest and kindest friend any orphan could hope for, asking for my immediate presence at Berry Hill.
I obeyed,-and pardon me if I own I obeyed without reluctance: after so long a separation, should I not else have been the most ungrateful of mortals?-And yet,-oh, Maria! though I wished to leave London, the gratification of my wish afforded me no happiness! and though I felt an impatience inexpressible to return hither, no words, no language, can explain the heaviness of heart with which I made the journey. I believe you would hardly have known me;-indeed, I hardly know myself. Perhaps, had I first seen you, in your kind and sympathizing bosom I might have ventured to have reposed every secret of my soul;-and then-but let me pursue my journal.
I agreed—and forgive me for saying I agreed without hesitation: after such a long time apart, wouldn’t it have been the most ungrateful thing for me to do otherwise? But still—oh, Maria! even though I wanted to leave London, getting my wish didn’t bring me any joy! And while I felt an unbearable urge to come back here, no words can describe the weight in my heart as I made the journey. I think you might hardly recognize me—in fact, I hardly recognize myself. Maybe if I had seen you first, in your kind and understanding embrace, I could have shared every secret of my soul with you—but for now, let me continue with my journal.
Mrs. Clinton delivered Madame Duval a letter from Mr. Villars, which requested her leave for my return; and, indeed, it was very readily accorded: yet, when she found, by my willingness to quit town that M. Du Bois was really indifferent to me, she somewhat softened in my favour; and declared, that, but for punishing his folly in thinking of such a child, she would not have consented to my being again buried in the country.
Mrs. Clinton delivered a letter from Mr. Villars to Madame Duval, asking for her permission for me to return; and, in fact, it was granted quite easily. However, when she realized that my eagerness to leave town showed that M. Du Bois was truly indifferent to me, she softened a bit towards me. She stated that, if it weren't for wanting to punish his foolishness for thinking of someone so young, she wouldn't have agreed to send me back to the countryside.
All the Branghtons called to take leave of me; but I will not write a word more about them: indeed I cannot, with any patience, think of that family, to whose forwardness and impertinence is owing all the uneasiness I at this moment suffer!
All the Branghtons came to say goodbye to me, but I won’t write another word about them. Honestly, I can’t bear to think about that family, whose pushiness and rudeness are the reason for all the discomfort I'm feeling right now!
So great was the depression of my spirits upon the road, that it was with great difficulty I could persuade the worthy Mrs. Clinton I was not ill; but, alas! the situation of my mind was such as would have rendered any mere bodily pain, by comparison, even enviable!
So deep was my sadness on the road that I had a hard time convincing the kind Mrs. Clinton that I wasn’t sick; but, unfortunately, my mental state was such that any physical pain would have felt like a blessing in comparison!
And yet, when we arrived at Berry Hill,-when the chaise stopped at this place,-how did my heart throb with joy!-and when, through the window, I beheld the dearest, the most venerable of men, with uplifted hands, returning, as I doubt not, thanks for my safe arrival,-good God! I thought it would have burst my bosom!-I opened the chaise-door myself; I flew,-for my feet did not seem to touch the ground,-into the parlour: he had risen to meet me; but the moment I appeared he sunk into his chair, uttering, with a deep sigh, though his face beamed with delight, “My God, I thank thee!”
And yet, when we got to Berry Hill—when the carriage pulled up to this place—my heart raced with joy! And as I looked through the window and saw the most beloved and respected man, with his hands raised, giving thanks for my safe arrival, I thought my chest might burst! I opened the carriage door myself and rushed in—my feet barely touching the ground—into the living room: he had stood up to greet me, but as soon as I showed up, he sank back into his chair, letting out a deep sigh despite the joy on his face, saying, “My God, I thank you!”
I sprung forward; and, with a pleasure that bordered upon agony, I embraced his knees, I kissed his hands, I wept over them, but could not speak: while he, now raising his eyes in thankfulness towards heaven, now bowing down his reverend head, and folding me in his arms, could scarce articulate the blessings with which his kind and benevolent heart overflowed.
I rushed forward, and with a joy that felt almost painful, I hugged his knees, kissed his hands, and cried over them, but couldn’t find the words to speak. Meanwhile, he was looking up in gratitude towards heaven, then bowing his wise head and wrapping me in his arms, barely able to express the blessings that filled his kind and generous heart.
O, Miss Mirvan, to be so beloved by the best of men,-should I not be happy?-Should I have one wish save that of meriting his goodness?-Yet think me not ungrateful; indeed I am not, although the internal sadness of my mind unfits me, at present, for enjoying as I ought the bounties of Providence.
O, Miss Mirvan, to be so loved by the best of men—shouldn’t I be happy? Shouldn’t my only wish be to deserve his goodness? Yet don’t think I’m ungrateful; I truly am not, even though the sadness in my heart makes it hard for me right now to fully appreciate the blessings of life.
I cannot journalize, cannot arrange my ideas into order.
I can't write in a journal, can't organize my thoughts.
How little has situation to do with happiness! I had flattered myself, that, when restored to Berry Hill, I should be restored to tranquillity: far otherwise have I found it, for never yet had tranquillity and Evelina so little intercourse.
How little the situation has to do with happiness! I had convinced myself that when I returned to Berry Hill, I would find peace: instead, I've discovered the opposite, for tranquility and Evelina have never been so disconnected.
I blush for what I have written. Can you, Maria, forgive my gravity? but I restrain it so much, and so painfully, in the presence of Mr. Villars, that I know not how to deny myself the consolation of indulging it to you.
I feel embarrassed about what I’ve written. Can you, Maria, forgive my seriousness? I hold it back so much, and it weighs on me, especially in front of Mr. Villars, that I can’t bring myself to deny the comfort of sharing it with you.
Adieu, my dear Miss Mirvan.
Goodbye, my dear Miss Mirvan.
Yet one thing I must add: do not let the seriousness of this letter deceive you; do not impute to a wrong cause the melancholy I confess, by supposing that the heart of your friend mourns a too great susceptibility: no, indeed! believe me it never was, never can be, more assuredly her own than at this moment. So witness in all truth, Your affectionate, EVELINA.
Yet one thing I need to say: don’t let the serious tone of this letter fool you; don’t think that the sadness I admit to is due to being overly sensitive: no, it’s not! Trust me, it has never been, and never will be, more truly my own than it is right now. So witness this in all sincerity, Your affectionate, EVELINA.
You will make my excuses to the honoured Lady Howard, and to your dear mother.
You will pass on my apologies to the esteemed Lady Howard and to your beloved mother.
LETTER LVIII - EVELINA TO MISS MIRVAN. Berry Hill, July 21st.
YOU accuse me of mystery, and charge me with reserve: I cannot doubt but I must have merited the accusation; yet, to clear myself,-you know not how painful will be the task. But I cannot resist your kind entreaties;-indeed I do not wish to resist them; for your friendship and affection will soothe my chagrin. Had it arisen from any other cause, not a moment would I have deferred the communication you ask;-but as it is, I would, were it possible, not only conceal it from all the world, but endeavour to disbelieve it myself. Yet since I must tell you, why trifle with your impatience?
You accuse me of being mysterious and holding back: I can't deny that I must have brought this on myself; still, clearing my name will be a painful task. But I can't resist your kind pleas; in fact, I don’t want to resist them, because your friendship and care will help ease my pain. If it had come from any other reason, I wouldn't have waited a second to share what you asked for; but as it is, I’d, if I could, not only keep it a secret from everyone but also try to convince myself that it’s not true. Still, since I have to tell you, why delay your impatience?
I know not how to come to the point; twenty times have I attempted it in vain;-but I will force myself to proceed.
I don't know how to get to the point; I've tried to many times without success—but I will push myself to move forward.
Oh, Miss Mirvan, could you ever have believed, that one who seemed formed as a pattern for his fellow-creatures, as a model of perfection,-one whose elegance surpassed all description,-whose sweetness of manners disgraced all comparison;-oh, Miss Mirvan, could you ever have believed that Lord Orville, would have treated me with indignity?
Oh, Miss Mirvan, could you have ever believed that someone who seemed like a perfect example for others, a model of excellence—someone whose elegance was beyond words and whose kindness put everything else to shame—oh, Miss Mirvan, could you have ever believed that Lord Orville would treat me with such disrespect?
Never, never again will I trust to appearances;-never confide in my own weak judgment;-never believe that person to be good who seems to be amiable! What cruel maxims are we taught by a knowledge of the world!-But while my own reflections absorb me, I forget you are still in suspense.
Never, never again will I trust appearances; never rely on my own weak judgment; never believe someone is good just because they seem nice! What harsh lessons we learn from experiencing the world! But while I'm lost in my own thoughts, I forget that you are still waiting.
I had just finished the last letter which I wrote to you from London, when the maid of the house brought me a note. It was given to her, she said, by a footman, who told her he would call the next day for an answer.
I had just finished the last letter I wrote to you from London when the maid of the house brought me a note. She said it was given to her by a footman, who told her he would come back the next day for a reply.
This note,-but let it speak for itself.
This note—let it speak for itself.
“To Miss Anville.
"To Miss Anville."
“With transport, most charming of thy sex, did I read
the letter
with which you yesterday morning favoured me. I am sorry the
affair of the carriage should have given you any concern,
but I am highly flattered by the anxiety you express so
kindly. Believe me, my lovely girl, I am truly sensible
to the honour of your good opinion, and feel myself deeply
penetrated with love and gratitude. The correspondence you
have so sweetly commenced, I shall be proud of continuing;
and I hope the strong sense I have of the favour you do me
will prevent your withdrawing it. Assure yourself, that I
desire nothing more ardently than to pour forth my thanks at
your feet, and to offer those vows which are so justly the
tribute of your charms and accomplishments. In your next
I intreat you to acquaint me how long you shall remain in
town. The servant, whom I shall commission to call for an
answer, has orders to ride post with it to me. My impatience
for his arrival will be very great, though inferior to that
with which I burn to tell you, in person, how much I am,
my sweet girl, your grateful admirer, “ORVILLE.”
“Through the transport of your charm, I read the letter you graciously sent me yesterday morning. I’m sorry that the situation with the carriage caused you any worry, but I’m truly flattered by the concern you expressed so kindly. Believe me, my lovely girl, I appreciate the honor of your good opinion and I feel deeply filled with love and gratitude. I will be proud to continue the correspondence you’ve sweetly started, and I hope my strong appreciation for your kindness will encourage you to keep it going. Rest assured, I desire nothing more than to express my thanks at your feet and to offer my vows, which are rightly due to your charms and talents. In your next letter, please let me know how long you’ll be staying in town. The servant I’ll send to collect your response has been instructed to ride quickly with it to me. My eagerness for his arrival will be immense, though nothing compared to my desire to tell you in person how much I am, my sweet girl, your grateful admirer, “ORVILLE.”
What a letter! how has my proud heart swelled every line I have copied! What I wrote to him you know; tell me, then, my dear friend, do you think it merited such an answer?-and that I have deservedly incurred the liberty he has taken? I meant nothing but a simple apology, which I thought as much due to my own character as to his; yet by the construction he seems to have put upon it, should you not have imagined it contained the avowal of sentiments which might indeed have provoked his contempt?
What a letter! My proud heart swells with every line I've copied! What I wrote to him, you know; so tell me, my dear friend, do you think it deserved such a response? Have I really earned the freedom he took? I only intended a simple apology, which I thought was due to both my character and his. Yet, based on how he seems to interpret it, wouldn’t you think it contained a confession of feelings that could have sparked his contempt?
The moment the letter was delivered to me, I retired to my own room to read it; and so eager was my first perusal, that,-I am ashamed to own,-it gave me no sensation but of delight. Unsuspicious of any impropriety from Lord Orville, I perceived not immediately the impertinence it implied,-I only marked the expressions of his own regard; and I was so much surprised, that I was unable for some time to compose myself, or read it again:-I could only walk up and down the room, repeating to myself, “Good God, is it possible?-am I then loved by Lord Orville?”
As soon as I got the letter, I went to my room to read it. I was so eager at first that, I’m embarrassed to say, it only filled me with delight. Not suspecting any wrongdoing from Lord Orville, I didn’t immediately notice the rudeness implied—I was only focused on his expressions of affection. I was so surprised that I couldn’t compose myself or read it again for a while; I could only pace around the room, repeating to myself, “Oh my God, is this real? Am I actually loved by Lord Orville?”
But this dream was soon over, and I awoke to far different feelings. Upon a second reading I thought every word changed,-it did not seem the same letter,-I could not find one sentence that I could look at without blushing: my astonishment was extreme, and it was succeeded by the utmost indignation.
But this dream quickly ended, and I woke up feeling completely different. On a second reading, I felt like every word had changed—it didn't seem like the same letter—I couldn't find a single sentence that I could read without blushing: my shock was intense, followed by sheer indignation.
If, as I am very ready to acknowledge, I erred in writing to Lord Orville, was it for him to punish the error? If he was offended, could he not have been silent? If he thought my letter ill-judged, should he not have pitied my ignorance? have considered my youth, and allowed for my inexperience?
If, as I'm more than willing to admit, I made a mistake by writing to Lord Orville, should it have been up to him to punish that mistake? If he was upset, couldn't he have just stayed quiet? If he believed my letter was poorly thought out, shouldn’t he have felt sorry for my ignorance, taken my youth into account, and considered my lack of experience?
Oh, Maria! how have I been deceived in this man! Words have no power to tell the high opinion I had of him; to that was owing the unfortunate solicitude which prompted my writing; a solicitude I must for ever repent!
Oh, Maria! How I have been fooled by this man! Words can't express the high opinion I had of him; it was that belief that led to my unfortunate worry that made me write; a worry I will forever regret!
Yet perhaps I have rather reason to rejoice than to grieve, since this affair has shown me his real disposition, and removed that partiality which, covering his every imperfection, left only his virtues and good qualities exposed to view. Had the deception continued much longer, had my mind received any additional prejudice in his favour, who knows whither my mistaken ideas might have led me? Indeed I fear I was in greater danger than I apprehended, or can now think of without trembling;-for, oh, if this weak heart of mine had been penetrated with too deep an impression of his merit,-my peace and happiness had been lost for ever.
Yet maybe I have more reason to celebrate than to be upset, since this situation has revealed his true nature and taken away the blind spot that made me overlook his flaws, leaving only his good traits on display. If the deception had gone on any longer, and my mind had formed more misguided views about him, who knows where those wrong ideas could have taken me? Honestly, I worry I was in more danger than I realized, or can now think about without getting anxious—because, oh, if this fragile heart of mine had been deeply affected by his supposed greatness, I would have lost my peace and happiness forever.
I would fain encourage more cheerful thoughts, fain drive from my mind the melancholy that has taken possession of it; but I cannot succeed: for, added to the humiliating feelings which so powerfully oppress me, I have yet another cause of concern;-alas, my dear Maria, I have broken the tranquillity of the best of men!
I would gladly encourage happier thoughts and get rid of the sadness that's consumed me, but I can't manage it. On top of the humbling feelings that weigh me down, I have another worry—oh, my dear Maria, I have disrupted the peace of the best of men!
I have never had the courage to show him this cruel letter; I could not bear so greatly to depreciate in his opinion, one whom I had, with infinite anxiety, raised in it myself. Indeed, my first determination was to confine my chagrin totally to my own bosom; but your friendly enquiries have drawn it from me: and now I wish I had made no concealment from the beginning, since I know not how to account for a gravity, which not all my endeavours can entirely hide or repress.
I’ve never had the courage to show him this harsh letter; I couldn’t bear to lower his opinion of someone I had, with so much anxiety, built up myself. Honestly, my first plan was to keep my disappointment completely to myself, but your friendly questions have brought it out. Now I wish I hadn’t hidden it from the start, since I can’t explain a seriousness that not all my efforts can completely hide or suppress.
My greatest apprehension is, lest he should imagine that my residence in London has given me a distaste to the country. Every body I see takes notice of my being altered, and looking pale and ill. I should be very indifferent to all such observations, did I not perceive that they draw upon me the eyes of Mr. Villars, which glisten with affectionate concern.
My biggest worry is that he might think that living in London has made me dislike the countryside. Everyone I meet comments on how I've changed and look pale and unwell. I would be indifferent to those remarks if I didn't notice that they attract the attention of Mr. Villars, whose eyes shine with caring concern.
This morning, in speaking of my London expedition he mentioned Lord Orville. I felt so much disturbed, that I would instantly have changed the subject; but he would not allow me, and, very unexpectedly, he began his panegyric; extolling in strong terms, his manly and honourable behaviour in regard to the Marybone adventure. My cheeks glowed with indignation every word he spoke;-so lately as I had myself fancied him the noblest of his sex, now that I was so well convinced of my mistake, I could not bear to hear his undeserved praises uttered by one so really good, so unsuspecting, so pure of heart.
This morning, while talking about my trip to London, he brought up Lord Orville. I felt so upset that I wanted to change the subject right away, but he wouldn’t let me. To my surprise, he started his praise, speaking highly of his brave and honorable actions regarding the Marybone incident. My cheeks burned with anger as I listened; just recently, I had thought of him as the best of men, but now that I realized my mistake, I couldn’t stand to hear such unearned compliments from someone who is truly good, so naive, and so purehearted.
What he thought of my silence and uneasiness I fear to know; but I hope he will mention the subject no more. I will not, however, with ungrateful indolence, give way to a sadness which I find infectious to him who merits the most cheerful exertion of my spirits. I am thankful that he has forborne to probe my wound; and I will endeavour to heal it by the consciousness that I have not deserved the indignity I have received. Yet I cannot but lament to find myself in a world so deceitful, where we must suspect what we see, distrust what we hear, and doubt even what we feel!
What he thinks of my silence and uneasiness, I’m afraid to know; but I hope he won’t bring it up again. I won't, though, let myself give in to a sadness that I know only brings him down, the one person who deserves my happiest self. I’m grateful he hasn’t tried to dig into my hurt; I’ll try to heal it by reminding myself that I didn’t deserve the disrespect I’ve faced. Still, I can’t help but feel sad to find myself in such a deceptive world, where we have to question what we see, distrust what we hear, and even doubt what we feel!
LETTER LIX - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. Berry Hill, July 29th.
I MUST own myself somewhat distressed how to answer your raillery: yet, believe me, my dear Maria, your suggestions are those of fancy, not of truth. I am unconscious of the weakness you suspect; yet, to dispel your doubts, I will animate myself more than ever to conquer my chagrin, and to recover my spirits.
I have to admit I'm a bit upset about how to respond to your teasing; however, believe me, my dear Maria, your suggestions are just products of your imagination, not reality. I’m not aware of the weakness you think I have; still, to ease your concerns, I’ll push myself harder than ever to overcome my disappointment and lift my mood.
You wonder, you say, since my heart takes no part in this affair, why it should make me so unhappy? And can you, acquainted as you are with the high opinion I entertained of Lord Orville, can you wonder that so great a disappointment in his character should affect me? Indeed, had so strange a letter been sent to me from any body, it could not have failed shocking me; how much more sensibly, then, must I feel such an affront, when received from the man in the world I had imagined least capable of giving it?
You wonder, you ask, since my heart isn’t involved in this situation, why it should make me so unhappy. And considering how much I respected Lord Orville, can you blame me for being so let down by his actions? Honestly, if I had received such a strange letter from anyone else, it would have shocked me; how much more hurt I feel to get such an insult from the very person I thought would be the least likely to do it.
You are glad I made no reply; assure yourself, my dear friend, had this letter been the most respectful that could be written, the clandestine air given to it, by his proposal of sending his servant for my answer, instead of having it directed to his house, would effectually have prevented my writing. Indeed, I have an aversion the most sincere to all mysteries, all private actions; however foolishly and blameably, in regard to this letter, I have deviated from the open path which, from my earliest infancy, I was taught to tread.
I'm glad I didn't reply; you can be sure, my dear friend, that even if this letter had been the most respectful one possible, the secretive way he suggested sending his servant for my response instead of having it addressed to his house would have stopped me from writing. Honestly, I have a genuine dislike for all mysteries and secretive actions; however foolishly I may have acted concerning this letter, I have strayed from the straightforward path I was taught to follow since I was a child.
He talks of my having commenced a correspondence with him: and could Lord Orville indeed believe I had such a design? believe me so forward, so bold, so strangely ridiculous? I know not if his man called or not; but I rejoice that I quitted London before he came, and without leaving any message for him. What, indeed, could I have said? it would have been a condescension very unmerited to have taken any, the least notice of such a letter.
He talks about how I started a correspondence with him: could Lord Orville really think I had that kind of intention? That I’d be so daring, so bold, so absurd? I don’t know if his man came by or not; but I’m glad I left London before he showed up, and without leaving any message for him. What could I have possibly said? It would have been an unearned favor to acknowledge such a letter at all.
Never shall I cease to wonder how he could write it. Oh, Maria! what, what could induce him so causelessly to wound and affront one who would sooner have died than wilfully offended him? -How mortifying a freedom of style! how cruel an implication conveyed by his thanks and expressions of gratitude! Is it not astonishing, that any man can appear so modest, who is so vain?
Never will I stop being amazed at how he could write that. Oh, Maria! What could possibly make him so thoughtlessly hurt and insult someone who would rather die than intentionally offend him? -What an embarrassing way to express oneself! What a harsh suggestion hidden in his thanks and expressions of gratitude! Isn’t it amazing that someone can seem so humble while being so full of themselves?
Every hour I regret the secrecy I have observed with my beloved Mr. Villars; I know not what bewitched me, but I felt at first a repugnance to publishing this affair that I could not surmount;-and now, I am ashamed of confessing that I have any thing to confess! Yet I deserve to be punished for the false delicacy which occasioned my silence, since, if Lord Orville himself was contented to forfeit his character, was it for me, almost at the expense of my own, to support it?
Every hour I regret the secrecy I’ve kept regarding my beloved Mr. Villars; I don’t know what got into me, but at first, I felt a strong aversion to sharing this matter that I couldn’t overcome—and now, I’m embarrassed to admit that I have anything to confess! Yet I deserve to be punished for the false modesty that led to my silence, since if Lord Orville himself was willing to risk his reputation, was it right for me, almost at the cost of my own, to uphold it?
Yet I believe I should be very easy, now the first shock is over, and now that I see the whole affair with the resentment it merits, did not all my good friends in this neighbourhood, who think me extremely altered, tease me about my gravity, and torment Mr. Villars with observations upon my dejection and falling away. The subject is no sooner started, than a deep gloom overspreads his venerable countenance, and he looks at me with a tenderness so melancholy, that I know not how to endure the consciousness of exciting it.
Yet I think I should be pretty easy now that the initial shock is over, and I see the whole situation with the resentment it deserves. All my good friends in the neighborhood, who believe I've changed a lot, tease me about my seriousness and bother Mr. Villars with comments about my sadness and decline. No sooner is the topic brought up than a deep gloom falls over his wise face, and he looks at me with such a sad tenderness that I find it hard to bear knowing I cause it.
Mrs. Selwyn, a lady of large fortune, who lives about three miles from Berry Hill, and who has always honoured me with very distinguishing marks of regard, is going, in a short time, to Bristol, and has proposed to Mr. Villars to take me with her for the recovery of my health. He seemed very much distressed whether to consent or refuse; but I, without any hesitation, warmly opposed the scheme, protesting my health could no where be better than in this pure air. He had the goodness to thank me for this readiness to stay with him; but he is all goodness! Oh, that it were in my power to be indeed what, in the kindness of his heart, he has called me, the comfort of his age, and solace of his infirmities!
Mrs. Selwyn, a wealthy lady who lives about three miles from Berry Hill and has always shown me great kindness, is going to Bristol soon. She suggested to Mr. Villars that I join her to help improve my health. He seemed very troubled about whether to agree or decline, but I immediately and passionately opposed the idea, insisting that my health couldn't be better than it is in this fresh air. He kindly thanked me for wanting to stay with him, but he is just so kind! Oh, how I wish I could truly be what he, in his kindness, has called me—the comfort of his old age and the support in his struggles!
Never do I wish to be again separated from him. If here I am grave, elsewhere I should be unhappy. In his presence, with a very little exertion, all the cheerfulness of my disposition seems ready to return; the benevolence of his countenance reanimates, the harmony of his temper composes, the purity of his character edifies me! I owe to him every thing! and, far from finding my debt of gratitude a weight, the first pride, the first pleasure of my life, is the recollection of the obligations conferred upon me by a goodness so unequalled.
I never want to be separated from him again. If I’m serious here, I’d be unhappy somewhere else. When I'm with him, it takes very little effort for my cheerful side to come back; his kind expression lifts me up, his balanced mood calms me, and his pure character inspires me! I owe him everything! Instead of feeling burdened by my gratitude, the first pride and joy of my life comes from remembering the kindness he has shown me, which is truly unmatched.
Once, indeed, I thought there existed another,-who, when time had wintered o’er his locks, would have shone forth among his fellow-creatures with the same brightness of worth which dignifies my honoured Mr. Villars; a brightness how superior in value to that which results from mere quickness of parts, wit, or imagination! a brightness, which, not contented with merely diffusing smiles, and gaining admiration from the sallies of the spirits, reflects a real and a glorious lustre upon all mankind! Oh, how great was my error! how ill did I judge! how cruelly have I been deceived!
Once, I truly believed there was someone else who, as time grayed his hair, would shine with the same level of worth that my esteemed Mr. Villars has. A worth that is far more valuable than what comes from mere cleverness, wit, or creativity! A quality that, instead of just spreading smiles and earning admiration from quick remarks, brings a genuine and glorious light to all humanity! Oh, how wrong I was! How poorly did I assess things! How deeply I have been misled!
I will not go to Bristol, though Mrs. Selwyn is very urgent with me;-but I desire not to see any more of the world! the few months I have already passed in it, have sufficed to give me a disgust even to its name.
I’m not going to Bristol, even though Mrs. Selwyn keeps insisting I should; but I really don’t want to see any more of the world! The few months I’ve spent in it have been enough to make me dislike even its name.
I hope, too, I shall see Lord Orville no more: accustomed, from my first knowledge of him, to regard him as a being superior to his race, his presence, perhaps, might banish my resentment, and I might forget his ill conduct; for oh, Maria!-I should not know how to see Lord Orville -and to think of displeasure!
I hope I never see Lord Orville again. From the moment I got to know him, I’ve always seen him as someone better than others. His presence might make me forget my anger and overlook how he treated me poorly, and oh, Maria! I wouldn’t know how to face Lord Orville and feel upset at the same time!
As a sister I loved him;-I could have entrusted him with every thought of my heart, had he deigned to wish my confidence: so steady did I think his honour, so feminine his delicacy, and so amiable his nature! I have a thousand times imagined that the whole study of his life, and whole purport of his reflections, tended solely to the good and happiness of others: but I will talk,-write,-think of him no more! Adieu, my dear friend!
As a sister, I loved him; I could have shared every thought in my heart with him if he had cared to earn my trust. I believed his honor was unshakeable, his sensitivity was remarkable, and his nature was so kind! A thousand times, I've imagined that everything he did and all his thoughts were focused solely on the well-being and happiness of others. But I won’t talk, write, or think about him anymore! Goodbye, my dear friend!
LETTER LX - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. Berry Hill, August 10th.
YOU complain of my silence, my dear Miss Mirvan;-but what have I to write? Narrative does not offer, nor does a lively imagination supply the deficiency. I have, however, at present, sufficient matter for a letter, in relating a conversation I had yesterday with Mr. Villars.
YOU complain about my silence, dear Miss Mirvan; but what do I have to say? Narrative doesn’t present itself, nor does a vivid imagination fill the gap. I do, however, have enough to write about right now, as I want to share a conversation I had yesterday with Mr. Villars.
Our breakfast had been the most cheerful we have had since my return hither; and when it was over, he did not, as usual, retire to his study, but continued to converse with me while I worked. We might, probably, have passed all the morning thus sociably, but for the entrance of a farmer, who came to solicit advice concerning some domestic affairs. They withdrew together into the study.
Our breakfast was the most cheerful we’ve had since I got back here; and when it was over, he didn’t, as usual, go to his study but kept chatting with me while I worked. We might have spent the whole morning this way, enjoying each other's company, if it hadn't been for a farmer who came in to ask for advice about some personal matters. They went together into the study.
The moment I was alone my spirits failed me; the exertion with which I had supported them had fatigued my mind; I flung away my work, and, leaning my arms on the table, gave way to a train of disagreeable reflections, which, bursting from the restraint that had smothered them, filled me with unusual sadness.
The moment I was alone, my spirits dropped; the effort I had put into keeping them up had worn me out. I tossed aside my work and, resting my arms on the table, let myself be overwhelmed by a wave of unpleasant thoughts that, breaking free from the control I had kept over them, filled me with an unexpected sadness.
This was my situation, when, looking towards the door, which was open, I perceived Mr. Villars, who was earnestly regarding me. “Is Farmer Smith gone, Sir?” cried I, hastily rising, and snatching up my work.
This was my situation when I looked toward the open door and saw Mr. Villars, who was watching me intently. “Is Farmer Smith gone, Sir?” I exclaimed, quickly standing up and grabbing my work.
“Don’t let me disturb you,” said he, gravely; “I will go again to my study.”
“Don’t let me interrupt you,” he said seriously; “I’ll go back to my study.”
“Will you, Sir?-I was in hopes you were coming to sit here.”
“Will you, Sir? I was hoping you would come to sit here.”
“In hopes!-and why, Evelina, should you hope it?”
“In hopes! And why, Evelina, should you even hope for that?”
This question was so unexpected, that I knew not how to answer it; but, as I saw he was moving away, I followed, and begged him to return. “No, my dear, no,” said he, with a forced smile, “I only interrupt your meditations.”
This question caught me off guard, and I didn’t know how to respond; but as I noticed he was turning to leave, I followed him and asked him to come back. “No, my dear, no,” he said with a strained smile, “I’m just interrupting your thoughts.”
Again I knew not what to say; and while I hesitated, he retired. My heart was with him, but I had not the courage to follow. The idea of an explanation, brought on in so serious a manner, frightened me. I recollected the inference you had drawn from my uneasiness, and I feared that he might make a similar interpretation.
Again, I didn't know what to say; and while I hesitated, he walked away. My heart was with him, but I didn't have the courage to follow. The thought of explaining things, especially in such a serious way, scared me. I remembered the conclusion you had drawn from my discomfort, and I was worried that he might come to a similar conclusion.
Solitary and thoughtful, I passed the rest of the morning in my own room. At dinner I again attempted to be cheerful; but Mr. Villars himself was grave, and I had not sufficient spirits to support a conversation merely by my own efforts. As soon as dinner was over, he took a book, and I walked to the window. I believe I remained near an hour in this situation. All my thoughts were directed to considering how I might dispel the doubts which I apprehended Mr. Villars had formed, without acknowledging a circumstance which I had suffered so much pain merely to conceal. But while I was thus planning for the future, I forgot the present; and so intent was I upon the subject which occupied me, that the strange appearance of my unusual inactivity and extreme thoughtfulness never occurred to me. But when, at last, I recollected myself, and turned round, I saw that Mr. Villars, who had parted with his book, was wholly engrossed in attending to me. I started from my reverie, and, hardly knowing what I said, asked if he had been reading?
Alone and deep in thought, I spent the rest of the morning in my room. At dinner, I tried once more to be cheerful, but Mr. Villars was serious, and I didn’t have enough energy to keep the conversation going on my own. Once dinner was finished, he picked up a book, and I went over to the window. I think I stayed there for nearly an hour, lost in thought. All I could think about was how to clear up the doubts I sensed Mr. Villars had formed, without revealing something that I had struggled so much to hide. But while I was focused on the future, I completely lost track of the present; I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I didn't notice how odd my stillness and intense contemplation must have looked. Finally, when I came back to reality and turned around, I saw Mr. Villars had put down his book and was fully focused on me. I snapped out of my daydream and, hardly aware of what I was saying, asked if he had been reading.
He paused a moment, and then replied, “Yes, my child;-a book that both afflicts and perplexes me.”
He paused for a moment, and then replied, “Yes, my child; a book that both troubles and confuses me.”
He means me, thought I; and therefore I made no answer.
He means me, I thought; so I didn't say anything.
“What if we read it together?” continued he, “will you assist me to clear its obscurity?”
“What if we read it together?” he continued. “Will you help me make sense of it?”
I knew not what to say; but I sighed involuntarily from the bottom of my heart. He rose, and approaching me, said, with emotion, “My child, I can no longer be a silent witness of thy sorrow,-is not thy sorrow my sorrow?-and ought I to be a stranger to the cause, when I so deeply sympathize in the effect?”
I didn't know what to say, but I let out a deep sigh from the bottom of my heart. He stood up and came closer to me, saying with emotion, "My child, I can no longer just watch you suffer— isn't your sorrow my sorrow?— and how can I be a stranger to the reason behind it when I care so deeply about how it affects you?"
“Cause, Sir!” cried I, greatly alarmed, “what cause?-I don’t know,-I can’t tell-I-”
"Why, Sir!" I exclaimed, very worried, "what's the reason? I don't know, I can't explain—I—"
“Fear not,” said he, kindly, “to unbosom thyself to me, my dearest Evelina; open to me thy whole heart,-it can have no feelings for which I will not make allowance. Tell me, therefore, what it is that thus afflicts us both; and who knows but I may suggest some means of relief?”
“Don’t worry,” he said kindly, “about sharing your feelings with me, my dearest Evelina; show me your whole heart—there's nothing you could feel that I wouldn’t understand. So please, tell me what’s troubling us both, and who knows, I might be able to offer some solutions?”
“You are too, too good,” cried I, greatly embarrassed; “but indeed I know not what you mean.”
“You're really too kind,” I exclaimed, feeling very embarrassed; “but honestly, I have no idea what you mean.”
“I see,” said he, “it is painful to you to speak: suppose, then, I endeavour to save you by guessing?”
“I get it,” he said, “it's hard for you to talk: so how about I try to help by guessing?”
“Impossible! impossible!” cried I, eagerly; “no one living could ever guess, ever suppose-” I stopped abruptly; for I then recollected I was acknowledging something was to be guessed: however, he noticed not my mistake.
“Impossible! Impossible!” I exclaimed eagerly. “No one alive could ever guess or even imagine—” I stopped abruptly, realizing I was admitting that something could be guessed. However, he didn’t notice my slip.
“At least let me try,” answered he, mildly; “perhaps I may be a better diviner than you imagine: if I guess every thing that is probable, surely I must approach near the real reason. Be honest, then, my love, and speak without reserve;-does not the country, after so much gaiety, so much variety, does it not appear insipid and tiresome?”
“At least let me give it a shot,” he replied gently; “maybe I’m a better guesser than you think: if I can figure out everything that seems likely, I must be close to the actual reason. So, be honest, my love, and speak freely—after all the fun and variety, doesn’t the country feel dull and exhausting?”
“No, indeed! I love it more than ever, and more than ever do I wish I had never, never quitted it!”
“No, really! I love it more than ever, and more than ever I wish I had never, ever left it!”
“Oh, my child! that I had not permitted the journey! My judgment always opposed it, but my resolution was not proof against persuasion.”
“Oh, my child! If only I hadn't allowed the journey! My judgment always disagreed with it, but I couldn't stick to my decision against the persuasion.”
“I blush, indeed,” cried I, “to recollect my earnestness;-but I have been my own punisher!”
“I’m embarrassed, really,” I exclaimed, “to think about how serious I was—but I’ve been my own worst enemy!”
“It is too late now,” answered he, “to reflect upon this subject; let us endeavour to avoid repentance for the time to come, and we shall not have erred without reaping some instruction.” Then, seating himself, and making me sit by him, he continued, “I must now guess again: perhaps you regret the loss of those friends you knew in town;-perhaps you miss their society, and fear you may see them no more?-perhaps Lord Orville-”
“It’s too late to think about this now,” he replied. “Let’s try to avoid feeling regret in the future, and we won’t have made mistakes without learning something.” Then, he sat down and made me sit next to him, continuing, “I have to guess again: maybe you regret losing those friends you had in town; perhaps you miss being with them and worry you might never see them again; maybe Lord Orville—”
I could not keep my seat; but, rising hastily, said, “Dear Sir, ask me nothing more!-for I have nothing to own,-nothing to say;-my gravity has been merely accidental, and I can give no reason for it at all.-Shall I fetch you another book?-or will you have this again?”
I couldn't stay seated; instead, I stood up quickly and said, “Dear Sir, please don’t ask me anything else! I have nothing to admit, nothing to share; my seriousness has just been by chance, and I really can't explain it at all. Should I get you another book, or would you like this one again?”
For some minutes he was totally silent, and I pretended to employ myself in looking for a book. At last, with a deep sigh, “I see,” said he, “I see but too plainly, that though Evelina is returned,-I have lost my child!”
For a few minutes, he was completely silent, and I acted like I was searching for a book. Finally, with a deep sigh, he said, “I see, I see all too clearly that even though Evelina has come back, I have lost my child!”
“No, Sir, no,” cried I, inexpressibly shocked, “she is more your’s than ever! Without you, the world would be a desert to her, and life a burthen:-forgive her, then, and,-if you can,-condescend to be, once more, the confidant of all her thoughts.”
“No, Sir, no,” I exclaimed, completely shocked. “She belongs to you more than ever! Without you, the world would be a wasteland for her, and life would be a burden. So please forgive her, and if you can, agree to be the one she shares all her thoughts with again.”
“How highly I value, how greatly I wish for her confidence,” returned he, “she cannot but know;-yet to extort, to tear it from her,-my justice, my affection both revolt at the idea. I am sorry that I was so earnest with you;-leave me, my dear, leave me, and compose yourself; we will meet again at tea.”
“How much I value her and how much I wish for her trust,” he replied, “she must know that. But to force it from her—both my sense of what’s right and my feelings refuse to accept that. I’m sorry I was so intense with you; please, my dear, give me some space and calm down. We’ll reconnect at tea.”
“Do you then refuse to hear me?”
“Are you refusing to listen to me?”
“No, but I abhor to compel you. I have long seen that your mind has been ill at ease, and mine has largely partaken of your concern: I forbore to question you; for I hoped that time and absence, from whatever excited your uneasiness, might best operate in silence: but, alas! your affliction seems only to augment,-your health declines,-your look alters!-Oh, Evelina, my aged heart bleeds to see the change!-bleeds to behold the darling it had cherished, the prop it had reared for its support, when bowed down by years and infirmities, sinking itself under the pressure of internal grief!-struggling to hide what it should seek to participate!-But go, my dear, go to your own room; we both want composure, and we will talk of this matter some other time.”
“No, but I really don’t want to force you. I've noticed that you've been troubled for a while, and I've felt your concern too. I didn't ask you about it because I thought that time and distance from whatever is bothering you might be best dealt with in silence. But, unfortunately! Your suffering seems to be getting worse—your health is declining, and you look different! Oh, Evelina, it breaks my heart to see this change! It pains me to see the one I cared for, the support I relied on in my old age, struggling under the weight of inner sorrow—trying to hide what you should be sharing! But please, my dear, go to your room; we both need some peace, and we can discuss this another time.”
“Oh, Sir,” cried I, penetrated to the soul, “bid me not leave you!-think me not so lost to feeling, to gratitude-”
“Oh, Sir,” I exclaimed, deeply moved, “please don’t ask me to leave you! Don’t think I’m so devoid of feeling, of gratitude—”
“Not a word of that,” interrupted he: “it pains me you should think upon that subject; pains me you should ever remember that you have not a natural, an hereditary right to every thing within my power. I meant not to affect you thus,-I hoped to have soothed you!-but my anxiety betrayed me to an urgency that has distressed you. Comfort yourself, my love; and doubt not but that time will stand your friend, and all will end well.”
“Don’t say a word about that,” he interrupted. “It hurts me that you even think about that; it hurts me that you would ever remember that you don’t have a natural, inherited right to everything within my power. I didn’t mean to upset you like this—I hoped to comfort you!—but my worry got the best of me, and I pushed you too hard. Take heart, my love; know that time will be on your side, and everything will work out in the end.”
I burst into tears: with difficulty had I so long restrained them; for my heart, while it glowed with tenderness and gratitude, was oppressed with a sense of its own unworthiness. “You are all, all goodness!” cried I, in a voice scarce audible; “little as I deserve,-unable as I am to repay, such kindness,-yet my whole soul feels,-thanks you for it!”
I burst into tears: I had struggled for so long to hold them back; my heart, while filled with warmth and gratitude, was weighed down by my own feelings of unworthiness. “You are all so good!” I said, my voice barely above a whisper; “even though I don’t deserve it and can’t repay such kindness, my whole soul thanks you for it!”
“My dearest child,” cried he, “I cannot bear to see thy tears;-for my sake dry them: such a sight is too much for me: think of that, Evelina, and take comfort, I charge thee!”
“My dearest child,” he exclaimed, “I can’t stand to see your tears—please dry them for my sake. It’s too much for me to handle. Think of that, Evelina, and find comfort, I insist!”
“Say then,” cried I, kneeling at his feet, “say then that you forgive me! that you pardon my reserve,-that you will again suffer me to tell you my most secret thoughts, and rely upon my promise never more to forfeit your confidence!-my father!-my protector!-my ever-honoured,-ever-loved-my best and only friend!-say you forgive your Evelina, and she will study better to deserve your goodness!”
“Please, just tell me,” I pleaded, kneeling at his feet, “tell me that you forgive me! That you accept my distance, that you’ll let me share my deepest thoughts with you again, and trust that I’ll never betray your confidence again! My father! My protector! My always-respected, always-loved, my best and only friend! Say you forgive your Evelina, and I will strive even harder to live up to your kindness!”
He raised, he embraced me: he called me his sole joy, his only earthly hope, and the child of his bosom! He folded me to his heart; and, while I wept from the fulness of mine, with words of sweetest kindness and consolation, he soothed and tranquillised me.
He lifted me up and embraced me; he called me his only joy, his only hope on this earth, and the child of his heart! He held me close; and, as I cried from the depth of my emotions, with words filled with kindness and comfort, he calmed and reassured me.
Dear to my remembrance will ever be that moment when, banishing the reserve I had so foolishly planned, and so painfully supported, I was restored to the confidence of the best of men!
I will always remember that moment when, pushing aside the hesitation I had foolishly created and painfully maintained, I regained the trust of the best man I know!
When at length we were again quietly and composedly seated by each other, and Mr. Villars waited for the explanation I had begged him to hear, I found myself extremely embarrassed how to introduce the subject which must lead to it. He saw my distress; and with a kind of benevolent pleasantry, asked me if I would let him guess any more? I assented in silence.
When we were finally sitting quietly together again, and Mr. Villars was waiting for the explanation I had asked him to listen to, I felt really embarrassed about how to bring up the topic that would lead to it. He noticed my discomfort and, with a friendly teasing tone, asked if I would let him take another guess. I nodded silently.
“Shall I, then, go back to where I left off?”
“Should I go back to where I paused?”
“If-if you please;-I believe so,-” said I, stammering.
“If you please, I believe so,” I said, stammering.
“Well, then, my love, I think I was speaking of the regret it was natural you should feel upon quitting those from whom you had received civility and kindness, with so little certainty of ever seeing them again, or being able to return their good offices. These are circumstances that afford but melancholy reflections to young minds; and the affectionate disposition of my Evelina, open to all social feelings, must be hurt more than usual by such considerations.-You are silent, my dear. Shall I name those whom I think most worthy the regret I speak of? We shall then see if our opinions coincide.”
"Well, my love, I was talking about the natural regret you must feel when leaving those who have shown you kindness and courtesy, especially when there’s little chance of seeing them again or being able to repay their kindness. These situations provide only sad thoughts for young minds; and my sweet Evelina, who is so open to social feelings, must be affected by this more than usual. You’re quiet, my dear. Should I mention the people I think you should feel the most regret for? Then we can see if we agree."
Still I said nothing, and he continued.
Still, I said nothing, and he kept going.
“In your London journal, nobody appears in a more amiable, a more respectable light than Lord Orville; and perhaps-”
“In your London journal, no one comes across as more friendly or more respectable than Lord Orville; and maybe—”
“I knew what you would say,” cried I, hastily, “and I have long feared where your suspicions would fall; but indeed, Sir, you are mistaken: I hate Lord Orville,-he is the last man in the world in whose favour I should be prejudiced.”
“I knew what you were going to say,” I exclaimed quickly, “and I’ve long dreaded where your suspicions would land; but really, Sir, you’re mistaken: I can’t stand Lord Orville—he's the last person I would ever favor.”
I stopped; for Mr. Villars looked at me with such infinite surprise, that my own warmth made me blush.
I paused because Mr. Villars was looking at me with such surprise that it made me blush from my own embarrassment.
“You hate Lord Orville!” repeated he.
"You hate Lord Orville!" he repeated.
I could make no answer; but took from my pocket-book the letter, and giving it to him, “See, Sir,” said I, “how differently the same man can talk and write!”
I couldn't respond, so I took the letter out of my pocket and handed it to him. "Look, sir," I said, "see how differently the same person can talk and write!"
He read it three times before he spoke; and then said, “I am so much astonished, that I know not what I read. When had you this letter?”
He read it three times before he spoke, and then said, “I’m so surprised that I don’t even know what I just read. When did you get this letter?”
I told him. Again he read it, and, after considering its contents some time, said, “I can form but one conjecture concerning this most extraordinary performance: he must certainly have been intoxicated when he wrote it.”
I told him. Again he read it, and after thinking about it for a while, he said, “I can only guess one thing about this very unusual piece: he must have been drunk when he wrote it.”
“Lord Orville intoxicated!” repeated I: “once I thought him a stranger to all intemperance;-but it is very possible, for I can believe any thing now.”
“Lord Orville drunk!” I repeated. “I once thought he was someone who had no issues with drinking, but now I can believe anything.”
“That a man who had behaved with so strict a regard to delicacy,” continued Mr. Villars, “and who, as far as occasion had allowed, manifested sentiments the most honourable, should thus insolently, thus wantonly, insult a modest young woman, in his perfect senses, I cannot think possible. But, my dear, you should have inclosed this letter in an empty cover, and have returned it to him again: such a resentment would at once have become your character, and have given him an opportunity, in some measure, of clearing his own. He could not well have read this letter the next morning without being sensible of the impropriety of having written it.”
“That a man who had been so careful about being respectful,” continued Mr. Villars, “and who, as much as the situation allowed, showed the most honorable feelings, could so brazenly and thoughtlessly insult a modest young woman in his right mind, I find hard to believe. But, my dear, you should have put this letter in an empty envelope and sent it back to him. Such a response would have suited your character perfectly and would have given him a chance to somewhat redeem himself. He couldn’t have read this letter the next morning without realizing how inappropriate it was to have written it.”
Oh, Maria! why had I not this thought? I might then have received some apology; the mortification would then have been his, not mine. It is true, he could not have reinstated himself so highly in my opinion as I had once ignorantly placed him, since the conviction of such intemperance would have levelled him with the rest of his imperfect race; yet my humbled pride might have been consoled by his acknowledgments.
Oh, Maria! Why didn’t I think of this? I could have received some kind of apology; then the embarrassment would have been his, not mine. It's true he couldn't have restored my earlier high opinion of him, since realizing such weakness would have put him on the same level as the rest of his flawed kind; still, my wounded pride might have found some comfort in his acknowledgment.
But why should I allow myself to be humbled by a man who can suffer his reason to be thus abjectly debased, when I am exalted by one who knows no vice, and scarcely a failing, but by hearsay? To think of his kindness, and reflect upon his praises, might animate and comfort me even in the midst of affliction. “Your indignation,” said he, “is the result of virtue; you fancied Lord Orville was without fault-he had the appearance of infinite worthiness, and you supposed his character accorded with appearance: guileless yourself, how could you prepare against the duplicity of another? Your disappointment has but been proportioned to your expectations, and you have chiefly owed its severity to the innocence which hid its approach.”
But why should I let myself be brought down by a man who allows his reason to be so thoroughly degraded, when I am uplifted by someone who has no vices and barely any flaws, except for what I've heard? Just thinking about his kindness and reflecting on his praises could inspire and comfort me even during tough times. “Your anger,” he said, “comes from virtue; you believed Lord Orville was flawless—he seemed incredibly worthy, and you thought his character matched his appearance. Being so innocent yourself, how could you protect against someone else's deceit? Your disappointment has only matched your expectations, and its intensity has mostly come from the innocence that kept you from seeing it coming.”
I will bid these words dwell ever in my memory, and they shall cheer, comfort, and enliven me! This conversation, though extremely affecting to me at the time it passed, has relieved my mind from much anxiety. Concealment, my dear Maria, is the foe of tranquillity: however I may err in future, I will never be disingenuous in acknowledging my errors. To you and to Mr. Villars I vow an unremitting confidence.
I will make sure these words stay in my memory, and they will uplift, soothe, and energize me! This conversation, though very emotional for me at the time, has eased a lot of my worries. Hiding things, my dear Maria, is the enemy of peace: no matter what mistakes I might make in the future, I will always be honest about my faults. I promise you and Mr. Villars my unwavering trust.
And yet, though I am more at ease, I am far from well: I have been some time writing this letter; but I hope I shall send you soon a more cheerful one.
And yet, even though I feel a bit more comfortable, I'm still not okay: I've been working on this letter for a while; but I hope to send you a happier one soon.
Adieu, my sweet friend. I intreat you not to acquaint even your dear mother with this affair; Lord Orville is a favourite with her, and why should I publish that he deserves not that honour?
Goodbye, my dear friend. I ask you not to tell even your beloved mother about this situation; Lord Orville is her favorite, and why should I let everyone know that he doesn't deserve that honor?
LETTER LXI - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. Bristol Hotwells, August 28th.
YOU will be again surprised, my dear Maria, at seeing whence I date my letter: but I have been very ill, and Mr. Villars was so much alarmed, that he not only insisted upon my accompanying Mrs. Selwyn hither, but earnestly desired she would hasten her intended journey.
YOU will be surprised again, my dear Maria, to see where I'm writing this letter from: I’ve been really sick, and Mr. Villars was so worried that he not only insisted I come here with Mrs. Selwyn, but he also strongly urged her to speed up her planned trip.
We travelled very slowly, and I did not find myself so much fatigued as I expected. We are situated upon a most delightful spot; the prospect is beautiful, the air pure, and the weather very favourable to invalids. I am already better, and I doubt not but I shall soon be well; as well, in regard to mere health, as I wish to be.
We traveled very slowly, and I wasn't as tired as I expected to be. We're in a really lovely place; the view is beautiful, the air is fresh, and the weather is great for sick people. I'm already feeling better, and I have no doubt I'll be just fine soon; as healthy as I want to be.
I cannot express the reluctance with which I parted from my revered Mr. Villars: it was not like that parting which, last April, preceded my journey to Howard Grove, when, all expectation and hope, though I wept, I rejoiced, and, though I sincerely grieved to leave him, I yet wished to be gone: the sorrow I now felt was unmixed with any livelier sensation; expectation was vanished, and hope I had none! All that I held most dear upon earth I quitted; and that upon an errand, to the success of which I was totally indifferent, the re-establishment of my health. Had it been to have seen my sweet Maria, or her dear mother, I should not have repined.
I can’t express how much I didn’t want to leave my beloved Mr. Villars. It wasn’t like the farewell I had last April before my trip to Howard Grove, when, filled with excitement and hope, I cried but was also joyful, and even though I truly felt sad to leave him, I still wanted to go. The sadness I felt now was pure and without any excitement; there was no anticipation left, and I had no hope! I was leaving behind everything I cared about most in the world, and I was doing it for a reason I didn’t really care about — to get my health back. If it had been to see my dear Maria or her cherished mother, I wouldn’t have been so upset.
Mrs. Selwyn is very kind and attentive to me. She is extremely clever: her understanding, indeed, may be called masculine: but, unfortunately, her manners deserve the same epithet; for, in studying to acquire the knowledge of the other sex, she has lost all the softness of her own. In regard to myself, however, as I have neither courage nor inclination to argue with her, I have never been personally hurt at her want of gentleness; a virtue which, nevertheless, seems so essential a part of the female character, that I find myself more awkward, and less at ease, with a woman who wants it, than I do with a man. She is not a favourite with Mr. Villars, who has often been disgusted at her unmerciful propensity to satire: but his anxiety that I should try the effect of the Bristol waters, overcame his dislike of committing me to her care. Mrs. Clinton is also here; so that I shall be as well attended as his utmost partiality could desire.
Mrs. Selwyn is very kind and attentive to me. She's extremely intelligent; her understanding could even be described as masculine. Unfortunately, her manners could be labeled the same way because, in trying to gain knowledge of the other sex, she has lost all the softness of her own. As for me, since I lack both the courage and the desire to argue with her, I haven’t been personally affected by her lack of gentleness; a quality that seems so essential to the female character that I find myself feeling more awkward and less comfortable with a woman who lacks it than I do with a man. She’s not a favorite of Mr. Villars, who has often been put off by her ruthless tendency towards satire. However, his concern that I should try the Bristol waters outweighed his dislike of leaving me in her care. Mrs. Clinton is also here, so I’ll be well taken care of, as he would wish.
I will continue to write to you, my dear Miss Mirvan, with as much constancy as if I had no other correspondent; though, during my absence from Berry Hill, my letters may, perhaps, be shortened on account of the minuteness of the journal which I must write to my beloved Mr. Villars: but you, who know his expectations, and how many ties bind me to fulfil them, will I am sure, rather excuse any omission to yourself, than any negligence to him.
I will keep writing to you, my dear Miss Mirvan, just as consistently as if you were my only correspondent; although, while I'm away from Berry Hill, my letters might be a bit shorter because of the detailed journal I have to write for my beloved Mr. Villars. But you, knowing his expectations and how many commitments I have to fulfill them, will surely understand if I leave out some details for you, rather than be negligent towards him.
LETTER LXII - EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS. Bristol Hotwells, Sept. 12th.
THE first fortnight that I passed here was so quiet, so serene, that it gave me reason to expect a settled calm during my stay; but if I may now judge of the time to come, by the present state of my mind, the calm will be succeeded by a storm, of which I dread the violence!
The first two weeks I spent here were so peaceful and tranquil that I expected a steady calm for the rest of my stay; but if I can judge the future by how I feel now, that calm will be followed by a storm, and I’m afraid of how intense it will be!
This morning, in my way to the pump-room with Mrs. Selwyn, we were both very much incommoded by three gentlemen, who were sauntering by the side of the Avon, laughing and talking very loud, and lounging so disagreeably, that we knew not how to pass them. They all three fixed their eyes very boldly upon me, alternately looking under my hat, and whispering one another. Mrs. Selwyn assumed an air of uncommon sternness, and said, “You will please, gentlemen, either to proceed yourselves, or to suffer us.”
This morning, on my way to the pump-room with Mrs. Selwyn, we were really inconvenienced by three guys who were strolling along the Avon, laughing and talking loudly, and lounging around in such an annoying way that we didn’t know how to get past them. They all fixed their bold stares on me, taking turns looking under my hat and whispering to each other. Mrs. Selwyn took on a particularly stern demeanor and said, “Gentlemen, please either move along yourselves or let us pass.”
“Oh! Ma’am,” cried one of them, “we will suffer you with the greatest pleasure in life.”
“Oh! Ma’am,” one of them exclaimed, “we would be more than happy to accommodate you!”
“You will suffer us both,” answered she, “or I am much mistaken: you had better, therefore, make way quietly; for I should be sorry to give my servant the trouble of teaching you better manners.”
“You'll have to deal with both of us,” she replied, “or I'm very mistaken: so you'd better move aside quietly; I wouldn't want to put my servant through the trouble of teaching you some proper manners.”
Her commanding air struck them, yet they all chose to laugh; and one of them wished the fellow would begin his lesson, that he might have the pleasure of rolling him into the Avon; while another, advancing to me with a freedom which made me start, said, “By my soul, I did not know you!-but I am sure I cannot be mistaken;-had not I the honour of seeing you once at the Pantheon?”
Her confident demeanor caught their attention, but they all decided to laugh; one of them hoped the guy would start his lesson so he could enjoy pushing him into the Avon, while another, coming up to me with a boldness that surprised me, said, “I swear, I didn't recognize you! But I know I'm right—didn’t I have the pleasure of seeing you once at the Pantheon?”
I then recollected the nobleman, who, at that place, had so much embarrassed me. I courtsied without speaking. They all bowed, and making, though in a very easy manner, an apology to Mrs. Selwyn, they suffered us to pass on, but chose to accompany us.
I then remembered the nobleman who had put me in such an awkward position back there. I curtsied without saying a word. They all bowed and, in a rather casual way, apologized to Mrs. Selwyn, allowing us to move on, but they decided to join us.
“And where,” continued this Lord, “can you so long have hid yourself? do you know I have been in search of you this age? I could neither find you out, nor hear of you: not a creature could inform me what was become of you. I cannot imagine where you could be immured. I was at two or three public places every night, in hopes of meeting you. Pray, did you leave town?”
“And where,” this Lord continued, “have you been hiding? Do you know I've been looking for you for ages? I couldn't find you or hear anything about you—no one could tell me what happened to you. I can't figure out where you could have been shut away. I went to a couple of public places every night, hoping to run into you. Did you leave town?”
“Yes, my Lord.”
"Yes, my Lord."
“So early in the season!-what could possibly induce you to go before the birth-day?”
“So early in the season! What could possibly make you leave before the birthday?”
“I had nothing, my Lord, to do with the birth-day.”
“I had nothing to do with the birthday, my Lord.”
“By my soul, all the women who had, may rejoice you were away. Have you been here any time?”
“By my soul, all the women who had, can celebrate that you were gone. Have you been here long?”
“Not above a fortnight, my Lord.”
“Not more than two weeks, my Lord.”
“A fortnight!-how unlucky that I did not meet you sooner! but I have had a run of ill luck ever since I came. How long shall you stay?”
“A couple of weeks! How unfortunate that I didn't run into you earlier! I've been on a streak of bad luck ever since I arrived. How long will you be staying?”
“Indeed, my Lord, I don’t know.”
“Honestly, my Lord, I don’t know.”
“Six weeks, I hope; for I shall wish the place at the devil when you go.”
“Six weeks, I hope; because I’ll be glad to see the back of this place when you leave.”
“Do you, then, flatter yourself, my Lord,” said Mrs. Selwyn, who had hitherto listened in silent contempt, “that you shall see such a beautiful spot as this, when you visit the dominions of the devil?”
“Do you really think, my Lord,” said Mrs. Selwyn, who had been silently listening with disdain, “that you'll find a place as beautiful as this when you go to the devil’s realm?”
“Ha, ha, ha! Faith, my Lord,” said one of his companions, who still walked with us, though the other had taken leave, “the lady is rather hard upon you.”
“Ha, ha, ha! Seriously, my Lord,” said one of his companions, who still walked with us, even though the other had left, “the lady is being quite tough on you.”
“Not at all,” answered Mrs. Selwyn; “for as I cannot doubt but his Lordship’s rank and interest will secure him a place there, it would be reflecting on his understanding, to suppose he should not wish to enlarge and beautify his dwelling.”
“Not at all,” Mrs. Selwyn replied; “since I have no doubt that his Lordship's status and connections will guarantee him a place there, it would be an insult to his intelligence to think he wouldn't want to expand and improve his home.”
Much as I was disgusted with this Lord, I must own Mrs. Selwyn’s severity rather surprised me: but you, who have so often observed it, will not wonder she took so fair an opportunity of indulging her humour.
As much as I was appalled by this Lord, I have to admit that Mrs. Selwyn’s harshness surprised me a bit: but you, who have seen it so many times, won't be shocked that she took such a great chance to indulge her mood.
“As to places,” returned he, totally unmoved, “I am so indifferent to them, that the devil take me if I care which way I go! objects, indeed, I am not so easy about; and, therefore, I expect, that those angels with whose beauty I am so much enraptured in this world, will have the goodness to afford me some little consolation in the other.”
“As for places,” he replied, completely unfazed, “I’m so indifferent to them that I wouldn’t care if the devil took me anywhere! Objects, though, I’m a bit more concerned about; and so, I expect that those angels whose beauty I’m so captivated by in this world will kindly offer me some comfort in the next.”
“What, my Lord!” cried Mrs. Selwyn, “would you wish to degrade the habitation of your friend, by admitting into it the insipid company of the upper regions?”
“What, my Lord!” exclaimed Mrs. Selwyn, “do you really want to lower the quality of your friend's home by letting in the boring company of the upper class?”
“What do you do with yourself this evening?” said his Lordship, turning to me.
“What are you doing with yourself this evening?” his Lordship asked, turning to me.
“I shall be at home, my Lord.”
“I'll be at home, my Lord.”
“O, -e;-propos,-where are you?”
“O, -e;-propos,-where are you?”
“Young ladies, my Lord,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “are no where.”
“Young ladies, my Lord,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “are nowhere.”
“Prithee,” whispered his Lordship, “is that queer woman your mother?”
“Please,” whispered his Lordship, “is that strange woman your mother?”
Good Heavens, Sir, what words for such a question!
Good heavens, sir, what a way to ask that question!
“No, my Lord.”
“No, my Lord.”
“Your maiden aunt then?”
"Your aunt, then?"
“No.”
“Nope.”
“Whoever she is, I wish she would mind her own affairs: I don’t know what the devil a woman lives for after thirty: she is only in other folk’s way. Shall you be at the assembly?”
“Whoever she is, I wish she would take care of her own business: I don’t know what the point of a woman living past thirty is; she just gets in other people’s way. Will you be at the assembly?”
“I believe not, my Lord.”
"I don't believe so, my Lord."
“No!-why then, how in the world can you contrive to pass your time?”
“No! How in the world do you manage to keep yourself occupied?”
“In a manner which your Lordship will think very extraordinary,” cried Mrs. Selwyn, “for the young lady reads.”
“In a way that you’ll find quite unusual,” cried Mrs. Selwyn, “because the young lady reads.”
“Ha, ha, ha! Egad, my Lord,” cried the facetious companion, “you are got into bad hands.”
“Ha, ha, ha! Oh my Lord,” shouted the joking friend, “you’ve gotten yourself into some trouble.”
“You had better, Ma’am,” answered he, “attack Jack Coverley here, for you will make nothing of me.”
“You’d better, ma’am,” he replied, “go after Jack Coverley here, because you won’t get anything from me.”
“Of you, my Lord,” cried she, “Heaven forbid I should ever entertain so idle an expectation! I only talk, like a silly woman, for the sake of talking; but I have by no means so low an opinion of your Lordship, as to suppose you vulnerable to censure.”
“Of you, my Lord,” she exclaimed, “Heaven forbid that I should ever have such a foolish expectation! I'm just talking, like a silly woman, for the sake of talking; but I certainly don't think so little of you, my Lord, as to believe you could be affected by criticism.”
“Do, pray, Ma’am,” cried he, “turn to Jack Coverley; he’s the very man for you;-he’d be a wit himself if he was not too modest.”
“Please, Ma’am,” he exclaimed, “look at Jack Coverley; he’s perfect for you—he’d be witty himself if he weren’t so humble.”
“Prithee, my Lord, be quiet,” returned the other; “if the lady is contented to bestow all her favours upon you, why should you make such a point of my going snacks?”
“Please, my Lord, be quiet,” the other replied; “if the lady is happy to give you all her attention, why are you making such a fuss about me going without?”
“Don’t be apprehensive, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Selwyn, drily, “I am not romantic;-I have not the least design of doing good to either of you.”
“Don’t worry, gentlemen,” Mrs. Selwyn said dryly, “I’m not being romantic; I have no intention of doing good for either of you.”
“Have not you been ill since I saw you?” said his Lordship, again addressing himself to me.
“Haven't you been sick since I last saw you?” his Lordship said, turning to me again.
“Yes, my Lord.”
"Yes, my Lord."
“I thought so; you are paler than you was, and I suppose that’s the reason I did not recollect you sooner.”
“I thought so; you are paler than you were, and I guess that's why I didn't recognize you sooner.”
“Has not your Lordship too much gallantry,” cried Mrs. Selwyn, “to discover a young lady’s illness by her looks?”
“Don’t you have too much gallantry, my Lord,” exclaimed Mrs. Selwyn, “to notice a young lady’s illness just by how she looks?”
“The devil a word can I speak for that woman,” said he, in a low voice; “do, prithee, Jack, take her in hand.”
"I can't say a word to that woman," he said quietly. "Come on, Jack, you take care of it."
“Excuse me, my Lord,” answered Mr. Coverley.
"Excuse me, my Lord," replied Mr. Coverley.
“When shall I see you again?” continued his Lordship; “do you go to the pump-room every morning?”
“When will I see you again?” his Lordship asked. “Do you go to the pump-room every morning?”
“No, my Lord.”
“No, my Lord.”
“Do you ride out?”
"Do you go riding?"
“No, my Lord.”
“No, my Lord.”
Just then we arrived at the pump-room, and an end was put to our conversation, if it is not an abuse of words to give such a term to a string of rude questions and free compliments.
Just then we got to the pump-room, and our conversation came to an end, if it's not a stretch to call a series of rude questions and casual compliments a conversation.
He had not opportunity to say much more to me, as Mrs. Selwyn joined a large party, and I walked home between two ladies. He had, however, the curiosity to see us to the door.
He didn't get the chance to say much more to me because Mrs. Selwyn joined a large group, and I walked home with two ladies. However, he was curious enough to see us to the door.
Mrs. Selwyn was very eager to know how I had made acquaintance with this nobleman, whose manners so evidently announced the character of a confirmed libertine. I could give her very little satisfaction, as I was ignorant even of his name: but, in the afternoon, Mr. Ridgeway, the apothecary, gave us very ample information.
Mrs. Selwyn was really curious about how I met this nobleman, whose behavior clearly indicated he was a confirmed libertine. I couldn't provide her much information since I didn't even know his name; however, in the afternoon, Mr. Ridgeway, the apothecary, filled us in with plenty of details.
As his person was easily described, for he is remarkably tall, Mr. Ridgeway told us he was Lord Merton, a nobleman who is but lately come to his title, though he has already dissipated more than half his fortune; a professed admirer of beauty, but a man of most licentious character; that among men, his companions consisted chiefly of gamblers and jockeys, and among women he was rarely admitted.
Mr. Ridgeway, who is very tall, introduced himself as Lord Merton, a nobleman who has recently inherited his title but has already wasted more than half of his fortune. He claims to be a fan of beauty, yet he has a very reckless reputation. His friends are mostly gamblers and horse racers, and he’s rarely accepted by women.
“Well, Miss Anville,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “I am glad I was not more civil to him. You may depend upon me for keeping him at a distance.”
“Well, Miss Anville,” Mrs. Selwyn said, “I’m glad I wasn’t nicer to him. You can count on me to keep him at a distance.”
“O, Madam,” said Mr. Ridgeway, “he may now be admitted any where, for he is going to reform.”
“O, Madam,” said Mr. Ridgeway, “he can now go anywhere, because he’s going to change for the better.”
“Has he, under that notion, persuaded any fool to marry him?”
“Has he, with that idea, convinced any idiot to marry him?”
“Not yet, Madam, but a marriage is expected to take place shortly: it has been some time in agitation; but the friends of the lady have obliged her to wait till she is of age: however, her brother, who has chiefly opposed the match, now that she is near being at her own disposal, is tolerably quiet. She is very pretty, and will have a large fortune. We expect her at the Wells every day.”
“Not yet, ma'am, but a marriage is expected to happen soon: it’s been in the works for a while; however, the lady's friends have insisted she wait until she’s of age. Now that she’s close to being able to decide for herself, her brother, who has mostly opposed the match, is pretty calm. She’s very pretty and will have a large fortune. We're expecting her at the Wells any day now.”
“What is her name?” said Mrs. Selwyn.
“What’s her name?” Mrs. Selwyn asked.
“Larpent,” answered he: “Lady Louisa Larpent, sister of Lord Orville.”
“Larpent,” he replied, “Lady Louisa Larpent, sister of Lord Orville.”
“Lord Orville!” repeated I, all amazement.
“Lord Orville!” I exclaimed, completely shocked.
“Yes, Ma’am; his Lordship is coming with her. I have had certain information. They are to be at the Honourable Mrs. Beaumont’s. She is a relation of my Lord’s, and has a very fine house upon Clifton Hill.”
“Yes, Ma’am; his Lordship is coming with her. I’ve received some information. They’re supposed to be at the Honourable Mrs. Beaumont’s. She’s a relative of my Lord’s and has a really nice house on Clifton Hill.”
His Lordship is coming with her! -Good God, what an emotion did those words give me! How strange, my dear Sir, that, just at this time, he should visit Bristol! It will be impossible for me to avoid seeing him, as Mrs. Selwyn is very well acquainted with Mrs. Beaumont. Indeed, I have had an escape in not being under the same roof with him, for Mrs. Beaumont invited us to her house immediately upon our arrival; but the inconvenience of being so distant from the pump-room made Mrs. Selwyn decline her civility.
His Lordship is coming with her! -Good God, what a rush of emotion those words gave me! How odd, my dear Sir, that he should choose to visit Bristol right now! I won't be able to avoid seeing him since Mrs. Selwyn is close friends with Mrs. Beaumont. Honestly, I got lucky by not being under the same roof as him because Mrs. Beaumont invited us to her house as soon as we arrived; however, Mrs. Selwyn turned down her invitation due to the inconvenience of being far from the pump-room.
Oh that the first meeting were over!-or that I could quit Bristol without seeing him!-inexpressibly do I dread an interview! Should the same impertinent freedom be expressed by his looks, which dictated this cruel letter, I shall not know how to endure either him or myself. Had I but returned it, I should be easier, because my sentiments of it would then be known to him; but now, he can only gather them from my behaviour; and I tremble lest he should mistake my indignation for confusion!-lest he should misconstrue my reserve into embarrassment!-for how, my dearest Sir, how shall I be able totally to divest myself of the respect with which I have been used to think of him?-the pleasure with which I have been used to see him?
Oh, if only the first meeting were over! Or that I could leave Bristol without seeing him! I dread this meeting so much! If he shows the same annoying attitude in his gaze that he did in that cruel letter, I won’t know how to handle either him or myself. If only I had returned the letter, I would feel better because he would know my feelings on it. But now, he can only guess them from my behavior, and I’m scared he’ll mistake my anger for confusion! Or that he’ll misinterpret my distance as embarrassment! How, my dearest Sir, how can I completely shake off the respect I’ve always had for him? The pleasure I’ve always felt when seeing him?
Surely he, as well as I, must recollect the letter at the moment of our meeting; and he will, probably, mean to gather my thoughts of it from my looks;-oh that they could but convey to him my real detestation of impertinence and vanity! then would he see how much he had mistaken my disposition when he imagined them my due.
Surely, he and I both must remember the letter when we meet; and he will probably try to read my feelings about it from my expressions—oh, if only they could show him how much I truly detest arrogance and vanity! Then he would understand how wrong he was about my character when he thought they were what I deserved.
There was a time when the very idea that such a man as Lord Merton should ever be connected with Lord Orville would have both surprised and shocked me; and even yet I am pleased to hear of his repugnance to the marriage.
There was a time when the very idea that someone like Lord Merton could be connected to Lord Orville would have both surprised and shocked me; and even now, I'm glad to hear about his strong dislike for the marriage.
But how strange, that a man of so abandoned a character should be the choice of a sister of Lord Orville! and how strange, that, almost at the moment of the union, he should be so importunate in gallantry to another woman! What a world is this we live in! how corrupt! how degenerate! well might I be contented to see no more of it! If I find that the eyes of Lord Orville agree with his pen,-I shall then think, that of all mankind, the only virtuous individual resides at Berry Hill.
But how strange that a man with such a shady character would be the choice of Lord Orville's sister! And how odd that, almost at the moment of the union, he should be so desperate in his pursuit of another woman! What a world we live in! So corrupt! So degenerate! I could easily be content not to see any more of it! If I find that Lord Orville's eyes match his writing, then I'll believe that the only virtuous person in the world lives at Berry Hill.
LETTER LXIII - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. Bristol Hotwells, Sept. 16th.
OH, Sir, Lord Orville is still himself! still what, from the moment I beheld, I believed him to be-all that is amiable in man! and your happy Evelina, restored at once to spirits and tranquillity, is no longer sunk in her own opinion, nor discontented with the world;-no longer, with dejected eyes, sees the prospect of passing her future days in sadness, doubt, and suspicion!-with revived courage she now looks forward, and expects to meet with goodness, even among mankind:-though still she feels, as strongly as ever, the folly of hoping, in any second instance, to meet with perfection.
Oh, Sir, Lord Orville is still the same! He continues to be everything I believed him to be from the moment I first saw him—all that is wonderful in a person! Your happy Evelina, instantly lifted in spirit and peace, no longer feels low about herself, nor is she unhappy with the world. She no longer looks at the future with sad eyes, anticipating a life filled with sorrow, doubt, and suspicion. With renewed courage, she now looks ahead and expects to find goodness, even among people. However, she still feels, as strongly as ever, the foolishness of hoping to encounter perfection a second time.
Your conjecture was certainly right; Lord Orville, when he wrote that letter, could not be in his senses. Oh that intemperance should have power to degrade so low, a man so noble!
Your guess was definitely correct; Lord Orville, when he wrote that letter, must have lost his mind. It's shocking that such excess could bring down someone so noble!
This morning I accompanied Mrs. Selwyn to Clifton Hill, where, beautifully situated, is the house of Mrs. Beaumont. Most uncomfortable were my feelings during our walk, which was very slow; for the agitation of my mind made me more than usually sensible how weak I still continue. As we entered the house, I summoned all my resolution to my aid, determined rather to die than give Lord Orville reason to attribute my weakness to a wrong cause. I was happily relieved from my perturbation, when I saw Mrs. Beaumont was alone. We sat with her for, I believe, an hour without interruption; and then we saw a phaeton drive up to the gate, and a lady and gentleman alight from it.
This morning, I went with Mrs. Selwyn to Clifton Hill, where the beautiful house of Mrs. Beaumont is located. I felt really uncomfortable during our slow walk because my mind was so agitated, making me more aware than usual of how weak I still am. As we entered the house, I gathered all my resolve, determined to appear strong and not let Lord Orville think my weakness was due to anything else. I was relieved to see that Mrs. Beaumont was alone. We sat with her for about an hour without interruption, and then we saw a carriage pull up to the gate, and a lady and gentleman got out.
They entered the parlour with the ease of people who were at home. The gentleman, I soon saw, was Lord Merton: he came shuffling into the room with his boots on, and his whip in his hand; and having made something like a bow to Mrs. Beaumont, he turned towards me. His surprise was very evident; but he took no manner of notice of me. He waited, I believe, to discover, first, what chance had brought me to that house, where he did not look much rejoiced at meeting me. He seated himself very quietly at the window, without speaking to any body.
They walked into the living room like they owned the place. I quickly realized the gentleman was Lord Merton; he shuffled into the room wearing his boots and holding his whip. After giving Mrs. Beaumont a sort of nod, he turned his attention to me. His surprise was clear, but he completely ignored me. I think he was waiting to see what had brought me to that house, and he didn’t seem thrilled to see me. He quietly sat down by the window without saying anything to anyone.
Mean time the lady, who seemed very young, hobbling rather than walking into the room, made a passing courtsy to Mrs. Beaumont, saying, “How are you, Ma’am?” and then, without noticing any body else, with an air of languor she flung herself upon a sofa, protesting, in a most affected voice, and speaking so softly she could hardly be heard, that she was fatigued to death. “Really, Ma’am, the roads are so monstrous dusty,-you can’t imagine how troublesome the dust is to one’s eyes!-and the sun, too, is monstrous disagreeable!-I dare say I shall be so tanned: I shan’t be fit to be seen this age. Indeed, my Lord, I won’t go out with you any more, for you don’t care where you take one.”
Meanwhile, the lady, who looked very young, hobbled into the room rather than walking, gave a quick curtsy to Mrs. Beaumont, saying, “How are you, Ma’am?” Then, without acknowledging anyone else, she flopped onto a sofa with an air of exhaustion, dramatically saying in a voice so soft it was barely audible that she was completely worn out. “Honestly, Ma’am, the roads are so ridiculously dusty—you can’t imagine how much trouble the dust is for one’s eyes! And the sun is just unbearable! I can already tell I’ll be so tanned; I won’t be fit to be seen for ages. Honestly, my Lord, I won’t go out with you anymore because you don’t care where you take me.”
“Upon my honour,” said Lord Merton, “I took you the pleasantest ride in England, the fault was in the sun, not me.”
“Honestly,” said Lord Merton, “I gave you the nicest ride in England; the issue was with the sun, not me.”
“Your Lordship is in the right,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “to transfer the fault to the sun, because it has so many excellencies to counterbalance partial inconveniences that a little blame will not injure that in our estimation.”
“Your Lordship is correct,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “to blame the sun, because it has so many great qualities that a little criticism won't affect its value in our eyes.”
Lord Merton looked by no means delighted at this attack; which I believe she would not so readily have made, but to revenge his neglect of us.
Lord Merton did not seem at all pleased by this criticism; I believe she wouldn't have confronted him so quickly if it weren't for his neglect of us.
“Did you meet your brother, Lady Louisa?” said Mrs. Beaumont.
“Did you see your brother, Lady Louisa?” Mrs. Beaumont asked.
“No, Ma’am. Is he rode out this morning?”
“No, Ma’am. Did he ride out this morning?”
I then found, what I had before suspected, that this lady was Lord Orville’s sister: how strange, that such near relations should be so different to each other! There is, indeed, some resemblance in their features; but, in their manners, not the least.
I then discovered, as I had previously suspected, that this lady was Lord Orville’s sister: how strange that such close relatives could be so different from each other! There is, indeed, some resemblance in their looks; but in their behavior, not at all.
“Yes,” answered Mrs. Beaumont, “and I believe he wished to see you.”
“Yeah,” Mrs. Beaumont replied, “and I think he wanted to see you.”
“My Lord drove so monstrous fast,” said Lady Louisa, “that perhaps we passed him. He frightened me out of my senses; I declare my head is quite giddy. Do you know, Ma’am, we have done nothing but quarrel all the morning?-You can’t think how I’ve scolded; have not I, my Lord?” and she smiled expressively at Lord Merton.
“My Lord drove so incredibly fast,” said Lady Louisa, “that maybe we passed him. He scared me out of my wits; I swear my head is spinning. Do you know, Ma’am, we’ve done nothing but argue all morning? You wouldn’t believe how much I’ve complained; haven’t I, my Lord?” and she smiled meaningfully at Lord Merton.
“You have been, as you always are,” said he, twisting his whip with his fingers, “all sweetness.”
“You've been, as you always are,” he said, twisting his whip with his fingers, “so sweet.”
“O fie, my Lord,” cried she, “I know you don’t think so; I know you think me very ill-natured;-don’t you, my Lord?”
“O fie, my Lord,” she exclaimed, “I know you don’t believe that; I know you think I’m very unkind—don’t you, my Lord?”
“No, upon my honour;-how can your Ladyship ask such a question? Pray how goes time? my watch stands.”
“No, I swear; how can you ask such a question? By the way, what time is it? My watch has stopped.”
“It is almost three,” answered Mrs. Beaumont.
“It’s almost three,” replied Mrs. Beaumont.
“Lord, Ma’am, you frighten me!” cried Lady Louisa; and then, turning to Lord Merton, “why now, you wicked creature you, did you not tell me it was but one?”
“Lord, Ma’am, you scare me!” cried Lady Louisa; and then, turning to Lord Merton, “why didn’t you tell me it was just one?”
Mrs. Selwyn then rose to take leave; but Mrs. Beaumont asked if she would look at the shrubbery. “I should like it much,” answered she, “but that I fear to fatigue Miss Anville.”
Mrs. Selwyn then stood up to say goodbye; but Mrs. Beaumont asked if she would check out the shrubbery. “I would love to,” she replied, “but I’m afraid I might tire out Miss Anville.”
Lady Louisa, then, raising her head from her hand, on which it had leant, turned round to look at me; and having fully satisfied her curiosity, without any regard to the confusion it gave me, turned about, and, again leaning on her hand, took no further notice of me.
Lady Louisa, then, lifting her head from her hand, which it had been resting on, turned to look at me. After satisfying her curiosity completely, and without caring about the embarrassment it caused me, she turned back and, leaning on her hand again, ignored me.
I declared myself very able to walk, and begged that I might accompany them. “What say you, Lady Louisa,” cried Mrs. Beaumont, “to a stroll in the garden?”
I confidently stated that I could walk well and asked to join them. “What do you think, Lady Louisa?” exclaimed Mrs. Beaumont, “about a walk in the garden?”
“Me, Ma’am!-I declare I can’t stir a step; the heat is so excessive, it would kill me. I’m half dead with it already; besides, I shall have no time to dress. Will any body be here to-day, Ma’am?”
“Me, Ma’am! I swear I can’t move at all; it’s so hot out, I might pass out. I already feel like I’m half dead from it; plus, I won't even have time to get ready. Is anyone coming over today, Ma’am?”
“I believe not, unless Lord Merton will favour us with his company.”
“I don’t think so, unless Lord Merton will join us.”
“With great pleasure, Madam.”
"With pleasure, Ma'am."
“Well, I declare you don’t deserve to be asked,” cried Lady Louisa, “you wicked creature you!-I must tell you one thing, Ma’am,-you can’t think how abominable he was! do you know we met Mr. Lovel in his new phaeton, and my Lord was so cruel as to drive against it?-we really flew. I declare I could not breathe. Upon my word, my Lord, I’ll never trust myself with you again,-I won’t indeed.”
“Well, I can’t believe you don’t deserve to be asked,” shouted Lady Louisa, “you terrible person! I have to tell you something, Ma’am—you have no idea how awful he was! Do you know we ran into Mr. Lovel in his new carriage, and my Lord was so mean as to drive right into it? We really went flying. I swear I couldn’t catch my breath. Honestly, my Lord, I will never trust myself with you again—I really won’t.”
We then went into the garden, leaving them to discuss the point at their leisure.
We then went into the garden, leaving them to talk about it at their own pace.
Do you remember a pretty but affected young lady I mentioned to have seen, in Lord Orville’s party, at the Pantheon? How little did I then imagine her to be his sister! yet Lady Louisa Larpent is the very person. I can now account for the piqued manner of her speaking to Lord Merton that evening, and I can now account for the air of displeasure with which Lord Orville marked the undue attention of his future brother-in-law to me.
Do you remember the attractive but affected young woman I mentioned seeing with Lord Orville at the Pantheon? I never guessed she was his sister! But Lady Louisa Larpent is indeed the same person. Now I can understand the annoyed way she spoke to Lord Merton that evening, and I also see why Lord Orville looked displeased with his future brother-in-law’s excessive attention towards me.
We had not walked long, ere, at a distance, I perceived Lord Orville, who seemed just dismounted from his horse, enter the garden. All my perturbation returned at the sight of him!-yet I endeavoured to repress every feeling but resentment. As he approached us, he bowed to the whole party; but I turned away my head to avoid taking any share in his civility. Addressing himself immediately to Mrs. Beaumont, he was beginning to enquire after his sister: but, upon seeing my face, he suddenly exclaimed, “Miss Anville!-” and then he advanced, and made his compliments to me,-not with an air of vanity or impertinence, nor yet with a look of consciousness or shame;-but with a countenance open, manly, and charming!-with a smile that indicated pleasure, and eyes that sparkled with delight!-on my side was all that consciousness; for by him, I really believe, the letter was, at that moment, entirely forgotten.
We hadn't.
With what politeness did he address me! with what sweetness did he look at me! the very tone of his voice seemed flattering! he congratulated himself upon his good fortune in meeting with me;-hoped I should spend some time in Bristol, and enquired, even with anxiety enquired, if my health was the cause of my journey; in which case his satisfaction would be converted into apprehension.
With what politeness he spoke to me! With what sweetness he looked at me! Even the tone of his voice felt flattering! He congratulated himself on his good luck in meeting me—hoping I would spend some time in Bristol, and he even asked, with obvious concern, if my health was the reason for my trip; if that was the case, his happiness would turn into worry.
Yet, struck as I was with his manner, and charmed to find him such as he was wont to be, imagine not, my dear Sir, that I forgot the resentment I owe him, or the cause he has given me of displeasure; no, my behaviour was such, as I hope, had you seen, you would not have disapproved: I was grave and distant; I scarce looked at him when he spoke, or answered him when he was silent.
Yet, even though I was taken aback by his way of being and glad to see him just as he usually is, don't think for a second, my dear Sir, that I forgot the resentment I owe him or the reasons he has given me to be upset; no, my behavior was such that I hope, had you seen it, you would not have disapproved: I was serious and kept my distance; I hardly looked at him when he spoke, or responded when he was quiet.
As he must certainly observe this alteration in my conduct, I think it could not fail making him both recollect and repent the provocation he had so causelessly given me; for surely he was not so wholly lost to reason, as to be now ignorant he had ever offended me.
As he must surely notice this change in my behavior, I believe it would make him remember and regret the unnecessary provocation he had given me; after all, he couldn't be so completely out of touch with reality that he didn't realize he had upset me.
The moment that, without absolute rudeness, I was able, I turned entirely from him, and asked Mrs. Selwyn if we should not be late home? How Lord Orville looked I know not, for I avoided meeting his eyes; but he did not speak another word as we proceeded to the garden gate. Indeed, I believe, my abruptness surprised him, for he did not seem to expect I had so much spirit. And, to own the truth, convinced as I was of the propriety, nay, necessity, of showing my displeasure, I yet almost hated myself for receiving his politeness so ungraciously.
As soon as I could do so without being completely rude, I turned away from him and asked Mrs. Selwyn if we were going to be late getting home. I didn't see how Lord Orville looked because I avoided making eye contact, but he didn’t say another word as we walked to the garden gate. Honestly, I think my sudden change of behavior surprised him since he didn’t expect me to have that much spirit. And to tell the truth, even though I felt it was right—and even necessary—to show my displeasure, I almost hated myself for accepting his politeness so poorly.
When we were taking leave, my eyes accidentally meeting his, I could not but observe that his gravity equalled my own; for it had entirely taken place of the smiles and good humour with which he had met me.
When we were saying goodbye and our eyes accidentally met, I couldn’t help but notice that his seriousness matched my own; it had completely replaced the smiles and good humor he had greeted me with.
“I am afraid this young lady,” said Mrs. Beaumont, “is too weak for another long walk till she is again rested.”
“I’m afraid this young lady,” Mrs. Beaumont said, “is too weak for another long walk until she’s rested up again.”
“If the ladies will trust to my driving,” said Lord Orville, “and are not afraid of a phaeton, mine shall be ready in a moment.”
“If the ladies will trust my driving,” said Lord Orville, “and aren’t afraid of a phaeton, mine will be ready in a moment.”
“You are very good, my Lord, “said Mrs. Selwyn, “but my will is yet unsigned, and I don’t choose to venture in a phaeton with a young man while that is the case.”
“You're very generous, my Lord,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “but my will isn't signed yet, and I don’t want to take a ride in a phaeton with a young man while that's still the case.”
“O,” cried Mrs. Beaumont, “you need not be afraid of my Lord Orville, for he is remarkably careful.”
“O,” exclaimed Mrs. Beaumont, “you don’t have to worry about my Lord Orville, because he’s very considerate.”
“Well, Miss Anville,” answered she, “what say you?”
“Well, Miss Anville,” she replied, “what do you think?”
“Indeed,” cried I, “I had much rather walk-.” But then, looking at Lord Orville, I perceived in his face a surprise so serious at my abrupt refusal, that I could not forbear adding, “for I should be sorry to occasion so much trouble.”
“Definitely,” I exclaimed, “I’d much rather walk-.” But then, noticing Lord Orville's face, I saw such a serious surprise at my sudden refusal that I couldn't help but add, “because I’d hate to cause so much trouble.”
Lord Orville, brightening at these words, came forward, and pressed his offer in a manner not to be denied;-so the phaeton was ordered! And indeed, my dear Sir,-I know not how it was;-but, from that moment, my coldness and reserve insensibly wore away! You must not be angry,-it was my intention, nay, my endeavour, to support them with firmness: but when I formed the plan, I thought only of the letter,-not of Lord Orville!-and how is it possible for resentmen to subsist without provocation? yet, believe me, my dearest Sir, had he sustained the part he began to act when he wrote this ever-to-be-regretted letter, your Evelina would have not forfeited her title to your esteem, by contentedly submitting to be treated with indignity.
Lord Orville, shining at these words, stepped forward and insisted on his offer in a way that couldn’t be ignored—so the phaeton was ordered! And honestly, my dear Sir, I can’t explain exactly how it happened, but from that moment, my coldness and reserve gradually faded away! Please don’t be upset; I intended, and truly tried, to hold my ground firmly: but when I came up with the plan, I only thought about the letter—not about Lord Orville! How can resentment exist without provocation? Yet, believe me, my dearest Sir, if he had continued to act as he started when he wrote this letter, which I will always regret, your Evelina wouldn’t have lost your esteem by passively accepting mistreatment.
We continued in the garden till the phaeton was ready. When we parted from Mrs. Beaumont, she repeated her invitation to Mrs. Selwyn to accept an apartment in her house; but the reason I have already mentioned made it be again declined.
We stayed in the garden until the carriage was ready. When we said goodbye to Mrs. Beaumont, she repeated her invitation to Mrs. Selwyn to take an apartment in her house; however, the reason I mentioned earlier led to it being declined once more.
Lord Orville drove very slow, and so cautiously, that, notwithstanding the height of the phaeton, fear would have been ridiculous. I supported no part in the conversation; but Mrs. Selwyn extremely well supplied the place of two. Lord Orville himself did not speak much; but the excellent sense and refined good-breeding which accompany every word he utters, give value and weight to whatever he says.
Lord Orville drove very slowly and carefully, so even though the phaeton was high, there was no reason to be afraid. I didn’t really take part in the conversation, but Mrs. Selwyn filled in for two people. Lord Orville himself didn’t talk much, but the great sense and refined manners that come with everything he says add importance and meaning to his words.
“I suppose, my Lord,” said Mrs. Selwyn, when we stopped at our lodgings, “you would have been extremely confused had we met any gentlemen who have the honour of knowing you.”
“I guess, my Lord,” said Mrs. Selwyn, when we arrived at our place, “you would have been really confused if we had run into any gentlemen who are honored to know you.”
“If I had,” answered he, gallantly, “it would have been from mere compassion at their envy.”
“If I had,” he replied confidently, “it would have just been out of pity for their jealousy.”
“No, my Lord,” answered she, “it would have been from mere shame, that, in an age so daring, you alone should be such a coward as to forbear to frighten women.”
“No, my Lord,” she replied, “it would just be out of shame that, in a time so bold, you alone would be such a coward as to hesitate to scare women.”
“O,” cried he, laughing, “when a man is in a fright for himself, the ladies cannot but be in security; for you have not had half the apprehension for the safety of your persons, that I have for that of my heart.” He then alighted, handed us out, took leave, and again mounting the phaeton, was out of sight in a minute.
“Oh,” he exclaimed, laughing, “when a guy is scared for himself, the ladies can't help but feel safe; because you haven't worried half as much about your safety as I have about my heart.” He then got down, helped us out, said goodbye, and after getting back into the phaeton, disappeared from view in a minute.
“Certainly,” said Mrs. Selwyn, when he was gone, “there must have been some mistake in the birth of that young man; he was, undoubtedly, designed for the last age; for he is really polite!”
“Of course,” said Mrs. Selwyn, after he left, “there must have been some mistake in that young man’s upbringing; he was clearly meant for a different time because he is truly polite!”
And now, my dear Sir, do not you think, according to the present situation of affairs, I may give up my resentment, without imprudence or impropriety? I hope you will not blame me. Indeed, had you, like me, seen his respectful behaviour, you would have been convinced of the impracticability of supporting any further indignation.
And now, my dear Sir, don't you think that given the current situation, I can let go of my resentment without it being foolish or inappropriate? I hope you won't hold it against me. In fact, if you had seen his respectful behavior like I did, you would understand that it's impossible to maintain any further anger.
LETTER LXIV - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. Bristol Hotwells, Sept. 19th.
YESTERDAY morning Mrs. Selwyn received a card from Mrs. Beaumont, to ask her to dine with her to-day: and another, to the same purpose, came to me. The invitation was accepted, and we are but just arrived from Clifton Hill.
YESTERDAY morning, Mrs. Selwyn got a card from Mrs. Beaumont inviting her to dinner today, and I received a similar one. The invite was accepted, and we just got back from Clifton Hill.
We found Mrs. Beaumont alone in the parlour. I will write you the character of that lady, in the words of our satirical friend Mrs. Selwyn. “She is an absolute Court Calendar bigot; for, chancing herself to be born of a noble and ancient family, she thinks proper to be of opinion, that birth and virtue are one and the same thing. She has some good qualities; but they rather originate from pride than principle, as she piques herself upon being too high-born to be capable of an unworthy action, and thinks it incumbent upon her to support the dignity of her ancestry. Fortunately for the world in general, she has taken it into her head, that condescension is the most distinguishing virtue of high life; so that the same pride of family which renders others imperious, is with her the motive of affability. But her civility is too formal to be comfortable, and too mechanical to be flattering. That she does me the honour of so much notice, is merely owing to an accident, which, I am sure, is very painful to her remembrance; for it so happened, that I once did her some service, in regard to an apartment at Southampton; and I have since been informed, that, at the time she accepted my assistance, she thought I was a woman of quality; and I make no doubt but she was miserable when she discovered me to be a mere country gentlewoman: however, her nice notions of decorum have made her load me with favours ever since. But I am not much flattered by her civilities, as I am convinced I owe them neither to attachment nor gratitude; but solely to a desire of cancelling an obligation, which she cannot brook being under, to one whose name is no where to be found in the Court Calendar.”
We found Mrs. Beaumont alone in the living room. I’ll describe her character using the words of our witty friend Mrs. Selwyn. “She’s a total snob about her noble lineage; since she was born into an ancient, aristocratic family, she believes that birth and virtue are the same thing. She has some decent traits, but they mostly come from her pride rather than any real principle, as she prides herself on being too high-born to do anything unworthy and feels it's her duty to uphold her family's dignity. Luckily for everyone else, she thinks that being able to show humility is the most important quality in a high-status life; so the same family pride that makes others domineering makes her friendly. However, her kindness is too stiff to be genuine and too forced to be flattering. The fact that she pays me any attention is just an accident, which I’m sure she finds quite embarrassing; you see, I once did her a favor regarding a place in Southampton, and I’ve since learned that when she accepted my help, she thought I was of high status. I have no doubt she felt miserable when she realized I was just a country gentlewoman. Still, her strict ideas about etiquette have led her to shower me with favors ever since. But I’m not really flattered by her kindness because I know it’s not out of fondness or gratitude, but simply because she wants to repay a debt she can’t stand having to someone whose name isn’t in the Court Calendar.”
You well know, my dear Sir, the delight this lady takes in giving way to her satirical humour.
You know very well, my dear Sir, how much this lady enjoys expressing her sarcastic humor.
Mrs. Beaumont received us very graciously, though she some what distressed me by the questions she asked concerning my family;-such as, Whether I was related to the Anvilles in the North?-Whether some of my name did not live in Lincolnshire? and many other inquiries, which much embarrassed me.
Mrs. Beaumont welcomed us warmly, though she somewhat troubled me with the questions she asked about my family—like whether I was related to the Anvilles up North, whether anyone with my last name lived in Lincolnshire, and many other questions that really made me uncomfortable.
The conversation next turned upon the intended marriage in her family. She treated the subject with reserve; but it was evident she disapproved Lady Louisa’s choice. She spoke in terms of the highest esteem of Lord Orville, calling him, in Marmontel’s words, “Un jeune homme comme il y en a peu.”
The conversation then shifted to the upcoming marriage in her family. She approached the topic cautiously, but it was clear she disapproved of Lady Louisa's choice. She spoke with great respect for Lord Orville, describing him, in Marmontel's words, as "A young man like few there are."
I did not think this conversation very agreeably interrupted by the entrance of Mr. Lovel. Indeed I am heartily sorry he is now at the Hot Wells. He made his compliments with the most obsequious respect to Mrs. Beaumont, but took no sort of notice of any other person.
I didn't think this conversation was very pleasantly interrupted by Mr. Lovel's arrival. In fact, I’m truly sorry he is at the Hot Wells now. He greeted Mrs. Beaumont with the utmost flattery but completely ignored everyone else.
In a few minutes Lady Louisa Larpent made her appearance. The same manners prevailed; for, courtsying, with “I hope you are well, Ma’am,” to Mrs. Beaumont, she passed straight forward to her seat on the sofa; where, leaning her head on her hand, she cast her languishing eyes round the room, with a vacant stare, as if determined, though she looked, not to see who was in it.
In just a few minutes, Lady Louisa Larpent showed up. She had the same demeanor; after curtsying and saying, “I hope you’re well, Ma’am,” to Mrs. Beaumont, she walked straight to her spot on the sofa. Leaning her head on her hand, she lazily scanned the room with a blank look, as if she was set on not noticing who was around her.
Mr. Lovel, presently approaching her, with reverence the most profound, hoped her Ladyship was not indisposed.
Mr. Lovel, now walking up to her with deep respect, hoped that her Ladyship was feeling well.
“Mr. Lovel!” cried she, raising her head, “I declare I did not see you: have you been here long?”
“Mr. Lovel!” she exclaimed, lifting her head, “I can't believe I didn't see you: have you been here long?”
“By my watch, Madam,” said he, “only five minutes,-but by your Ladyship’s absence as many hours.”
“According to my watch, Madam,” he said, “it's only five minutes, but based on your Ladyship’s absence, it feels like many hours.”
“O! now I think of it,” cried she, “I am very angry with you;-so go along, do; for I sha’n’t speak to you all day.”
“O! now that I think of it,” she exclaimed, “I’m really angry with you—so just go on, please; because I won’t talk to you all day.”
“Heaven forbid your La’ship’s displeasure should last so long! in such cruel circumstances, a day would seem an age. But in what have I been so unfortunate as to offend?”
“Heaven forbid your Lordship's displeasure should last so long! In such cruel circumstances, a day would feel like an eternity. But how have I been so unfortunate as to offend?”
“O, you half killed me the other morning, with terror! I have not yet recovered from my fright. How could you be so cruel as to drive your phaeton against my Lord Merton’s?”
“O, you almost gave me a heart attack the other morning! I still haven’t gotten over my shock. How could you be so heartless as to crash your carriage into my Lord Merton’s?”
“‘Pon honour, Ma’am, your La’ship does me wrong;-it was all owing to the horses,-there was no curbing them. I protest I suffered more than your Ladyship, from the terror of alarming you.”
“Honestly, Ma’am, you’re misjudging me; it was all because of the horses—I couldn’t control them. I swear I suffered more than you did from the fear of scaring you.”
Just then entered Lord Merton; stalking up to Mrs. Beaumont, to whom alone he bowed, he hoped he had not made her wait; and then, advancing to Lady Louisa, said, in a careless manner, “How is your Ladyship this morning?”
Just then, Lord Merton walked in; striding over to Mrs. Beaumont, who was the only one he acknowledged with a bow, he expressed his hope that he hadn’t kept her waiting. He then approached Lady Louisa and casually asked, “How are you this morning, my Lady?”
“Not well at all,” answered she; “I have been dying with the head-ache ever since I got up.”
“Not well at all,” she replied; “I’ve had a terrible headache ever since I woke up.”
“Indeed!” cried he, with a countenance wholly unmoved, “I am very unhappy to hear it. But should not your Ladyship have some advice?”
“Really!” he exclaimed, his expression completely unchanged, “I’m very sorry to hear that. But shouldn’t you have some advice, my Lady?”
“I am quite sick of advice,” answered she, “Mr. Ridgeway has but just left me,-but he has done me no good. Nobody here knows what is the matter with me, yet they all see how indifferent I am.”
“I’m really tired of advice,” she replied. “Mr. Ridgeway just left me, but he hasn’t helped at all. No one here knows what’s wrong with me, yet they all notice how apathetic I am.”
“Your Ladyship’s constitution,” said Mr. Lovel, “is infinitely delicate.”
"Your Ladyship’s health," Mr. Lovel said, "is extremely fragile."
“Indeed it is,” cried she, in a low voice, “I am nerve all over!”
“Yeah, it really is,” she said quietly, “I’m totally on edge!”
“I am glad, however,” said Lord Merton, “that you did not take the air this morning, for Coverley has been driving against me as if he was mad: he has got two of the finest spirited horses I ever saw.”
“I’m glad, though,” said Lord Merton, “that you didn’t go out this morning, because Coverley has been driving against me like he’s lost his mind: he has two of the most spirited horses I’ve ever seen.”
“Pray my Lord,” cried she, “why did not you bring Mr. Coverley with you? he’s a droll creature; I like him monstrously.”
“Please, my Lord,” she said, “why didn’t you bring Mr. Coverley with you? He’s such a funny guy; I like him a lot.”
“Why, he promised to be here as soon as me. I suppose he’ll come before dinner’s over.”
“Why, he promised to be here as soon as I am. I guess he’ll arrive before dinner’s over.”
In the midst of this trifling conversation Lord Orville made his appearance. O how different was his address! how superior did he look and move, to all about him! Having paid his respects to Mrs. Beaumont, and then to Mrs. Selwyn, he came up to me, and said, “I hope Miss Anville has not suffered from the fatigue of Monday morning?” Then, turning to Lady Louisa, who seemed rather surprised at his speaking to me, he added, “Give me leave, sister, to introduce Miss Anville to you.”
In the middle of this light conversation, Lord Orville showed up. Oh, how different his presence was! He appeared and behaved with so much more confidence than everyone else around him! After greeting Mrs. Beaumont and then Mrs. Selwyn, he approached me and said, “I hope Miss Anville hasn’t been worn out by the fatigue of Monday morning?” Then, turning to Lady Louisa, who looked a bit surprised that he was talking to me, he added, “Allow me, sister, to introduce Miss Anville to you.”
Lady Louisa, half-rising, said, very coldly, that she should be glad of the honour of knowing me; and then, abruptly turning to Lord Merton and Mr. Lovel, continued, in a half-whisper, her conversation.
Lady Louisa, half-standing, said very coolly that she would be glad to have the honor of knowing me; then, abruptly turning to Lord Merton and Mr. Lovel, she continued her conversation in a half-whisper.
For my part, I had risen and courtsied, and now, feeling very foolish, I seated myself again: first I blushed at the unexpected politeness of Lord Orville, and immediately afterwards at the contemptuous failure of it in his sister. How can that young lady see her brother so universally admired for his manners and deportment, and yet be so unamiably opposite to him in hers! but while his mind, enlarged and noble, rises superior to the little prejudices of rank, hers, feeble and unsteady, sinks beneath their influence.
For my part, I had stood up and curtsied, and now, feeling really silly, I sat back down: first, I blushed at Lord Orville's unexpected politeness, and then I felt embarrassed by the contemptuous way his sister acted. How can that young lady see her brother admired by everyone for his manners and behavior, yet be so unlikable in contrast? While his open and noble mind rises above the petty prejudices of social rank, hers, weak and shaky, falls victim to those influences.
Lord Orville, I am sure, was hurt and displeased: he bit his lips, and, turning from her, addressed himself wholly to me, till we were summoned to dinner. Do you think I was not grateful for his attention? yes, indeed, and every angry idea I had entertained was totally obliterated.
Lord Orville, I'm sure, was hurt and annoyed: he bit his lips and, turning away from her, focused entirely on me until we were called to dinner. Do you think I wasn't grateful for his attention? Yes, I absolutely was, and all the angry thoughts I had were completely erased.
As we were seating ourselves at the table, Mr. Coverley came into the room; he made a thousand apologies in a breath for being so late, but said he had been retarded by a little accident, for that he had overturned his phaeton, and broke it all to pieces. Lady Louisa screamed at this intelligence, and, looking at Lord Merton, declared she would never go into a phaeton again.
As we were sitting down at the table, Mr. Coverley walked into the room; he quickly apologized for being so late, explaining that he had been delayed by a small accident since he had flipped over his carriage and completely wrecked it. Lady Louisa gasped at this news and, looking at Lord Merton, declared that she would never ride in a carriage again.
“O,” cried he, “never mind Jack Coverley; for he does not know how to drive.”
“Oh,” he exclaimed, “don’t worry about Jack Coverley; he doesn’t know how to drive.”
“My Lord,” cried Mr. Coverley, “I’ll drive against you for a thousand pounds.”
“My Lord,” shouted Mr. Coverley, “I’ll bet you a thousand pounds.”
“Done!” returned the other; “name your day, and we’ll each choose a judge.”
“Done!” replied the other; “pick a day, and we’ll each choose a judge.”
“The sooner the better,” cried Mr. Coverley; “to-morrow, if the carriage can be repaired.”
“The sooner, the better,” shouted Mr. Coverley; “tomorrow, if the carriage can be fixed.”
“These enterprises,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “are very proper for men of rank, since ’tis a million to one but both parties will be incapacitated for any better employment.”
“These businesses,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “are perfectly suited for men of rank, as there’s virtually no chance that either side will be able to find a more suitable job.”
“For Heaven’s sake,” cried Lady Louisa, changing colour, “don’t talk so shockingly! Pray, my Lord, pray, Mr. Coverley, don’t alarm me in this manner.”
“For heaven’s sake,” cried Lady Louisa, changing color, “don’t talk like that! Please, my Lord, please, Mr. Coverley, don’t alarm me like this.”
“Compose yourself, Lady Louisa,” said Mrs. Beaumont, “the gentlemen will think better of the scheme; they are neither of them in earnest.”
“Calm down, Lady Louisa,” said Mrs. Beaumont, “the gentlemen will regard the plan more favorably; neither of them is actually serious.”
“The very mention of such a scheme,” said Lady Louisa, taking out her salts, “makes me tremble all over! Indeed, my Lord, you have frightened me to death! I sha’n’t eat a morsel of dinner.”
“The very mention of such a plan,” said Lady Louisa, taking out her smelling salts, “makes me shiver all over! Honestly, my Lord, you’ve scared me to death! I won’t eat a bite of dinner.”
“Permit me,” said Lord Orville, “to propose some other subject for the present, and we will discuss this matter another time.”
“Let me,” said Lord Orville, “suggest a different topic for now, and we can talk about this issue later.”
“Pray, brother, excuse me; my Lord must give me his word to drop the project,-for I declare it has made me sick as death.”
“Please, brother, forgive me; my Lord has to promise to abandon the project—because I swear it’s made me feel extremely ill.”
“To compromise the matter,” said Lord Orville, “suppose, if both parties are unwilling to give up the bet, that, to make the ladies easy, we change its object to something less dangerous?”
“To settle this,” said Lord Orville, “how about if both sides are reluctant to give up the bet, we switch its aim to something less risky to make the ladies more comfortable?”
This proposal was so strongly seconded by all the party, that both Lord Merton and Mr. Coverley were obliged to comply with it; and it was then agreed that the affair should be finally settled in the afternoon.
This proposal was so strongly supported by everyone in the group that both Lord Merton and Mr. Coverley had to go along with it; and it was then decided that the matter would be finalized in the afternoon.
“I shall now be entirely out of conceit with phaetons again,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “though Lord Orville had almost reconciled me to them.”
“I’m completely over phaetons again,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “even though Lord Orville almost got me to like them.”
“My Lord Orville!” cried the witty Mr. Coverley, “why, my Lord Orville is as careful,-egad, as careful as an old woman! Why, I’d drive a one-horse cart against my Lord’s phaeton for a hundred guineas!”
“Lord Orville!” exclaimed the clever Mr. Coverley, “my Lord Orville is as cautious—seriously, as cautious as an old woman! Honestly, I’d bet a hundred guineas that I could crash a one-horse cart into my Lord’s phaeton!”
This sally occasioned much laughter; for Mr. Coverley, I find, is regarded as a man of infinite humour.
This outburst caused a lot of laughter because Mr. Coverley, it seems, is seen as a man with an endless sense of humor.
“Perhaps, Sir,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “you have not discovered the reason my Lord Orville is so careful?”
"Maybe, Sir," Mrs. Selwyn said, "you haven't figured out why my Lord Orville is being so cautious?"
“Why, no, Ma’am; I must own I never heard any particular reason for it.”
“Actually, no, Ma’am; I have to admit I never heard any specific reason for it.”
“Why, then, Sir, I’ll tell it you; and I believe you will confess it to be very particular; his Lordship’s friends are not yet tired of him.”
“Why, then, Sir, I’ll tell you; and I believe you will admit it’s quite unusual; his Lordship’s friends are still not tired of him.”
Lord Orville laughed and bowed. Mr. Coverley, a little confused, turned to Lord Merton, and said, “No foul play, my Lord! I remember your Lordship recommended me to the notice of this lady the other morning, and, egad, I believe you have been doing me the same office to-day.”
Lord Orville chuckled and bowed. Mr. Coverley, slightly confused, turned to Lord Merton and said, “No tricks, my Lord! I remember you suggested that I get to know this lady the other morning, and, honestly, I think you’ve been doing the same for me today.”
“Give you joy, Jack!” cried Lord Merton, with a loud laugh.
“Cheers to you, Jack!” laughed Lord Merton heartily.
After this the conversation turned wholly upon eating, a subject which was discussed with the utmost delight; and, had I not known they were men of rank and fashion, I should have imagined that Lord Merton, Mr. Lovel, and Mr. Coverley, had all been professed cooks; for they displayed so much knowledge of sauces and made-dishes, and of the various methods of dressing the same things, that I am persuaded they must have given much time, and much study, to make themselves such adepts in this art. It would be very difficult to determine, whether they were most to be distinguished as gluttons or epicures; for they were, at once, dainty and voracious, understood the right and the wrong of every dish, and alike emptied the one and the other. I should have been quite sick of their remarks, had I not been entertained by seeing that Lord Orville, who, I am sure, was equally disgusted, not only read my sentiments, but, by his countenance, communicated to me his own.
After that, the conversation focused completely on food, a topic discussed with great enthusiasm; and if I didn’t know they were men of status and style, I would have thought that Lord Merton, Mr. Lovel, and Mr. Coverley were all professional chefs. They showed such expertise in sauces and prepared dishes, as well as different ways to cook the same ingredients, that I’m convinced they must have spent a lot of time and effort becoming skilled in this art. It was hard to tell whether they were more gluttonous or gourmet; they were both picky and ravenous, knowledgeable about what made each dish good or bad, and enjoyed every bit of both. I would have been quite annoyed by their comments if I hadn’t been entertained by watching Lord Orville, who I’m sure felt just as disgusted, not only read my thoughts but also communicated his own through his expression.
When dinner was over, Mrs. Beaumont recommended the gentlemen to the care of Lord Orville, and then attended the ladies to the drawing-room.
When dinner was done, Mrs. Beaumont introduced the gentlemen to Lord Orville's care, and then led the ladies to the drawing room.
The conversation, till tea-time, was extremely insipid; Mrs. Selwyn reserved herself for the gentlemen, Mrs. Beaumont was grave, and Lady Louisa languid.
The conversation until tea time was really dull; Mrs. Selwyn was saving her energy for the men, Mrs. Beaumont was serious, and Lady Louisa was tired.
But, at tea, every body revived; we were joined by the gentlemen, and gaiety took the place of dullness.
But at tea, everyone perked up; we were joined by the men, and cheerfulness replaced the boredom.
Since I, as Mr. Lovel says, am Nobody, I seated myself quietly at a window, and not very near to any body: Lord Merton, Mr. Coverley, and Mr. Lovel, severally passed me without notice, and surrounded the chair of Lady Louisa Larpent. I must own, I was rather piqued at the behaviour of Mr. Lovel, as he had formerly known me. It is true, I most sincerely despise his foppery; yet I should be grieved to meet with contempt from any body. But I was by no means sorry to find, that Lord Merton was determined not to know me before Lady Louisa, as his neglect relieved me from much embarrassment. As to Mr. Coverley, his attention or disregard were equally indifferent to me. Yet, altogether, I feel extremely uncomfortable in finding myself considered in a light very inferior to the rest of the company.
Since I, as Mr. Lovel says, am Nobody, I sat quietly by a window, not very close to anyone: Lord Merton, Mr. Coverley, and Mr. Lovel all passed me by without a word and surrounded Lady Louisa Larpent. I have to admit, I was a bit annoyed by Mr. Lovel's behavior since he used to know me. It's true that I truly despise his pretentiousness; still, it would upset me to be looked down upon by anyone. But I wasn't at all upset to see that Lord Merton was set on ignoring me in front of Lady Louisa, as his neglect spared me a lot of awkwardness. As for Mr. Coverley, whether he paid attention to me or not didn't matter much. Still, I can't help but feel really uncomfortable being seen as so much less than the rest of the group.
But when Lord Orville appeared, the scene changed: he came up stairs last; and, seeing me sit alone, not only spoke to me directly, but drew a chair next mine, and honoured me with his entire attention.
But when Lord Orville showed up, everything shifted: he came upstairs last; and, noticing that I was sitting alone, he not only spoke to me directly but also pulled up a chair next to mine and gave me his full attention.
He enquired very particularly after my health, and hoped I had already found benefit from the Bristol air. “How little did I imagine,” added he, “when I had last the pleasure of seeing you in town, that ill health would in so short a time have brought you hither! I am ashamed of myself for the satisfaction I feel at seeing you,-yet, how can I help it?”
He asked me specifically about my health and hoped I had already benefited from the air in Bristol. “I never imagined,” he added, “when I last saw you in town, that poor health would bring you here so soon! I feel a bit guilty for how happy I am to see you—yet, how can I not feel this way?”
He then enquired after the Mirvan family, and spoke of Mrs. Mirvan in terms of most just praise. “She is gentle and amiable,” said he, “a true feminine character.”
He then asked about the Mirvan family and talked about Mrs. Mirvan with high praise. “She is kind and pleasant,” he said, “a truly feminine person.”
“Yes, indeed,” answered I: “and her sweet daughter, to say every thing of her at once, is just the daughter such a mother deserves.”
“Yes, definitely,” I replied. “And her lovely daughter, to sum it all up, is exactly the daughter a mother like her deserves.”
“I am glad of it,” said he, “for both their sakes, as such near relations must always reflect credit or disgrace on each other.”
“I’m glad about that,” he said, “because family members always influence each other’s reputation, whether it’s good or bad.”
After this he began to speak of the beauties of Clifton; but, in a few moments, he was interrupted by a call from the company, to discuss the affair of the wager. Lord Merton and Mr. Coverley, though they had been discoursing upon the subject some time, could not fix upon the thing that satisfied them both.
After this, he started talking about the charm of Clifton; however, within a few moments, the group called for his attention to discuss the wager. Lord Merton and Mr. Coverley, despite having been discussing the topic for a while, couldn't come to an agreement that satisfied them both.
When they asked the assistance of Lord Orville, he proposed that every body present should vote something; and that the two gentlemen should draw lots which, from the several votes, should decide the bet.
When they asked for Lord Orville's help, he suggested that everyone present should cast a vote. Then, the two gentlemen would draw lots based on the various votes to determine the outcome of the bet.
“We must then begin with the ladies,” said Lord Orville; and applied to Mrs. Selwyn.
“We should start with the ladies,” said Lord Orville; and he turned to Mrs. Selwyn.
“With all my heart,” answered she, with her usual readiness; “and, since the gentlemen are not allowed to risk their necks, suppose we decide the bet by their heads?”
“With all my heart,” she replied eagerly; “and, since the guys can’t put themselves in danger, how about we settle the bet based on their heads?”
“By our heads?” cried Mr. Coverley. “Egad, I don’t understand you.”
“By our heads?” exclaimed Mr. Coverley. “Wow, I don’t get what you mean.”
“I will then explain myself more fully. As I doubt not but you are both excellent classics, suppose, for the good of your own memories, and the entertainment and surprise of the company, the thousand pounds should fall to the share of him who can repeat by heart the longest ode of Horace?”
“I will explain myself more clearly. Since I have no doubt that you are both great scholars, let’s say, for the benefit of your memories and the entertainment and surprise of everyone here, that the thousand pounds should go to whoever can recite the longest ode of Horace from memory?”
Nobody could help laughing, the two gentlemen applied to excepted; who seemed, each of them, rather at a loss in what manner to receive this unexpected proposal. At length Mr. Coverley, bowing low, said, “Will your Lordship please to begin?”
Nobody could help laughing, except for the two gentlemen who seemed a bit unsure about how to handle this unexpected proposal. Finally, Mr. Coverley, bowing deeply, said, “Would you please begin, my Lord?”
“Devil take me if I do!” answered he, turning on his heel, and stalking to the window.
“Devil take me if I do!” he replied, turning on his heel and striding to the window.
“Come, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “why do you hesitate? I am sure you cannot be afraid of a weak woman? Besides, if you should chance to be out, Mr. Lovel, I dare say, will have the goodness to assist you.”
“Come on, gentlemen,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “why are you hesitating? I’m sure you can’t be scared of a weak woman? Plus, if you happen to be out, I’m sure Mr. Lovel will be kind enough to help you.”
The laugh now turned against Mr. Lovel, whose change of countenance manifested no great pleasure at the transition.
The laughter now targeted Mr. Lovel, whose expression showed he wasn't very pleased about the shift.
“Me, Madam!” said he, colouring; “no, really I must beg to be excused.”
“Me, ma'am!” he said, blushing. “No, I really have to beg to be excused.”
“Why so, Sir?”
"Why is that, Sir?"
“Why so, Ma’am!-Why, really-as to that,-’pon honour, Ma’am, you are rather-a little severe;-for how is it possible for a man who is in the house, to study the classics? I assure you, Ma’am, (with an affected shrug) I find quite business enough for my poor head in studying politics.”
“Why is that, Ma’am? Honestly, you’re being a bit harsh. How can a man who is in the house study the classics? I assure you, Ma’am,” (with a mock shrug) “I have plenty to occupy my mind with studying politics.”
“But, did you study politics at school, and at the university?”
“But, did you study political science in school and at university?”
“At the university!” repeated he, with an embarrassed look; “why, as to that, Ma’am,-no, I can’t say I did; but then, what with riding,-and -and-and so forth,-really, one has not much time, even at the university, for mere reading.”
“At the university!” he repeated, looking embarrassed; “Well, about that, Ma’am—no, I can’t say I did; but you know, with riding—and—and all that—really, there’s not much time, even at the university, for just reading.”
“But, to be sure, Sir, you have read the classics?”
“But, just to be sure, sir, you’ve read the classics?”
“O dear, yes, Ma’am!-very often,-but not very-not very lately.”
“O dear, yes, Ma’am! - very often, - but not really, not lately.”
“Which of the Odes do you recommend to these gentlemen to begin with?”
“Which of the Odes do you suggest these gentlemen start with?”
“Which of the Odes!-Really, Ma’am, as to that, I have no very particular choice;-for, to own the truth, that Horace was never a very great favourite with me.”
“Which of the Odes! Honestly, Ma’am, I don’t really have a specific choice; to tell the truth, I’ve never been a big fan of Horace.”
“In truth I believe you!” said Mrs. Selwyn, very drily.
"In reality, I believe you!" said Mrs. Selwyn, quite dryly.
Lord Merton, again advancing into the circle, with a nod and a laugh, said, “Give you joy, Lovel!”
Lord Merton, stepping back into the group with a nod and a laugh, said, “Congratulations, Lovel!”
Lord Orville next applied to Mrs. Beaumont for her vote.
Lord Orville then asked Mrs. Beaumont for her vote.
“It would very agreeably remind me of past times,” said she, “when bowing was in fashion, if the bet was to depend upon the best made bow.”
“It would nicely remind me of the past,” she said, “when bowing was stylish, if the wager were to rely on the best-made bow.”
“Egad, my Lord,” cried Mr. Coverley, “there I should beat you hollow, for your Lordship never bows at all.”
“Wow, my Lord,” exclaimed Mr. Coverley, “there I would totally outdo you, because your Lordship never bows at all.”
“And pray, Sir, do you?” said Mrs. Selwyn.
“And tell me, do you?” said Mrs. Selwyn.
“Do I, Ma’am?” cried he; “why, only see!”
“Do I, Ma’am?” he exclaimed; “just take a look!”
“I protest,” cried she, “I should have taken that for a shrug, if you had not told me ’twas a bow.”
“I protest,” she exclaimed, “I would have thought that was just a shrug if you hadn’t told me it was a bow.”
“My lord,” cried Mr. Coverley, “let’s practise;” and then, most ridiculously, they pranced about the room, making bows.
“My lord,” shouted Mr. Coverley, “let's practice;” and then, quite absurdly, they danced around the room, making silly bows.
“We must now,” said Lord Orville, turning to me, “call upon Miss Anville.”
“We should now,” said Lord Orville, turning to me, “pay a visit to Miss Anville.”
“O no, my Lord,” cried I; “indeed I have nothing to propose.” He would not, however, be refused; but urged me so much to say something, that at last, not to make him wait any longer, I ventured to propose an extempore couplet upon some given subject. Mr. Coverley instantly made me a bow, or, according to Mrs. Selwyn, a shrug, crying, “Thank you, Ma’am; egad, that’s my forte!-why, my Lord, the Fates seem against you.”
“Oh no, my Lord,” I exclaimed; “I really have nothing to suggest.” However, he wouldn't take no for an answer and insisted I say something. Eventually, not wanting to keep him waiting any longer, I took a chance and proposed to come up with a couplet on a specific topic. Mr. Coverley immediately gave me a bow, or as Mrs. Selwyn put it, a shrug, saying, “Thank you, Ma’am; oh wow, that’s my strength!—well, my Lord, it looks like the Fates are against you.”
Lady Louisa was then applied to; and every body seemed eager to hear her opinion. “I don’t know what to say, I declare,” cried she, affectedly; “can’t you pass me?”
Lady Louisa was then approached, and everyone seemed eager to hear her thoughts. “I have no idea what to say, I swear,” she exclaimed dramatically. “Can’t you just pass me?”
“By no means,” said Lord Merton.
“Not at all,” said Lord Merton.
“Is it possible your Ladyship can make so cruel a request?” said Mr. Lovel.
“Is it really possible for you to make such a cruel request?” said Mr. Lovel.
“Egad,” cried Mr. Coverley, “if your Ladyship does not help us in this dilemma, we shall be forced to return to our phaetons.”
“Goodness,” exclaimed Mr. Coverley, “if you don't help us with this problem, we'll have to go back to our carriages.”
“Oh!” cried Lady Louisa, screaming; “you frightful creature, you, how can you be so abominable?”
“Oh!” cried Lady Louisa, screaming; “you horrible creature, how can you be so terrible?”
I believe this trifling lasted near half an hour; when at length, every body being tired, it was given up, and she said she would consider against another time.
I think this back-and-forth lasted about half an hour; when everyone got tired of it, we called it off, and she said she would think about it for next time.
Lord Orville now called upon Mr. Lovel; who, after about ten minutes’ deliberation, proposed, with a most important face, to determine the wager by who should draw the longest straw!
Lord Orville now visited Mr. Lovel, who, after about ten minutes of thinking it over, suggested with a very serious expression that they decide the bet by seeing who could draw the longest straw!
I had much difficulty to forbear laughing at this unmeaning scheme; but saw, to my great surprise, not the least change of countenance in any other person: and, since we came home, Mrs. Selwyn has informed me, that to draw straws is a fashion of betting by no means uncommon. Good God! my dear Sir, does it not seem as if money were of no value or service, since those who possess, squander it away in a manner so infinitely absurd?
I had a hard time holding back my laughter at this pointless plan; however, to my great surprise, I didn’t see the slightest change in anyone else's expression. Since we got home, Mrs. Selwyn told me that drawing straws is a betting method that's actually quite common. Good God! My dear Sir, doesn't it seem like money has no value or use when those who have it waste it in such an incredibly ridiculous way?
It now only remained for Lord Orville to speak; and the attention of the company showed the expectations he had raised; yet, I believe, they by no means prevented his proposal from being heard with amazement; for it was no other, than that the money should be his due, who, according to the opinion of the judges, should bring the worthiest object with whom to share it!
It was now up to Lord Orville to speak, and the attention of the guests reflected the anticipation he had created; however, I believe this didn’t stop his proposal from being met with shock. His suggestion was that the money should go to whoever, in the judges' opinion, presented the most deserving person to share it with!
They all stared, without speaking. Indeed, I believe every one, for a moment at least, experienced something like shame, from having either proposed or countenanced an extravagance so useless and frivolous. For my part, I was so much struck and affected by a rebuke so noble to these spendthrifts, that I felt my eyes filled with tears.
They all stared, speechless. In fact, I think each person, at least for a moment, felt a bit of shame for having suggested or tolerated such a pointless and silly extravagance. As for me, I was so moved by such a noble rebuke to these spenders that I felt tears welling up in my eyes.
The short silence and momentary reflection into which the company was surprised, Mr. Coverley was the first to dispel, by saying, “Egad, my Lord, your Lordship has a most remarkable odd way of taking things.”
The brief silence and moment of reflection that caught everyone off guard was quickly broken by Mr. Coverley, who said, “Wow, my Lord, you have a really unusual way of looking at things.”
“Faith,” said the incorrigible Lord Merton, “if this scheme takes, I shall fix upon my Swiss to share with me; for I don’t know a worthier fellow breathing.”
“Faith,” said the unstoppable Lord Merton, “if this plan works out, I’ll choose my Swiss partner to share it with me; I don’t know anyone more deserving.”
After a few more of these attempts at wit, the two gentlemen agreed that they would settle the affair the next morning.
After a few more of these tries at humor, the two gentlemen agreed to sort things out the next morning.
The conversation then took a different turn; but I did not give it sufficient attention to write any account of it. Not long after, Lord Orville, resuming his seat near mine, said, “Why is Miss Anville so thoughtful?”
The conversation then shifted, but I didn’t pay enough attention to write anything about it. Soon after, Lord Orville took his seat next to mine and said, “Why is Miss Anville so pensive?”
“I am sorry, my Lord,” said I, “to consider myself among those who have so justly incurred your censure.”
“I’m sorry, my Lord,” I said, “to find myself among those who have rightly drawn your criticism.”
“My censure!-you amaze me!”
"You amaze me with your criticism!"
“Indeed, my Lord, you have made me quite ashamed of myself for having given my vote so foolishly, when an opportunity offered, if, like your Lordship, I had had the sense to use it, of showing some humanity.”
“Honestly, my Lord, you’ve really made me feel ashamed for voting so foolishly when I had a chance to show some humanity, just like you did, if I had only thought to take it.”
“You treat this too seriously,” said he, smiling; “and I hardly know if you do not now mean a rebuke to me.”
"You’re taking this too seriously," he said with a smile. "I can’t help but wonder if you’re trying to criticize me."
“To you, my Lord!”
"Cheers to you, my Lord!"
“Nay, who are most deserving of it; those who adapt their conversation to the company, or those who affect to be superior to it?”
“Now, who deserves it more? Those who adjust their conversation to fit the company, or those who pretend to be above it?”
“O, my Lord, who else would do you so little justice?”
“O my Lord, who else would treat you so unfairly?”
“I flatter myself,” answered he, “that, in fact, your opinion and mine, in this point, are the same, though you condescended to comply with the humour of the company. It is for me, therefore, to apologize for so unseasonable a gravity, which, but for the particular interest that I now take in the affairs of Lord Merton, I should not have been so officious to display.”
“I think quite highly of myself,” he replied, “that, in truth, your view and mine on this matter are the same, even though you chose to go along with the mood of the group. So, I should apologize for bringing such serious tone, which, if it weren't for my current interest in Lord Merton's affairs, I wouldn't have felt so compelled to show.”
Such a compliment as this could not fail to reconcile me to myself; and with revived spirits, I entered into a conversation, which he supported with me till Mrs. Selwyn’s carriage was announced; and we returned home.
Such a compliment could not help but make me feel better about myself; and with my spirits lifted, I engaged in a conversation that he kept going until Mrs. Selwyn’s carriage was announced, and we headed home.
During our ride, Mrs. Selwyn very much surprised me, by asking, if I thought my health would now permit me to give up my morning walks to the pump-room, for the purpose of spending a week at Clifton? “for this poor Mrs. Beaumont,” added she, “is so eager to have a discharge in full of her debt to me, that out of mere compassion, I am induced to listen to her. Besides, she has always a house full of people; and, though they are chiefly fools and cox-combs, yet there is some pleasure in cutting them up.”
During our ride, Mrs. Selwyn surprised me by asking if I thought my health would allow me to give up my morning walks to the pump room to spend a week at Clifton. “Poor Mrs. Beaumont,” she added, “is so eager to settle her debt to me that I can’t help but consider it out of compassion. Plus, she always has a house full of people, and even though they’re mostly fools and show-offs, there’s some fun in making fun of them.”
I begged I might not, by any means, prevent her following her inclination, as my health was now very well established. And so, my dear Sir, to-morrow we are to be actually the guests of Mrs. Beaumont.
I begged that I wouldn't, in any way, stop her from following her desires, since my health is now quite stable. So, my dear Sir, tomorrow we are actually going to be the guests of Mrs. Beaumont.
I am not much delighted at this scheme; for, greatly as I am flattered by the attention of Lord Orville, it is not very comfortable to be neglected by every body else. Besides, as I am sure I owe the particularity of his civility to a generous feeling for my situation, I cannot expect him to support it so long as a week.
I’m not really thrilled about this plan; as much as I appreciate Lord Orville’s attention, it’s uncomfortable being ignored by everyone else. Plus, since I know his kindness comes from a genuine concern for my situation, I can’t expect him to keep it up for more than a week.
How often do I wish, since I am absent from you, that I was under the protection of Mrs. Mirvan! It is true, Mrs. Selwyn is very obliging, and, in every respect, treats me as an equal; but she is contented with behaving well herself, and does not, with a distinguishing politeness, raise and support me with others. Yet I mean not to blame her, for I know she is sincerely my friend; but the fact is, she is herself so much occupied in conversation, when in company, that she has neither leisure nor thought to attend to the silent.
How often I wish, since I'm away from you, that I was under Mrs. Mirvan's care! It’s true, Mrs. Selwyn is very kind and treats me as an equal in every way; however, she is satisfied with just behaving well herself and doesn’t go out of her way to lift me up and support me in front of others. I don’t mean to criticize her because I know she is genuinely my friend; it’s just that she’s so wrapped up in conversation when she’s with others that she doesn’t have the time or presence of mind to pay attention to those who are quiet.
Well, I must take my chance! But I knew not, till now, how requisite are birth and fortune to the attainment of respect and civility.
Well, I have to take my chance! But until now, I didn't realize how essential family background and wealth are for gaining respect and courtesy.
LETTER LXV - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. Clifton, Sept. 20th.
HERE I am, my dear Sir, under the same roof, and an inmate of the same house as Lord Orville! Indeed, if this were not the case, my situation would be very disagreeable, as you will easily believe, when I tell you the light in which I am generally considered.
HERE I am, my dear Sir, under the same roof, and living in the same house as Lord Orville! Honestly, if that weren't the case, my situation would be quite unpleasant, as you can easily imagine when I tell you how I'm generally viewed.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “did you ever before meet with that egregious fop, Lovel?”
“My dear,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “have you ever met that ridiculous dandy, Lovel?”
I very readily satisfied her as to my acquaintance with him.
I easily assured her that I knew him.
“O, then,” said she, “I am the less surprised at his ill-nature, since he has already injured you.”
“Oh, then,” she said, “I’m even less surprised at his bad temper, since he has already hurt you.”
I begged her to explain herself; and then she told me, that while Lord Orville was speaking to me, Lady Louisa said to Mr. Lovel, “Do you know who that is?”
I asked her to clarify, and then she explained that while Lord Orville was talking to me, Lady Louisa said to Mr. Lovel, "Do you know who that is?"
“Why, Ma’am, no, ‘pon honour,” answered he, “I can’t absolutely say I do; I only know she is a kind of a toad-eater. She made her first appearance in that capacity last spring, when she attended Miss Mirvan, a young lady of Kent.”
“Honestly, Ma’am, no, I can’t really say I do; I just know she’s a bit of a sycophant. She first showed up in that role last spring when she was with Miss Mirvan, a young lady from Kent.”
How cruel is it, my dear Sir, to be thus exposed to the impertinent suggestions of a man who is determined to do me ill offices! Lady Louisa may well despise a toad-eater; but, thank Heaven, her brother has not heard, or does not credit, the mortifying appellation. Mrs. Selwyn said, she would advise me to pay my court to this Mr. Lovel; “for,” said she, “though he is malicious, he is fashionable, and may do you some harm in the great world.” But I should disdain myself as much as I do him, were I capable of such duplicity as to flatter a man whom I scorn and despise.
How cruel it is, my dear Sir, to be subjected to the annoying suggestions of a man who is set on causing me trouble! Lady Louisa may well look down on a sycophant; but thank goodness her brother hasn’t heard, or doesn’t believe, the humiliating label. Mrs. Selwyn told me I should be nice to this Mr. Lovel; “because,” she said, “even though he's spiteful, he’s fashionable and might harm your reputation in high society.” But I would think just as poorly of myself as I do of him, if I were capable of such deceit as to flatter a man I scorn and despise.
We were received by Mrs. Beaumont with great civility, and by Lord Orville with something more. As to Lady Louisa, she scarcely perceived that we were in the room.
We were welcomed by Mrs. Beaumont with great politeness, and by Lord Orville with something beyond that. As for Lady Louisa, she barely noticed we were in the room.
There has been company here all day, part of which I have spent most happily: for after tea, when the ladies played at cards, Lord Orville, who does not, and I, who cannot play, were consequently at our own disposal; and then his Lordship entered into a conversation with me, which lasted till supper-time.
There have been guests here all day, and I’ve spent most of it happily. After tea, when the ladies played cards, Lord Orville, who doesn’t play, and I, who can’t play, were free to do as we pleased. Then, his Lordship engaged me in a conversation that lasted until supper.
Almost insensibly, I find the constraint, the reserve, I have been wont to feel in his presence, wear away; the politeness, the sweetness, with which he speaks to me, restore all my natural cheerfulness, and make me almost as easy as he is himself;-and the more so, as, if I may judge by his looks, I am rather raised, than sunk of late in his opinion.
Almost without noticing, I find that the tension and reserve I usually feel around him start to fade; his polite and kind way of speaking to me brings back my natural cheerfulness and makes me feel almost as comfortable as he is himself. This is especially true because, if I can read his expressions, I seem to have gained his approval rather than lost it lately.
I asked him how the bet was, at last, to be decided? He told me that, to his great satisfaction, the parties had been prevailed upon to lower the sum from one thousand to one hundred pounds; and that they had agreed it should be determined by a race between two old women, one of whom was to be chosen by each side, and both were to be proved more than eighty years of age, though, in other respects strong and healthy as possible.
I asked him how the bet would finally be decided. He told me that, to his great satisfaction, the parties had been convinced to reduce the amount from one thousand to one hundred pounds; and that they had agreed it would be determined by a race between two old women, one chosen by each side, and both had to be over eighty years old, though otherwise as strong and healthy as possible.
When I expressed my surprise at this extraordinary method of spending so much money, “I am charmed,” said he, “at the novelty of meeting with one so unhackneyed in the world, as not to be yet influenced by custom to forget the use of reason: for certain it is, that the prevalence of fashion makes the greatest absurdities pass uncensured, and the mind naturally accommodates itself even to the most ridiculous improprieties, if they occur frequently.”
When I expressed my surprise at this unusual way of spending so much money, he said, “I'm delighted at the novelty of meeting someone so unaccustomed to the world, who hasn’t yet let custom make them forget how to think for themselves. It’s true that the dominance of fashion allows the most ridiculous things to go unchallenged, and people’s minds naturally adjust to even the most absurd behaviors if they happen often enough.”
“I should have hoped,” said I, “that the humane proposal made yesterday by your Lordship, would have had more effect.”
“I had hoped,” I said, “that the compassionate proposal made yesterday by your Lordship would have had a greater impact.”
“O,” cried he, laughing, “I was so far from expecting any success, that I shall think myself very fortunate if I escape the wit of Mr. Coverley in a lampoon! yet I spoke openly, because I do not wish to conceal that I am no friend to gaming.”
“O,” he exclaimed, laughing, “I was so far from expecting any success that I’ll consider myself lucky if I can avoid being mocked by Mr. Coverley in a satire! I spoke my mind because I don’t want to hide the fact that I’m not a fan of gambling.”
After this, he took up the New Bath Guide, and read it with me till supper-time. In our way down stairs, Lady Louisa said, “I thought, brother, you were engaged this evening?”
After that, he grabbed the New Bath Guide and read it with me until dinner. On our way downstairs, Lady Louisa said, “I thought, brother, you had plans for this evening?”
“Yes, sister,” answered he, “and I have been engaged.” And he bowed to me with an air of gallantry that rather confused me. Sept. 23rd.
“Yes, sister,” he replied, “and I've been busy.” And he bowed to me with a charming gesture that made me a bit flustered. Sept. 23rd.
Almost insensibly have three days glided on since I wrote last, and so serenely, that, but for your absence, I could not have formed a wish. My residence here is much happier than I had dared expect. The attention with which Lord Orville honours me, is as uniform as it is flattering, and seems to result from a benevolence of heart that proves him as much a stranger to caprice as to pride; for, as his particular civilities arose from a generous resentment at seeing me neglected, so will they, I trust, continue, as long as I shall, in any degree, deserve them. I am now not merely easy, but even gay in his presence: such is the effect of true politeness, that it banishes all restraint and embarrassment. When we walk out, he condescends to be my companion, and keeps by my side all the way we go. When we read, he marks the passages most worthy to be noticed, draws out my sentiments, and favours me with his own. At table, where he always sits next to me, he obliges me by a thousand nameless attentions; while the distinguishing good-breeding with which he treats me, prevents my repining at the visibly-felt superiority of the rest of the company. A thousand occasional meetings could not have brought us to that degree of social freedom, which four days spent under the same roof have, insensibly, been productive of: and, as my only friend in this house, Mrs. Selwyn, is too much engrossed in perpetual conversation to attend much to me, Lord Orville seems to regard me as a helpless stranger, and, as such, to think me entitled to his good offices and protection. Indeed, my dear Sir, I have reason to hope, that the depreciating opinion he formerly entertained of me is succeeded by one infinitely more partial.-It may be that I flatter myself; but yet his looks, his attentions, his desire of drawing me into conversation, and his solicitude to oblige me, all conspire to make me hope I do not. In short, my dearest Sir, these last four happy days would repay me for months of sorrow and pain!
Three days have passed since I last wrote, almost without me noticing, and they've been so peaceful that, except for your absence, I wouldn’t have wished for anything more. My time here is much happier than I ever expected. The way Lord Orville treats me is consistently flattering and seems to come from a genuine kindness that shows he’s free from whims and arrogance. His special kindness toward me stems from his frustration at seeing me ignored, and I hope it will continue as long as I deserve it. I’m not just at ease but actually cheerful around him; such is the power of real politeness that it removes all feelings of restraint and awkwardness. When we go out for walks, he kindly chooses to walk alongside me the whole way. When we read together, he points out the most significant passages, draws out my thoughts, and shares his own opinions. At meals, where he always sits next to me, he supports me through countless small acts of kindness, while his exceptional manners make it easier for me to ignore the clear superiority of the other guests. We’ve achieved a level of comfort in our social interactions that would have taken countless casual encounters to reach, all thanks to these four days spent under the same roof. My only friend here, Mrs. Selwyn, is too wrapped up in constant conversation to pay much attention to me, so Lord Orville seems to see me as a lost stranger, feeling it’s his duty to offer me his kindness and protection. Honestly, my dear Sir, I have reason to believe that his earlier low opinion of me has been replaced by one that is far more favorable. I might be flattering myself, but still, his glances, attention, eagerness to engage me in conversation, and his desire to please all lead me to hope that I’m right. In short, my dearest Sir, these last four wonderful days have made up for months of sadness and pain!
LETTER LXVI - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. Clifton, Sept. 24th.
THIS morning I came down stairs very early; and supposing that the family would not assemble for some time, I strolled out, purposing to take a long walk, in the manner I was wont to do at Berry Hill, before breakfast: but I had scarce shut the garden-gate, before I was met by a gentleman, who, immediately bowing to me, I recollected to be the unhappy Mr. Macartney. Very much surprised, I courtsied, and stopped till he came up to me. He was still in mourning, but looked better than when I saw him last, though he had the same air of melancholy which so much struck me at first sight of him.
THIS morning I came downstairs very early; and thinking that the family wouldn't gather for a while, I decided to go outside for a long walk, just like I used to do at Berry Hill before breakfast. But I had barely closed the garden gate when I ran into a gentleman who, as soon as he bowed, I recognized as the unfortunate Mr. Macartney. Quite surprised, I curtsied and waited for him to approach me. He was still in mourning but looked better than when I last saw him, although he still had that same melancholy expression that struck me when I first met him.
Addressing me with the utmost respect, “I am happy, Madam,” said he, “to have met with you so soon. I came to Bristol but yesterday, and have had no small difficulty in tracing you to Clifton.”
Addressing me respectfully, “I’m happy to have met you so soon, Madam,” he said. “I just arrived in Bristol yesterday and had quite a bit of trouble finding you in Clifton.”
“Did you know, then, of my being here?”
“Did you know that I was here?”
“I did, Madam; the sole motive of my journey was to see you. I have been to Berry Hill, and there I had my intelligence, and, at the same time, the unwelcome information of your ill health.”
“I did, Madam; the only reason for my trip was to see you. I went to Berry Hill, where I received my news, along with the unwanted information about your poor health.”
“Good God! Sir,-and can you possibly have taken so much trouble?”
“Good God! Sir, have you really gone through so much trouble?”
“Trouble! O, Madam, could there be any, to return you, the moment I had the power, my personal acknowledgments for your goodness?”
“Trouble! Oh, Madam, could there be any reason for me to return your kindness the moment I have the chance?”
I then enquired after Madame Duval and the Snow-Hill family. He told me they were all well, and that Madame Duval proposed soon returning to Paris. When I congratulated him on looking better, “It is yourself, Madam,” said he, “you should congratulate; for to your humanity alone it may now be owing that I exist at all.” He then told me, that his affairs were now in a less desperate situation; and that he hoped, by the assistance of time and reason, to accommodate his mind to a more cheerful submission to his fate. “The interest you so generously took in my affliction,” added he, “assures me you will not be displeased to hear of my better fortune; I was therefore eager to acquaint you with it.” He then told me that his friend, the moment he had received his letter, quitted Paris, and flew to give him his personal assistance and consolation. With a heavy heart, he acknowledged, he accepted it; “but yet,” he added, “I have accepted it; and therefore, as bound equally by duty and honour, my first step was to hasten to the benefactress of my distress, and to return” (presenting me something in a paper) “the only part of my obligations that can be returned; for the rest, I have nothing but my gratitude to offer, and must always be contented to consider myself her debtor.”
I then asked about Madame Duval and the Snow-Hill family. He told me they were all doing well and that Madame Duval was planning to return to Paris soon. When I congratulated him for looking better, he said, “It’s you, Madam, who should be congratulated; for it’s likely due to your kindness alone that I’m still here.” He then explained that his situation was no longer so desperate and that he hoped, with time and reason, to accept his fate with a more positive attitude. “Your generous concern for my suffering,” he added, “makes me confident that you will be happy to hear about my improved fortune; so I was eager to share it with you.” He then told me that his friend had left Paris as soon as he received his letter to provide him with personal support and comfort. With a heavy heart, he admitted that he accepted it; “but still,” he added, “I have accepted it, and so, being bound by both duty and honor, my first step was to hurry to the benefactor of my hardship and to return” (handing me something wrapped in paper) “the only part of my obligations that can be returned; for the rest, I have nothing but my gratitude to give and will always be content to see myself as her debtor.”
I congratulated him most sincerely upon his dawning prosperity, but begged he would not deprive me of the pleasure of being his friend; and declined receiving the money, till his affairs were more settled.
I sincerely congratulated him on his new success but asked him not to take away the joy of being his friend. I refused to accept the money until his situation was more stable.
While this point was in agitation, I heard Lord Orville’s voice inquiring of the gardener if he had seen me? I immediately opened the garden gate; and his Lordship, advancing to me with quickness, said, “Good God! Miss Anville, have you been out alone? Breakfast has been ready some time, and I have been round the garden in search of you.”
While this was happening, I heard Lord Orville asking the gardener if he had seen me. I quickly opened the garden gate, and he came up to me hurriedly and said, “Good God! Miss Anville, have you been out alone? Breakfast has been ready for a while, and I've been looking for you around the garden.”
“Your Lordship has been very good,” said I; “but I hope you have not waited.”
“Your Lordship has been really kind,” I said; “but I hope you haven’t been waiting.”
“Not waited!” repeated he, smiling: “Do you think we could sit down quietly to breakfast, with the idea that you had run away from us? But come,” (offering to hand me) “if we do not return, they will suppose I am run away too; and they very naturally may, as they know the attraction of the magnet that draws me.”
“Not waited!” he said with a smile. “Do you really think we could sit down to breakfast calmly, knowing you’ve run away from us? But come on,” (offering to take my hand) “if we don’t go back, they’ll think I’ve run away too; and honestly, they might, since they know the pull of the magnet that draws me.”
“I will come, my Lord,” said I, rather embarrassed, “in two minutes.” Then, turning to Mr. Macartney, with yet more embarrassment, I wished him good morning.
“I'll be there, my Lord,” I said, feeling a bit awkward, “in two minutes.” Then, turning to Mr. Macartney, even more embarrassed, I wished him good morning.
He advanced towards the garden, with the paper still in his hand.
He walked toward the garden, still holding the paper.
“No, no,” cried I, “some other time.”
“No, no,” I cried, “not right now.”
“May I then, Madam, have the honour of seeing you again?”
“Can I, then, ma'am, have the pleasure of seeing you again?”
I did not dare take the liberty of inviting any body to the house of Mrs. Beaumont, nor yet had I the presence of mind to make an excuse; and, therefore, not knowing how to refuse him, I said, “Perhaps you may be this way again to-morrow morning,-and I believe I shall walk out before breakfast.”
I didn’t feel comfortable inviting anyone over to Mrs. Beaumont's house, nor did I have the quick thinking to offer an excuse. So, not knowing how to turn him down, I said, “Maybe you'll be around again tomorrow morning, and I think I’ll take a walk before breakfast.”
He bowed, and went away; while I, turning again to Lord Orville, saw his countenance so much altered, that I was frightened at what I had so hastily said. He did not again offer me his hand; but walked, silent and slow, by my side. Good Heaven! thought I, what may he not suppose from this adventure? May he not, by my desire of meeting Mr. Macartney to-morrow, imagine it was by design I walked out to meet him to-day? Tormented by this apprehension, I determined to avail myself of the freedom which his behaviour, since I came hither, has encouraged; and, since he would not ask any questions, begin an explanation myself. I therefore slackened my pace to gain time; and then said, “Was not your Lordship surprised to see me speaking with a stranger?”
He bowed and walked away, while I, turning back to Lord Orville, noticed his expression had changed so much that I felt scared about what I had said so impulsively. He didn’t offer me his hand again; instead, he walked silently and slowly beside me. Good heavens! I thought, what could he be thinking about this situation? Could he think that by wanting to meet Mr. Macartney tomorrow, I intentionally walked out to meet him today? Tormented by this fear, I decided to take advantage of the openness his behavior since I arrived here had encouraged; and since he wouldn’t ask any questions, I would start explaining myself. So, I slowed my pace to give myself time and then said, “Were you surprised to see me talking to a stranger?”
“A stranger?” repeated he; “is it possible that gentleman can be a stranger to you?”
“A stranger?” he repeated. “Is it really possible that guy can be a stranger to you?”
“No, my Lord,” said I, stammering, “not to me -but only it might look-he might seem-”
“No, my Lord,” I said, stumbling over my words, “not to me - but it might look like - he might seem -”
“No, believe me,” said he, with a forced smile, “I could never suppose Miss Anville would make an appointment with a stranger.”
“No, believe me,” he said with a strained smile, “I could never imagine that Miss Anville would set up a meeting with someone she doesn’t know.”
“An appointment, my Lord?” repeated I, colouring violently.
“An appointment, my Lord?” I repeated, blushing furiously.
“Pardon me, Madam,” answered he, “but I thought I had heard one.”
“Excuse me, ma’am,” he replied, “but I thought I heard one.”
I was so much confounded that I could not speak: yet, finding he walked quietly on, I could not endure he should make his own interpretation of my silence: and therefore, as soon as I recovered from my surprise, I said, “Indeed, my Lord, you are much mistaken, Mr. Macartney had particular business with me-and I could not-I knew not, how to refuse seeing him;-but indeed, my Lord-I had not,-he had not,-” I stammered so terribly that I could not go on.
I was so confused that I couldn't speak; however, seeing that he continued walking calmly, I couldn't let him interpret my silence his own way. So, as soon as I got over my surprise, I said, “Actually, my Lord, you're quite mistaken. Mr. Macartney had some specific business with me—and I just couldn't—didn't know how to refuse seeing him—but really, my Lord—I hadn't—he hadn't—” I stammered so badly that I couldn't continue.
“I am very sorry,” said he, gravely, “that I have been so unfortunate as to distress you; but I should not have followed you had I not imagined you were merely walked out for the air.”
“I’m really sorry,” he said seriously, “that I’ve been so unfortunate as to upset you; but I wouldn’t have followed you if I didn’t think you had just gone out for some fresh air.”
“And so I was!” cried I, eagerly, “indeed, my Lord, I was! My meeting with Mr. Macartney was quite accidental; and, if your Lordship thinks there is any impropriety in my seeing him to-morrow, I am ready to give up that intention.”
“And so I was!” I exclaimed eagerly, “Yes, my Lord, I really was! My meeting with Mr. Macartney was completely by chance; and if you think there's anything wrong with me seeing him tomorrow, I'm ready to give up that plan.”
“If I think!” said he, in a tone of surprise; “surely Miss Anville cannot leave the arbitration of a point so delicate to one who is ignorant of all the circumstances which attend it?”
“If I think!” he said, sounding surprised. “Surely Miss Anville can’t leave the decision of such a sensitive matter to someone who doesn’t know any of the details surrounding it?”
“If,” said I, “it was worth your Lordship’s time to hear them,-you should not be ignorant of the circumstances which attend it.”
“If,” I said, “if it’s worth your time to hear them, you should be aware of the circumstances surrounding it.”
“The sweetness of Miss Anville’s disposition,” said he, in a softened voice, “I have long admired; and the offer of a communication, which does me so much honour, is too grateful to me not to be eagerly caught at.”
“The sweetness of Miss Anville’s personality,” he said in a gentle tone, “I have admired for a long time; and the chance to have a conversation with her, which is such an honor for me, is too precious not to be eagerly accepted.”
Just then Mrs. Selwyn opened the parlour window, and our conversation ended. I was rallied upon my passion for solitary walking; but no questions were asked me.
Just then, Mrs. Selwyn opened the living room window, and our conversation ended. I was teased about my love for walking alone, but no one asked me any questions.
When breakfast was over, I hoped to have had some opportunity of speaking with Lord Orville; but Lord Merton and Mr. Coverley came in, and insisted up his opinion of the spot they had fixed upon for the old women’s race. The ladies declared they would be of the party; and accordingly we all went.
When breakfast was done, I hoped to have the chance to talk to Lord Orville; but Lord Merton and Mr. Coverley walked in and wanted his opinion on the place they had chosen for the old women's race. The ladies said they would join us, and so we all went.
The race is to be run in Mrs. Beaumont’s garden; the two gentlemen are as anxious, as if their joint lives depended upon it. They have at length fixed upon objects; but have found great difficulty in persuading them to practise running, in order to try their strength. This grand affair is to be decided next Thursday.
The race is set to take place in Mrs. Beaumont’s garden; the two gentlemen are as anxious as if their lives depended on it. They have finally settled on their targets, but have struggled to convince them to practice running to test their strength. This big event is going to happen next Thursday.
When we returned to the house, the entrance of more company still prevented my having any conversation with Lord Orville. I was very much chagrined, as I knew he was engaged at the Hotwells in the afternoon. Seeing, therefore, no probability of speaking to him before the time of my meeting Mr. Macartney arrived, I determined that, rather than risk his ill opinion, I would leave Mr. Macartney to his own suggestions.
When we got back to the house, the arrival of more guests still kept me from having a conversation with Lord Orville. I was quite upset because I knew he was busy at the Hotwells in the afternoon. Since it seemed unlikely I would get a chance to talk to him before my meeting with Mr. Macartney, I decided that, rather than risk his disapproval, I would let Mr. Macartney come up with his own ideas.
Yet, when I reflected upon his peculiar situation, his poverty, his sadness, and, more than all the rest, the idea I knew he entertained of what he calls his obligations to me, I could not resolve upon a breach of promise, which might be attributed to causes, of all the others the most offensive to one whom misfortune has made extremely suspicious of slights and contempt.
Yet, when I thought about his unusual situation, his poverty, his sadness, and, more than anything else, the sense of obligation he felt towards me, I couldn’t bring myself to break my promise. Doing so would be seen as the most offensive reason, especially to someone who has become very sensitive to slights and disrespect because of his misfortunes.
After the most uneasy consideration, I at length determined upon writing an excuse, which would, at once, save me from either meeting or affronting him. I therefore begged Mrs. Selwyn’s leave to send her man to the Hotwells, which she instantly granted; and then I wrote the following note:
After much anxious thinking, I finally decided to write an excuse that would keep me from either meeting him or offending him. So, I asked Mrs. Selwyn for permission to send her man to the Hotwells, which she quickly approved; then I wrote the following note:
“To Mr. Macartney.
"To Mr. Macartney."
“SIR,
“As it will not be in my power to walk out to-morrow morning,
I would
by no means give you the trouble of coming to Clifton. I hope,
however, to have the pleasure of seeing you before you quit
Bristol. I am, Sir, your obedient servant, “EVELINA ANVILLE.”
“SIR,
“Since I won't be able to go out tomorrow morning, I definitely don't want to trouble you by coming to Clifton. I hope, though, to have the pleasure of seeing you before you leave Bristol. I am, Sir, your obedient servant, “EVELINA ANVILLE.”
I desired the servant to enquire at the pump-room where Mr. Macartney lived, and returned to the parlour.
I asked the servant to check at the pump-room where Mr. Macartney lived and then went back to the parlor.
As soon as the company dispersed, the ladies retired to dress. I then, unexpectedly, found myself alone with Lord Orville; who, the moment I rose to follow Mrs. Selwyn, advanced to me, and said, “Will Miss Anville pardon my impatience, if I remind her of the promise she was so good as to make me this morning?”
As soon as the group broke up, the women went off to get ready. I then, unexpectedly, found myself alone with Lord Orville; who, as soon as I stood up to follow Mrs. Selwyn, came up to me and said, “Will Miss Anville forgive my eagerness if I remind her of the promise she kindly made me this morning?”
I stopped, and would have returned to my seat; but before I had time, the servants came to lay the cloth. He retreated, and went towards the window; and, while I was considering in what manner to begin, I could not help asking myself what right I had to communicate the affairs of Mr. Macartney: and I doubted whether, to clear myself from one act of imprudence, I had not committed another.
I paused and was about to go back to my seat, but before I could, the servants came in to set the table. He stepped back and moved toward the window, and while I was thinking about how to start, I couldn't help but question what right I had to share Mr. Macartney's business. I wondered if, in trying to justify one careless act, I had ended up making another mistake.
Distressed by this reflection, I thought it best to quit the room, and give myself some time for consideration before I spoke; and therefore, only saying I must hasten to dress, I ran up stairs, rather abruptly I own; and so, I fear, Lord Orville must think. Yet what could I do? Unused to the situations in which I find myself, and embarrassed by the slightest difficulties, I seldom, till too late, discover how I ought to act.
Disturbed by this thought, I figured it would be better to leave the room and take a moment to think before I said anything. So, after mentioning that I needed to get ready, I hurried upstairs, quite abruptly, I admit; and I worry that Lord Orville must think the same. But what else could I do? Not used to the situations I'm in, and feeling awkward even with the smallest problems, I often realize too late how I should respond.
Just as we were all assembled to dinner, Mrs. Selwyn’s man, coming into the parlour, presented to me a letter, and said, “I can’t find out Mr. Macartney, Madam; but the post-office people will let you know if they hear of him.”
Just as we all gathered for dinner, Mrs. Selwyn’s servant came into the room and handed me a letter, saying, “I can’t find Mr. Macartney, ma’am; but the post office will inform you if they hear anything about him.”
I was extremely ashamed of this public message; and, meeting the eyes of Lord Orville, which were earnestly fixed on me, my confusion redoubled, and I knew not which way to look. All dinner-time he was as silent as myself; and the moment it was in my power I left the table, and went to my own room. Mrs. Selwyn presently followed me; and her questions obliged me to own almost all the particulars of my acquaintance with Mr. Macartney, in order to excuse my writing to him. She said it was a most romantic affair, and spoke her sentiments with great severity; declaring that she had no doubt but he was an adventurer and an impostor.
I was really embarrassed by this public message, and when I met Lord Orville's gaze, fixed on me so intently, my confusion only grew, and I didn't know where to look. He stayed as quiet as I was throughout dinner, and as soon as I could, I left the table and went to my room. Mrs. Selwyn soon followed me, and her questions forced me to reveal almost everything about my connection with Mr. Macartney to justify why I wrote to him. She said it was a very romantic situation and expressed her opinions very sternly, declaring that she was sure he was an opportunist and a fraud.
And now, my dear Sir, I am totally at a loss what I ought to do; the more I reflect, the more sensible I am of the utter impropriety, nay, treachery, of revealing the story, and publishing the misfortunes and poverty of Mr. Macartney; who has an undoubted right to my secrecy and discretion, and whose letter charges me to regard his communication as sacred.-And yet, the appearance of mystery,-perhaps something worse, which this affair must have to Lord Orville,-his seriousness,-and the promise I have made him, are inducements scarce to be resisted for trusting him with the openness he has reason to expect from me.
And now, my dear Sir, I’m completely confused about what I should do. The more I think about it, the more I realize how completely inappropriate, even treacherous, it would be to share the story and expose Mr. Macartney’s misfortunes and struggles. He has a clear right to my confidentiality and his letter asks me to treat his message as sacred. Yet, there’s the element of mystery—perhaps something even worse—that this situation must present to Lord Orville, along with his seriousness and the promise I've made to him. Those are strong reasons to consider being open with him, as he has every right to expect that from me.
I am equally distressed, too, whether or not I should see Mr. Macartney to-morrow morning.
I’m just as upset about whether or not I should meet with Mr. Macartney tomorrow morning.
Oh, Sir, could I now be enlightened by your counsel, from what anxiety and perplexity should I be relieved!
Oh, Sir, if you could give me your advice, I would be freed from so much anxiety and confusion!
But now,-I ought not to betray Mr. Macartney, and I will not forfeit a confidence which would never have been reposed in me, but from a reliance upon my honour, which I should blush to find myself unworthy of. Desirous as I am of the good opinion of Lord Orville, I will endeavour to act as if I was guided by your advice; and, making it my sole aim to deserve it, leave to time and to fate my success or disappointment.
But now, I shouldn’t betray Mr. Macartney, and I won’t betray the trust that was placed in me out of a belief in my honor, which I would be ashamed to find myself unworthy of. As much as I want to have Lord Orville’s good opinion, I will try to act as if I’m following your advice; and by making it my only goal to earn it, I’ll leave my success or disappointment up to time and fate.
Since I have formed this resolution, my mind is more at ease. But I will not finish my letter till the affair is decided.
Since I’ve made this decision, I feel more at ease. But I won’t finish my letter until the matter is settled.
Sept. 25th.
Sept. 25
I rose very early this morning; and, after a thousand different plans, not being able to resolve upon giving poor Mr. Macartney leave to suppose I neglected him, I thought it incumbent upon me to keep my word, since he had not received my letter; I therefore determined to make my own apologies, not to stay with him two minutes, and to excuse myself from meeting him any more.
I woke up really early this morning, and after considering a thousand different options, I couldn’t bring myself to let poor Mr. Macartney think I was ignoring him. I felt it was important to keep my promise since he hadn’t gotten my letter; so I decided to personally apologize, not to spend more than two minutes with him, and to excuse myself from seeing him again.
Yet, uncertain whether I was wrong or right, it was with fear and trembling that I opened the garden-gate;-judge then, of my feelings, when the first object I saw was Lord Orville!-he, too, looked extremely disconcerted, and said, in a hesitating manner, “Pardon me, Madam,-I did not intend,-I did not imagine you would have been here so soon-or-or I would not have come."-And then, with a hasty bow, he passed me, and proceeded to the garden.
Yet, unsure if I was wrong or right, I opened the garden gate with fear and trembling. Just imagine my feelings when the first person I saw was Lord Orville! He looked really uncomfortable as well and said hesitantly, “Excuse me, Madam, I didn’t mean to—I didn’t think you’d be here so soon—or—or I wouldn’t have come.” Then, with a quick bow, he walked past me and headed into the garden.
I was scarce able to stand, so greatly did I feel myself shocked; but, upon my saying, almost involuntarily, “Oh, my Lord!”-he turned back, and, after a short pause, said, “Did you speak to me, Madam?”
I could barely stand, I was so shocked; but when I said, almost without thinking, “Oh, my Lord!” he turned back and, after a brief pause, said, “Did you speak to me, Madam?”
I could not immediately answer; I seemed choaked, and was even forced to support myself by the garden-gate.
I couldn't respond right away; I felt choked up and even had to lean against the garden gate for support.
Lord Orville, soon recovering his dignity, said, “I know not how to apologize for being, just now, at this place;-and I cannot, immediately-if ever -clear myself from the imputation of impertinent curiosity, to which I fear you will attribute it: however, at present, I will only intreat your pardon, without detaining you any longer.” Again he bowed, and left me.
Lord Orville, quickly regaining his composure, said, “I’m not sure how to apologize for being here just now, and I can’t, right away—if at all—clear myself from the suspicion of being impertinently curious, which I fear you’ll think of me. However, for now, I just ask for your forgiveness without keeping you any longer.” He bowed again and left me.
For some moments I remained fixed to the same spot, and in the same position, immoveable, as if I had been transformed to a stone. My first impulse was to call him back, and instantly tell him the whole affair; but I checked this desire, though I would have given the world to have indulged it; something like pride aided what I thought due to Mr. Macartney, and I determined not only to keep his secret, but to delay any sort of explanation till Lord Orville should condescend to request it.
For a while, I stood stuck in the same spot, completely unmoving, as if I had turned into a stone. My first instinct was to call him back and immediately share everything, but I held back that urge, even though I would have given anything to act on it; a sense of pride stopped me, along with what I thought was respectful to Mr. Macartney. I decided not only to keep his secret but also to wait for Lord Orville to ask for an explanation before saying anything.
Slowly he walked; and, before he entered the house, he looked back, but hastily withdrew his eyes, upon finding I observed him.
Slowly he walked; and, before he entered the house, he looked back, but quickly looked away when he realized I was watching him.
Indeed, my dear Sir, you cannot easily imagine a situation more uncomfortable than mine was at that time; to be suspected by Lord Orville of any clandestine actions wounded my soul; I was too much discomposed to wait for Mr. Macartney, nor in truth, could I endure to have the design of my staying so well known. Yet I was so extremely agitated, that I could hardly move; and I have reason to believe Lord Orville, from the parlour-window, saw me tottering along; for, before I had taken five steps, he came out, and, hastening to meet me, said, “I fear you are not well; pray, allow me (offering his arm) to assist you.”
Honestly, my dear Sir, you can hardly imagine a more uncomfortable situation than the one I was in at that moment; being suspected by Lord Orville of any secret actions hurt me deeply. I was too upset to wait for Mr. Macartney, and honestly, I couldn't bear for my reason for staying to be so widely known. Yet I was so extremely unsettled that I could hardly move, and I believe Lord Orville, from the parlor window, saw me struggling to walk; because, before I had taken five steps, he came out and quickly approached me, saying, “I’m worried you’re not feeling well; please let me (offering his arm) help you.”
“No, my Lord,” said I, with all the resolution I could assume; yet I was affected by an attention, at that time so little expected, and forced to turn away my head to conceal my emotion.
“No, my Lord,” I replied, trying to sound as determined as possible; yet I was taken aback by an unexpected attention and had to turn my head to hide my feelings.
“You must,” said he, with earnestness, “indeed you must,-I am sure you are not well;-refuse me not the honour of assisting you;” and, almost forcibly, he took my hand, and, drawing it under his arm, obliged me to lean upon him. That I submitted was partly the effect of surprise, at an earnestness so uncommon in Lord Orville, and, partly, that I did not just then dare trust my voice to make any objection.
“You have to,” he insisted earnestly, “you really have to—I'm sure you're not feeling well—please don’t deny me the honor of helping you.” Almost forcefully, he took my hand and, drawing it under his arm, made me lean on him. The reason I went along with it was partly because I was surprised by such an uncommon earnestness in Lord Orville, and partly because I didn’t feel brave enough at that moment to voice any objections.
When we came to the house, he led me into the parlour, and to a chair, and begged to know if I would not have a glass of water.
When we arrived at the house, he showed me into the living room and to a chair, and asked if I would like a glass of water.
“No, my Lord, I thank you,” said I, “I am perfectly recovered;” and, rising, I walked to the window, where, for some time, I pretended to be occupied in looking at the garden.
“No, my Lord, I thank you,” I said, “I’m completely recovered;” and, standing up, I walked to the window, where I pretended to be busy looking at the garden for a while.
Determined as I was to act honourably by Mr. Macartney, I yet most anxiously wished to be restored to the good opinion of Lord Orville; but his silence, and the thoughtfulness of his air, discouraged me from speaking.
Determined as I was to act honorably by Mr. Macartney, I still really wanted to regain Lord Orville's good opinion; however, his silence and the seriousness on his face made me hesitate to speak.
My situation soon grew disagreeable and embarrassing, and I resolved to return to my chamber till breakfast was ready. To remain longer I feared might seem asking for his enquiries; and I was sure it would ill become me to be more eager to speak, than he was to hear.
My situation quickly became uncomfortable and awkward, so I decided to head back to my room until breakfast was ready. I was concerned that staying any longer might make it look like I was looking for his attention, and I knew it wouldn't be right for me to seem more eager to talk than he was to listen.
Just as I reached the door, turning to me hastily, he said, “Are you going, Miss Anville?”
Just as I reached the door, he turned to me quickly and said, “Are you leaving, Miss Anville?”
“I am, my Lord,” answered I; yet I stopped.
“I am, my Lord,” I replied; but I paused.
“Perhaps to return to-but I beg your pardon!” He spoke with a degree of agitation that made me readily comprehend he meant to the garden; and I instantly said, “To my own room, my Lord.” And again I would have gone; but, convinced by my answer that I understood him, I believe he was sorry for the insinuation: he approached me with a very serious air, though at the same time he forced a smile, and said, “I know not what evil genius pursues me this morning, but I seem destined to do or to say something I ought not: I am so much ashamed of myself, that I can scarce solicit your forgiveness.”
“Maybe we should go back—but I’m sorry!” He spoke with such agitation that I quickly understood he meant to the garden; so I immediately replied, “To my own room, my Lord.” I would have left again, but sensing from my answer that I got what he meant, I think he felt bad about his implication: he came closer to me with a very serious look, even though he forced a smile, and said, “I don’t know what bad luck is following me this morning, but it feels like I’m destined to do or say something I shouldn’t: I’m so ashamed of myself that I can barely ask for your forgiveness.”
“My forgiveness! my Lord?” cried I, abashed, rather than elated by his condescension; “surely you cannot-you are not serious?”
“My forgiveness! My Lord?” I exclaimed, embarrassed rather than happy about his kindness. “You can't be serious!”
“Indeed, never more so! yet, if I may be my own interpreter, Miss Anville’s countenance pronounces my pardon.”
“Definitely, never more than now! But if I may interpret for myself, Miss Anville’s expression is saying that I’m forgiven.”
“I know not, my Lord, how any one can pardon, who never has been offended.”
“I don’t know, my Lord, how anyone can forgive who has never been hurt.”
“You are very good; yet I could expect no less from a sweetness of disposition which baffles all comparison: you will not think I am an encroacher, and that I take advantage of your goodness, should I once more remind you of the promise you vouchsafed me yesterday?”
“You're really great; but I wouldn't expect anything less from your kind nature that stands out in comparison. You won’t think I’m being pushy or taking advantage of your kindness if I remind you of the promise you made me yesterday, will you?”
“No, indeed; on the contrary I shall be very happy to acquit myself in your Lordship’s opinion.”
“No, not at all; on the contrary, I’ll be very happy to prove myself in your Lordship’s eyes.”
“Acquittal you need not,” said he, leading me again to the window; “yet I own my curiosity is strongly excited.”
“You don’t need an acquittal,” he said, guiding me back to the window; “still, I admit my curiosity is really piqued.”
When I was seated, I found myself much at a loss what to say; yet, after a short silence, assuming all the courage in my power, “Will you not, my Lord,” said I, “think me trifling and capricious, should I own I have repented the promise I made, and should I entreat your Lordship not to insist upon my strict performance of it?"-I spoke so hastily, that I did not, at the time, consider the impropriety of what I said.
When I sat down, I was really unsure of what to say; however, after a brief pause, I gathered all the courage I could and said, “Will you not, my Lord, think me silly and unpredictable if I admit that I regret the promise I made and ask you not to hold me to it?" I spoke so quickly that I didn’t fully think about how inappropriate my words were at the moment.
As he was entirely silent, and profoundly attentive, I continued to speak without interruption.
As he was completely silent and deeply focused, I kept talking without stopping.
“If your Lordship, by any other means, knew the circumstances attending my acquaintance with Mr. Macartney, I am most sure you would yourself disapprove my relating them. He is a gentleman, and has been very unfortunate;-but I am not-I think,-at liberty to say more: yet I am sure, if he knew your Lordship wished to hear any particulars of his affairs, he would readily consent to my acknowledging them;-shall I, my Lord, ask his permission?”
“If you knew the details about my connection with Mr. Macartney, I’m sure you wouldn’t want me to share them. He’s a gentleman and has had some bad luck; however, I believe I'm not really allowed to say more. Still, I’m certain that if he knew you wanted to hear about his situation, he would agree to me sharing it. Should I, my Lord, ask for his permission?”
“His affairs!” repeated Lord Orville; “by no means, I have not the least curiosity about them.”
“His affairs!” Lord Orville repeated. “Not at all, I’m not the slightest bit curious about them.”
“I beg your Lordship’s pardon,-but indeed I had understood the contrary.”
“I’m sorry, my Lord, but I really thought it was the other way around.”
“Is it possible, Madam, you could suppose the affairs of an utter stranger can excite my curiosity?”
"Is it possible, ma'am, that you think the matters of a complete stranger could grab my interest?"
The gravity and coldness with which he asked this question very much abashed me. But Lord Orville is the most delicate of men! and, presently recollecting himself, he added, “I mean not to speak with indifference of any friend of yours,-far from it; any such will always command my good wishes: yet I own I am rather disappointed; and though I doubt not the justice of your reason, to which I implicitly submit, you must not wonder, that, when upon the point of being honoured with your confidence, I should feel the greatest regret at finding it withdrawn.”
The seriousness and chill in the way he asked this question really embarrassed me. But Lord Orville is the most sincere of men! After a moment, he composed himself and said, “I don’t mean to speak indifferently about any of your friends—quite the opposite; anyone like that will always have my best wishes. Still, I have to admit I’m a bit disappointed; and while I have no doubt about the validity of your reasons, which I completely accept, you can’t be surprised that, just when I was about to be honored with your trust, I feel the deepest regret at having it taken away.”
Do you think, my dear sir, I did not, at that moment, require all my resolution to guard me from frankly telling him whatever he wished to hear? yet I rejoice that I did not; for, added to the actual wrong I should have done, Lord Orville himself, when he had heard, would, I am sure, have blamed me. Fortunately, this thought occurred to me; an I said, “Your Lordship shall yourself be my judge; the promise I made, though voluntary, was rash and inconsiderate; yet, had it concerned myself, I would not have hesitated in fulfilling it; but the gentleman, whose affairs I should be obliged to relate-”
Do you think, my dear sir, that I didn't need all my determination at that moment to keep myself from just telling him whatever he wanted to hear? Yet I’m glad I didn’t; because, in addition to the actual wrong I would have done, I’m sure Lord Orville would have criticized me for it after hearing. Fortunately, this thought came to me, and I said, “Your Lordship shall be my judge; the promise I made, though voluntary, was impulsive and thoughtless; still, if it had only concerned me, I wouldn't have hesitated to keep it; but the gentleman, whose matters I would have to discuss—”
“Pardon me,” cried he, “for interrupting you; yet allow me to assure you, I have not the slightest desire to be acquainted with his affairs, further than what belongs to the motives which induced you yesterday morning-” He stopped; but there was no occasion to say more.
“Excuse me,” he said, “for interrupting you; but please let me assure you that I have no interest in his affairs beyond what relates to the reasons you mentioned yesterday morning—” He paused, but there was no need to say more.
“That, my Lord,” cried I, “I will tell you honestly. Mr. Macartney had some particular business with me, and I could not take the liberty to ask him hither.”
“That, my Lord,” I exclaimed, “I will tell you honestly. Mr. Macartney had some specific business with me, and I couldn’t take the liberty of inviting him here.”
“And why not?-Mr. Beaumont, I am sure-”
“And why not? Mr. Beaumont, I’m sure—”
“I could not, my Lord, think of intruding upon Mrs. Beaumont’s complaisance; and so, with the same hasty folly I promised your Lordship, I much more rashly promised to meet him.”
“I couldn’t, my Lord, think about imposing on Mrs. Beaumont’s kindness; so, with the same hasty mistake I made in promising your Lordship, I much more recklessly promised to meet him.”
“And did you?”
"And did you?"
“No, my Lord,” said I, colouring, “I returned before he came.”
“No, my Lord,” I said, blushing, “I came back before he arrived.”
Again, for some time, we were both silent; yet, unwilling to leave him to reflections which could not but be to my disadvantage, I summoned sufficient courage to say, “There is no young creature, my Lord, who so greatly wants, or so earnestly wishes for, the advice and assistance of her friends, as I do: I am new to the world, and unused to acting for myself;-my intentions are never willfully blameable, yet I err perpetually!-I have hitherto been blessed with the most affectionate of friends, and, indeed, the ablest of men, to guide and instruct me upon every occasion:-but he is too distant, now, to be applied to at the moment I want his aid:-and here,-there is not a human being whose counsel I can ask.”
Once again, we sat in silence for a while; but not wanting to leave him alone with thoughts that could only work against me, I found the courage to say, “There’s no young person, my Lord, who needs or wishes for the advice and help of her friends more than I do: I’m new to the world and not used to acting on my own. My intentions are never willfully bad, yet I keep making mistakes! Until now, I’ve been fortunate to have the most caring friends and, truly, the wisest of men to guide and teach me on every occasion—but he’s too far away now to ask for help at this moment. And here, there isn’t a single person whose counsel I can seek.”
“Would to Heaven,” cried he, with a countenance from which all coldness and gravity were banished, and succeeded by the mildest benevolence, “that I were worthy,-and capable,-of supplying the place of such a friend to Miss Anville!”
“Would to Heaven,” he exclaimed, his face lit up with warmth and kindness, completely leaving behind any coldness or seriousness, “that I were worthy and able to be such a friend to Miss Anville!”
“You do me but too much honour,” said I, “yet I hope your Lordship’s candour,-perhaps I ought to say indulgence,-will make some allowance, on account of my inexperience, for behaviour so inconsiderate:-May I, my Lord, hope that you will?”
“You're giving me way too much credit,” I said, “but I hope your Lordship’s understanding—maybe I should say patience—will take into account my inexperience for such thoughtless behavior. Can I, my Lord, count on that?”
“May I,” cried he, “hope that you will pardon the ill-grace with which I have submitted to my disappointment? And that you will permit me (kissing my hand) thus to seal my peace?” “Our peace, my Lord!” said I, with revived spirits.
“May I,” he exclaimed, “hope that you will forgive me for how poorly I’ve handled my disappointment? And that you will allow me (kissing my hand) to seal our truce this way?” “Our truce, my Lord!” I replied, feeling uplifted.
“This, then,” said he, again pressing it to his lips, “for our peace: and now,-are we not friends?”
“This, then,” he said, pressing it to his lips again, “for our peace: and now, are we not friends?”
Just then the door opened, and I had only time to withdraw my hand, before the ladies came in to breakfast.
Just then the door opened, and I barely had time to pull my hand back before the ladies came in for breakfast.
I have been, all day, the happiest of human beings!-to be thus reconciled to Lord Orville, and yet to adhere to my resolution,-what could I wish for more?-he too has been very cheerful, and more attentive, more obliging to me than ever. Yet Heaven forbid I should again be in a similar situation, for I cannot express how much uneasiness I have suffered from the fear of incurring his ill opinion.
I have been the happiest person all day! To be back on good terms with Lord Orville while still sticking to my decision—what more could I want? He has been cheerful and more attentive and considerate to me than ever. But please, let it never happen again, because I can’t express how much anxiety I’ve felt worrying about what he thinks of me.
But what will poor Mr. Macartney think of me? Happy as I am, I much regret the necessity I have been under of disappointing him.
But what will poor Mr. Macartney think of me? As happy as I am, I really regret having to disappoint him.
Adieu, my dearest Sir.
Goodbye, my dearest Sir.
LETTER LXVII - MR. VILLARS TO EVELINA. Berry Hill, Sept. 28th.
DEAD to the world, and equally insensible to its pleasures or its pains, I long since bad adieu to all joy, and defiance to all sorrow, but what should spring from my Evelina,-sole source, to me, of all earthly felicity. How strange, then, is it, that the letter in which she tells me she is the happiest of human beings, should give me most mortal inquietude!
DEAD to the world, and completely indifferent to its pleasures or pains, I long ago said goodbye to all joy and defied all sorrow, except for what comes from my Evelina—the only source of all my happiness. How strange it is, then, that the letter in which she says she is the happiest person alive should cause me the greatest anxiety!
Alas, my child!-that innocence, the first, best gift of Heaven, should, of all others, be the blindest to its own danger,-the most exposed to treachery,-and the least able to defend itself, in a world where it is little known, less valued, and perpetually deceived!
Alas, my child! That innocence, the first and best gift from Heaven, should, of all things, be the most oblivious to its own dangers—most vulnerable to betrayal—and the least capable of protecting itself in a world where it is rarely understood, even less appreciated, and constantly misled!
Would to Heaven you were here!-then, by degrees, and with gentleness, I might enter upon a subject too delicate for distant discussion. Yet is it too interesting, and the situation too critical, to allow of delay.-Oh, my Evelina, your situation is critical indeed!-your peace of mind is at stake, and every chance for your future happiness may depend upon the conduct of the present moment.
I wish you were here! Then, little by little, and with care, I could discuss a topic that's too delicate to talk about from afar. But it's just too important, and the situation is too serious to put off. Oh, my Evelina, your situation really is critical! Your peace of mind is at risk, and every opportunity for your future happiness may depend on how you handle things right now.
Hitherto I have forborne to speak with you upon the most important of all concerns, the state of your heart:-alas, I need no information! I have been silent, indeed, but I have not been blind.
Until now, I have refrained from discussing the most important matter of all, the state of your heart—oh, I don’t need any information! I have been quiet, yes, but I have not been oblivious.
Long, and with the deepest regret, have I perceived the ascendancy which Lord Orville has gained upon your mind.-You will start at the mention of his name,-you will tremble every word you read;-I grieve to give pain to my gentle Evelina, but I dare not any longer spare her.
Long, and with the deepest regret, have I noticed the influence that Lord Orville has gained over your thoughts. You will flinch at the mention of his name—you will be uneasy with every word you read; I hate to cause my sweet Evelina any distress, but I can no longer hold back from telling her the truth.
Your first meeting with Lord Orville was decisive. Lively, fearless, free from all other impressions, such a man as you describe him could not fail of exciting your admiration; and the more dangerously, because he seemed as unconscious of his power as you of your weakness; and therefore you had no alarm, either from his vanity of your own prudence.
Your first meeting with Lord Orville was pivotal. Energetic, bold, and completely unbothered by anything else, a guy like you described couldn't help but impress you; and it was even more risky because he appeared completely unaware of his charm, just like you were unaware of your own vulnerability. So, you felt no worry from his arrogance or your own caution.
Young, animated, entirely off your guard, and thoughtless of consequences, Imagination took the reins; and Reason, slow-paced, though sure-footed, was unequal to the race of so eccentric and flighty a companion. How rapid was then my Evelina’s progress through those regions of fancy and passion whither her new guide conducted her!-She saw Lord Orville at a ball,-and he was the most amiable of men! -She met him again at another,-and he had every virtue under Heaven!
Young, lively, completely unguarded, and careless about the consequences, imagination took charge, while reason, slow yet steady, couldn't keep up with such a whimsical and unpredictable companion. How quickly my Evelina moved through those realms of fantasy and emotion that her new guide led her to! She saw Lord Orville at a party, and he was the kindest man! She ran into him again at another event, and he had every virtue imaginable!
I mean not to depreciate the merit of Lord Orville, who, one mysterious instance alone excepted, seems to have deserved the idea you formed of his character; but it was not time, it was not the knowledge of his worth, obtained your regard: your new comrade had not patience to wait any trial; her glowing pencil, dipt in the vivid colours of her creative ideas, painted to you, at the moment of your first acquaintance, all the excellencies, all the good and rare qualities, which a great length of time and intimacy could alone have really discovered.
I don't mean to undermine the value of Lord Orville, who, aside from one mysterious instance, seems to have lived up to the impression you had of him; but it wasn't time, nor was it the understanding of his worth, that earned your affection. Your new friend didn't have the patience to wait for any real testing; her vibrant imagination quickly painted for you, right from your first meeting, all the amazing qualities and the good, unique traits that only a long period of closeness could truly reveal.
You flattered yourself that your partiality was the effect of esteem, founded upon a general love of merit, and a principle of justice; and your heart, which fell the sacrifice of your error, was totally gone ere you expected it was in danger.
You convinced yourself that your favoritism was due to respect, based on a general appreciation for talent and a sense of fairness; meanwhile, your heart, which became the victim of your mistake, was completely lost before you realized it was at risk.
A thousand times have I been upon the point of showing you the perils of your situation; but the same inexperience which occasioned your mistake, I hoped, with the assistance of time and absence, would effect a cure: I was, indeed, most unwilling to destroy your illusion, while I dared hope it might itself contribute to the restoration of your tranquillity; since your ignorance of the danger, and force of your attachment, might possibly prevent that despondency with which young people, in similar circumstances, are apt to persuade themselves, that what is only difficult, is absolutely impossible.
A thousand times I’ve been on the verge of pointing out the dangers of your situation; but I thought that the same inexperience that led to your mistake, with time and distance, would heal it. I really didn’t want to shatter your illusions, while I hoped they might actually help bring you peace of mind; since your lack of awareness of the danger and the strength of your attachment might help keep you from falling into the despair that young people often feel in similar situations, believing that something difficult is completely impossible.
But, now, since you have again met, and have become more intimate than ever, all my hope from silence and seeming ignorance is at an end.
But now that you’ve met again and gotten closer than ever, all my hopes for silence and pretending not to know are gone.
Awake then, my dear, my deluded child, awake to the sense of your danger, and exert yourself to avoid the evils with which it threatens you:-evils which, to a mind like yours, are most to be dreaded; secret repining, and concealed, yet consuming regret! Make a noble effort for the recovery of your peace, which now, with sorrow I see it, depends wholly upon the presence of Lord Orville. This effort may indeed be painful; but trust to my experience, when I assure you it is requisite.
Wake up now, my dear, my misguided child, and recognize the danger you're in. Do everything you can to avoid the threats surrounding you—threats that, for someone like you, are the most frightening: hidden dissatisfaction and buried, yet overwhelming, regret! Make a brave attempt to regain your peace, which, sadly, I see is completely reliant on Lord Orville's presence. This effort may indeed be difficult, but trust my experience when I say it's necessary.
You must quit him!-his sight is baneful to your repose, his society is death to your future tranquillity! Believe me, my beloved child, my heart aches for your suffering, while it dictates its necessity.
You need to leave him! His presence is harmful to your peace, and being with him will ruin your future happiness! Trust me, my dear child, my heart hurts for you while I insist this is necessary.
Could I flatter myself that Lord Orville would, indeed, be sensible of your worth, and act with a nobleness of mind which should prove it congenial to your own, then would I leave my Evelina to the unmolested enjoyment of the cheerful society, and increasing regard, of a man she so greatly admires: but this is not an age in which we may trust to appearances; and imprudence is much sooner regretted than repaired. Your health, you tell me, is much mended:-Can you then consent to leave Bristol?-not abruptly, that I do not desire, but in a few days from the time you receive this? I will write to Mrs. Selwyn, and tell her how much I wish your return; and Mrs. Clinton can take sufficient care of you.
Could I be deluding myself into thinking that Lord Orville would truly appreciate your worth and behave with a nobility of spirit that matches your own, then I would let my Evelina enjoy the pleasant company and growing affection of a man she admires so much. But this isn’t a time when we can rely on appearances; impulsive decisions are regretted much more quickly than they can be fixed. You mentioned that your health has improved—can you then agree to leave Bristol? Not suddenly, as I wouldn't want that, but in a few days after you receive this? I’ll write to Mrs. Selwyn and let her know how eager I am for your return, and Mrs. Clinton can look after you well enough.
I have meditated upon every possible expedient that might tend to your happiness, ere I fixed upon exacting from you a compliance which I am convinced will be most painful to you; but I can satisfy myself in none. This will at least be safe; and as to success,-we must leave it to time.
I have thought about every possible way to make you happy before I decided to ask you to do something that I know will be really hard for you. But I couldn’t find any other solution. This is at least a safe option, and as for whether it will work out—well, we’ll just have to wait and see.
I am very glad to hear of Mr. Macartney’s welfare.
I’m really glad to hear that Mr. Macartney is doing well.
Adieu, my dearest child! Heaven preserve and strengthen you! A.V -
Adieu, my dearest child! May heaven protect and empower you! A.V -
LETTER LXVIII - EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS. Clifton, Sept. 28th.
LETTER LXVIII - EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS. Clifton, Sept. 28th.
SWEETLY, most sweetly, have two days more passed since I wrote: but I have been too much engaged to be exact in my journal.
SWEETLY, most sweetly, two more days have gone by since I last wrote: but I’ve been too busy to keep up with my journal.
To-day has been less tranquil. It was destined for the decision of the important bet, and has been productive of general confusion throughout the house. It was settled that the race should be run at five o’clock in the afternoon. Lord Merton breakfasted here, and staid till noon. He wanted to engage the ladies to bet on his side, in the true spirit of gaming, without seeing the racers. But he could only prevail on Lady Louisa, as Mrs. Selwyn said she never laid a wager against her own wishes, and Mrs. Beaumont would not take sides. As for me, I was not applied to. It is impossible for negligence to be more pointed than that of Lord Merton to me, in the presence of Lady Louisa.
Today has been less peaceful. It was set to be the day of the important bet, and it has caused a lot of confusion throughout the house. They decided the race would take place at five o’clock in the afternoon. Lord Merton had breakfast here and stayed until noon. He wanted to convince the ladies to bet on his side, fully embracing the spirit of gambling without seeing the racers. But he could only manage to sway Lady Louisa, since Mrs. Selwyn said she never placed a bet against her own wishes, and Mrs. Beaumont wouldn’t take sides. As for me, I wasn’t approached. Lord Merton’s disregard for me was way too obvious, especially in front of Lady Louisa.
But, just before dinner, I happened to be alone in the drawing-room, when his Lordship suddenly returned; and, coming in with his usual familiarity, he was beginning, “You see, Lady Louisa,-” but stopping short, “Pray, where’s every body gone?”
But just before dinner, I happened to be alone in the living room when his Lordship suddenly walked in. As he entered with his usual casualness, he started to say, “You see, Lady Louisa,” but then stopped short and asked, “Where has everyone gone?”
“Indeed I don’t know, my Lord.”
“Honestly, I have no idea, my Lord.”
He then shut the door; and, with a great alteration in his face and manner, advanced eagerly towards me, and said, “How glad I am, my sweet girl, to meet you, at last, alone! By my soul I began to think there was a plot against me, for I’ve never been able to have you a minute to myself.” And very freely he seized my hand.
He then closed the door; and, with a noticeable change in his expression and demeanor, stepped eagerly toward me and said, “I’m so glad to finally meet you alone, my sweet girl! Honestly, I was starting to think there was a conspiracy against me because I haven’t had a moment alone with you.” And without hesitation, he took my hand.
I was so much surprised at this address, after having been so long totally neglected, that I could make no other answer, than staring at him with unfeigned astonishment.
I was so surprised by this statement, after being completely ignored for so long, that I could only respond by staring at him in genuine amazement.
“Why now,” continued he, “if you was not the cruellest little angel in the world, you would have helped me to some expedient: for you see how I am watched here; Lady Louisa’s eyes are never off me. She gives me a charming foretaste of the pleasures of a wife! However, it won’t last long.”
“Why now,” he continued, “if you weren’t the most cruel little angel in the world, you would have helped me find a solution: you can see how I’m being watched here; Lady Louisa’s eyes are always on me. She’s giving me a delightful preview of the joys of having a wife! However, it won’t last long.”
Disgusted to the greatest degree, I attempted to draw away my hand; but I believe I should not have succeeded if Mrs. Beaumont had not made her appearance. He turned from me with the greatest assurance, and said, “How are you, Ma’am?-how is Lady Louisa?-you see I can’t live a moment out of the house.”
Disgusted to the max, I tried to pull my hand away, but I don't think I would have succeeded if Mrs. Beaumont hadn't shown up. He turned to me with complete confidence and said, “How are you, Ma’am? How's Lady Louisa? You see, I can't spend a moment away from the house.”
Could you, my dearest Sir, have believed it possible for such effrontery to be in man?
Could you, my dear Sir, have thought it possible for someone to be so bold?
Before dinner came Mr. Coverley, and, before five o’clock, Mr. Lovel and some other company. The place marked out for the race, was a gravel-walk in Mrs. Beaumont’s garden, and the length of the ground twenty yards. When we were summoned to the course, the two poor old women made their appearance. Though they seemed very healthy for their time of life, they yet looked so weak, so infirm, so feeble, that I could feel no sensation but that of pity at the sight. However, this was not the general sense of the company; for they no sooner came forward, than they were greeted with a laugh from every beholder, Lord Orville excepted, who looked very grave during the whole transaction. Doubtless he must be greatly discontented at the dissipated conduct and extravagance of a man, with whom he is soon to be so nearly connected.
Before dinner, Mr. Coverley arrived, and by five o’clock, Mr. Lovel and some other guests showed up. The designated area for the race was a gravel path in Mrs. Beaumont’s garden, stretching twenty yards. When we were called to the course, the two elderly women appeared. Although they seemed quite healthy for their age, they looked so weak and frail that I couldn't help but feel pity at the sight. However, this wasn’t the general feeling among the guests; as soon as they stepped forward, they were met with laughter from everyone except Lord Orville, who remained very serious throughout the whole event. He must surely feel quite discontented with the reckless behavior and extravagance of someone he is soon to be closely connected with.
For some time, the scene was truly ridiculous: the agitation of the parties concerned, and the bets that were laid upon the old women, were absurd beyond measure. Who are you for? and whose side are you of? was echoed from mouth to mouth by the whole company. Lord Merton and Mr. Coverley were both so excessively gay and noisy, that I soon found they had been free in drinking to their success. They handed, with loud shouts, the old women to the race-ground, and encouraged them by liberal promises to exert themselves.
For a while, the situation was completely ridiculous: the excitement of the people involved and the bets placed on the old women were utterly absurd. “Who are you rooting for?” and “Which side are you on?” echoed through the entire group. Lord Merton and Mr. Coverley were both so overly cheerful and loud that I quickly realized they had been drinking to celebrate their success. They loudly cheered the old women as they were taken to the racecourse and urged them on with generous promises to push themselves.
When the signal was given for them to set off, the poor creatures, feeble and frightened, ran against each other: and, neither of them able to support the shock, they both fell on the ground.
When the signal was given for them to start, the poor animals, weak and scared, ran into each other: and, unable to handle the impact, they both fell to the ground.
Lord Merton and Mr. Coverley flew to their assistance. Seats were brought for them; and they each drank a glass of wine. They complained of being much bruised; for, heavy and helpless, they had not been able to save themselves, but fell with their whole weight upon the gravel. However, as they seemed equal sufferers, both parties were too eager to have the affair deferred.
Lord Merton and Mr. Coverley rushed to help them. They were given seats and each had a glass of wine. They complained about being sore and bruised; feeling heavy and helpless, they couldn't save themselves and fell onto the gravel with all their weight. However, since they both seemed equally affected, both sides were too eager to delay the matter.
Again therefore they set off, and hobbled along, nearly even with each other, for some time; yet frequently, to the inexpressible diversion of the company, they stumbled and tottered; and the confused hallooing of “Now, Coverley!” “Now, Merton!” run from side to side during the whole affair.
Again, they set off and limped along, almost side by side, for a while; yet frequently, to the great amusement of everyone, they stumbled and wobbled. The chaotic shouting of “Now, Coverley!” “Now, Merton!” echoed back and forth the entire time.
Not long after, a foot of one of the poor women slipt, and with great force she came again to the ground. Involuntarily, I sprung forward to assist her; but Lord Merton, to whom she did not belong, stopped me, calling out, “No foul play! No foul play!”
Not long after, one of the poor women slipped and fell hard to the ground. Without thinking, I rushed forward to help her; but Lord Merton, who had no connection to her, stopped me, shouting, “No foul play! No foul play!”
Mr. Coverley then, repeating the same words, went himself to help her, and insisted that the other should stop. A debate ensued; but the poor creature was too much hurt to move, and declared her utter inability to make another attempt. Mr. Coverley was quite brutal: he swore at her with unmanly rage, and seemed scarce able to refrain even from striking her.
Mr. Coverley then, repeating the same words, went to help her himself and insisted that the other person should stop. A debate followed; but the poor woman was too hurt to move and said she couldn't try again. Mr. Coverley was completely cruel: he shouted at her with unreasonable anger and seemed barely able to hold back from hitting her.
Lord Merton then, in great rapture, said it was a hollow thing; but Mr. Coverley contended, that the fall was accidental, and time should be allowed for the woman to recover. However, all the company being against him, he was pronounced the loser.
Lord Merton then, in great excitement, claimed it was an empty gesture; but Mr. Coverley argued that the fall was an accident, and that the woman should be given time to recover. However, since everyone else was against him, he was declared the loser.
We then went to the drawing-room, to tea. After which, the evening being remarkably warm, we all walked in the garden. Lord Merton was quite riotous, and Lady Louisa in high spirits; but Mr. Coverley endeavoured, in vain, to conceal his chagrin.
We then went to the living room for tea. After that, since the evening was unusually warm, we all took a walk in the garden. Lord Merton was in high spirits, and Lady Louisa was cheerful; however, Mr. Coverley tried unsuccessfully to hide his disappointment.
As Lord Orville was thoughtful, and walked by himself, I expected that, as usual, I should pass unnoticed, and be left to my own meditations: but this was not the case; for Lord Merton, entirely off his guard, giddy equally from wine and success, was very troublesome to me; and, regardless of the presence of Lady Louisa, which hitherto has restrained him even from common civility, he attached himself to me, during the walk, with a freedom of gallantry that put me extremely out of countenance. He paid me the most high-flown compliments; and frequently and forcibly seized my hand, though I repeatedly, and with undissembled anger, drew it back. Lord Orville, I saw, watched us with earnestness; and Lady Louisa’s smiles were converted into looks of disdain.
As Lord Orville was deep in thought and walking by himself, I figured I would go unnoticed as usual and could carry on with my own thoughts. However, that didn't happen; Lord Merton, completely off guard and tipsy from both wine and his recent success, became a real nuisance to me. Ignoring Lady Louisa's presence, which had previously kept him from even being polite, he attached himself to me during the walk with a boldness that made me extremely uncomfortable. He showered me with grand compliments and frequently grabbed my hand, even though I repeatedly pulled it back in obvious frustration. I noticed Lord Orville watching us intently, and Lady Louisa’s smiles turned into looks of disdain.
I could not bear to be thus situated; and complaining I was tired, I quickened my pace, with intention to return to the house; but Lord Merton, hastily following, caught my hand, and saying the day was his own, vowed he would not let me go.
I couldn't stand being in that position; so, pretending to be tired, I picked up my pace to head back to the house. But Lord Merton quickly followed, grabbed my hand, and insisted that the day was his, promising that he wouldn't let me leave.
“You must, my Lord,” cried I, extremely flurried.
"You have to, my Lord," I exclaimed, feeling quite flustered.
“You are the most charming girl in the world,” said he, “and never looked better than at this moment.”
“You're the most charming girl in the world,” he said, “and you’ve never looked better than you do right now.”
“My Lord,” cried Mrs. Selwyn, advancing to us, “you don’t consider, that the better Miss Anville looks the more striking is the contrast with your Lordship; therefore, for your own sake, I would advise you not to hold her.”
“My Lord,” exclaimed Mrs. Selwyn, stepping toward us, “you don’t realize that the better Miss Anville looks, the more noticeable the contrast with you becomes; so, for your own good, I suggest you don’t keep her.”
“Egad, my Lord,” cried Mr. Coverley, “I don’t see what right you have to the best old, and the best young woman too, in the same day.”
“Wow, my Lord,” exclaimed Mr. Coverley, “I don’t understand what gives you the right to have the best old woman and the best young woman on the same day.”
“Best young woman!” repeated Mr. Lovel; “‘pon honour, Jack, you have made a most unfortunate speech; however, if Lady Louisa can pardon you,-and her Ladyship is all goodness,-I am sure nobody else can; for you have committed an outrageous solecism in good manners.”
“Best young woman!” repeated Mr. Lovel; “I swear, Jack, you’ve made a really unfortunate comment; however, if Lady Louisa can forgive you—and she’s so kind—I’m sure no one else can; because you’ve really messed up good manners.”
“And pray, Sir,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “under what denomination may your own speech pass?”
“And please, sir,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “under what label can your own speech be categorized?”
Mr. Lovel, turning another way, affected not to hear her: and Mr. Coverley, bowing to Lady Louisa, said, “Her Ladyship is well acquainted with my devotion;-but, egad, I don’t know how it is,-I had always an unlucky turn at an epigram, and never could resist a smart play upon words in my life.”
Mr. Lovel, turning away, pretended not to hear her; and Mr. Coverley, bowing to Lady Louisa, said, “Her Ladyship knows how devoted I am; but honestly, I don’t know what it is—I’ve always had a knack for making puns and can’t help but go for a clever play on words.”
“Pray, my Lord,” cried I, “let go my hand! Pray, Mrs. Selwyn, speak for me.”
“Please, my Lord,” I pleaded, “let go of my hand! Please, Mrs. Selwyn, speak on my behalf.”
“My Lord,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “in detaining Miss Anville any longer you only lose time; for we are already as well convinced of your valour and your strength, as if you were to hold her an age.”
“My Lord,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “by keeping Miss Anville any longer, you're just wasting time; we are already as convinced of your bravery and strength as if you were to hold her indefinitely.”
“My Lord,” said Mrs. Beaumont, “I must beg leave to interfere: I know not if Lady Louisa can pardon you; but as this young lady is at my house, I do not choose to have her made uneasy.”
“My Lord,” said Mrs. Beaumont, “I must respectfully step in: I don’t know if Lady Louisa can forgive you; but since this young lady is staying at my house, I don’t want her to feel uncomfortable.”
“I pardon him!” cried Lady Louisa; “I declare I am monstrous glad to get rid of him.”
“I forgive him!” shouted Lady Louisa; “I can’t tell you how happy I am to be done with him.”
“Egad, my Lord,” cried Mr. Coverley, “while you are grasping at a shadow, you’ll lose a substance; you’d best make your peace while you can.”
“Wow, my Lord,” exclaimed Mr. Coverley, “while you’re chasing after a ghost, you’ll miss out on what’s real; it’s best to sort things out while you still can.”
“Pray, Mr. Coverley, be quiet,” said Lady Louisa, peevishly; “for I declare I won’t speak to him. Brother,” taking hold of Lord Orville’s arm, “will you walk in with me?”
“Please, Mr. Coverley, be quiet,” said Lady Louisa, irritably; “because I really won’t talk to him. Brother,” taking hold of Lord Orville’s arm, “will you walk in with me?”
“Would to Heaven,” cried I, frightened to see how much Lord Merton was in liquor, “that I too had a brother!-and then I should not be exposed to such treatment.”
“Would to Heaven,” I exclaimed, scared to see how drunk Lord Merton was, “that I too had a brother! Then I wouldn’t have to endure such treatment.”
Lord Orville, instantly quitting Lady Louisa, said, “Will Miss Anville allow me the honour of taking that title?” and then, without waiting for any answer, he disengaged me from Lord Merton; and, handing me to Lady Louisa, “Let me,” added he, “take equal care of both my sisters;” and then, desiring her, to take hold of one arm, and begging me to make use of the other, we reached the house in a moment. Lord Merton, disordered as he was, attempted not to stop us.
Lord Orville, quickly leaving Lady Louisa, said, “Will Miss Anville let me take that title?” Then, without waiting for a response, he freed me from Lord Merton and handed me to Lady Louisa. “Let me,” he added, “care for both my sisters equally.” He then asked her to take one of his arms and begged me to use the other, and we reached the house in no time. Even though Lord Merton was a bit flustered, he didn’t try to stop us.
As soon as we entered the house, I withdrew my arm, and courtsied my thanks, for my heart was too full for speech. Lady Louisa, evidently hurt at her brother’s condescension, and piqued extremely by Lord Merton’s behaviour, silently drew away hers; and biting her lips, with a look of infinite vexation, walked sullenly up the hall.
As soon as we walked into the house, I pulled my arm back and thanked him with a curtsy, since I was too emotional to speak. Lady Louisa, clearly upset by her brother’s arrogance and really annoyed by Lord Merton’s actions, silently withdrew her arm as well. Biting her lips and looking deeply frustrated, she walked sulkily down the hall.
Lord Orville asked her if she would not go into the parlour?
Lord Orville asked her if she would like to go into the living room.
“No,” answered she, haughtily, “I leave you and your new sister together:” and then she walked up stairs.
“No,” she replied, with a touch of arrogance, “I’m leaving you and your new sister together.” With that, she headed upstairs.
I was quite confounded at the pride and rudeness of this speech. Lord Orville himself seemed thunderstruck: I turned from him, and went into the parlour: he followed me, saying, “Must I now apologize to Miss Anville for the liberty of my interference?-or ought I to apologize, that I did not, as I wished, interfere sooner?”
I was really taken aback by the pride and rudeness of that statement. Lord Orville himself looked shocked; I turned away from him and went into the living room. He followed me and said, “Should I now apologize to Miss Anville for stepping in? Or should I apologize for not stepping in sooner, as I wanted to?”
“O, my Lord,” cried I, with an emotion I could not repress, “it is from you alone I meet with any respect;-all others treat me with impertinence, or contempt!”
“O, my Lord,” I exclaimed, unable to hold back my feelings, “it's only you who shows me any respect; everyone else treats me with rudeness or disdain!”
I am sorry I had not more command of myself, as he had reason just then to suppose I particularly meant his sister; which, I am sure, must very much hurt him.
I'm sorry I couldn't control myself better, as he had reason to believe I was specifically talking about his sister, which I know must have really hurt him.
“Good Heaven,” cried he, “that so much sweetness and merit can fail to excite the love and admiration so justly their due! I cannot,-I dare not express to you half the indignation I feel at this moment!”
“Good heavens,” he exclaimed, “how can so much kindness and goodness not inspire the love and admiration they rightfully deserve! I can’t—I won’t express even half the anger I feel right now!”
“I am sorry, my Lord,” said I, more calmly, “to have raised it; but yet,-in a situation that calls for protection, to meet only with mortifications,-indeed, but I am ill formed to bear them!”
“I’m sorry, my Lord,” I said more calmly, “to have brought it up; but still, in a situation that requires support, to face only humiliations—honestly, I’m not made to handle them!”
“My dear Miss Anville,” cried he, warmly, “allow me to be your friend; think of me as if I were indeed your brother; and let me intreat you to accept my best services, if there is any thing in which I can be so happy as to show my regard,-my respect for you!”
“My dear Miss Anville,” he exclaimed warmly, “please let me be your friend; consider me as if I were truly your brother; and I sincerely ask you to accept my best efforts if there's anything I can do that would make me happy to show my appreciation—my respect for you!”
Before I had time to speak, the rest of the party entered the parlour; and, as I did not wish to see anything more of Lord Merton, at least before he had slept, I determined to leave it. Lord Orville, seeing my design, said, as I passed him, “Will you go?” “Had not I best, my Lord?” said I. “I am afraid,” said he, smiling, “since I must now speak as your brother, I am afraid you had; -you see you may trust me, since I can advise against my own interest.”
Before I had a chance to speak, the rest of the group came into the room; and since I didn't want to see any more of Lord Merton, at least until he had gotten some rest, I decided to leave. Lord Orville, noticing my plan, said as I walked by, “Are you leaving?” “Shouldn't I, my Lord?” I replied. “I’m afraid,” he said with a smile, “since I must now speak as your brother, I’m afraid you should; you see, you can trust me, since I can give you advice that's against my own interests.”
I then left the room, and have been writing ever since. And, methinks, I can never lament the rudeness of Lord Merton, as it has more than ever confirmed to me the esteem of Lord Orville.
I left the room and have been writing ever since. And, I think I can never regret Lord Merton's rudeness, as it has only strengthened my respect for Lord Orville.
LETTER LXIX - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. Sept. 30th.
OH, Sir, what a strange incident have I to recite! what a field of conjecture to open!
Oh, Sir, what a strange event I have to share! What a can of worms to open!
Yesterday evening we all went to an assembly. Lord Orville presented tickets to the whole family; and did me the honour, to the no small surprise of all here, I believe, to dance with me. But every day abounds in fresh instances of his condescending politeness; and he now takes every opportunity of calling me his friend and his sister.
Yesterday evening, we all went to a gathering. Lord Orville gave tickets to the whole family and honored me, to the surprise of everyone here, by dancing with me. But every day is filled with new examples of his kind politeness; he now takes every chance to call me his friend and sister.
Lord Merton offered a ticket to Lady Louisa; but she was so much incensed against him, that she refused it with the utmost disdain: neither could he prevail upon her to dance with him; she sat still the whole evening, and deigned not to look at or speak to him. To me her behaviour is almost the same: for she is cold, distant, and haughty, and her eyes express the greatest contempt. But for Lord Orville, how miserable would my residence here make me!
Lord Merton offered a ticket to Lady Louisa, but she was so angry with him that she rejected it with total disdain. He couldn’t get her to dance with him either; she sat still the entire evening and didn’t even look at or speak to him. Her behavior is almost the same towards me: she is cold, distant, and arrogant, and her eyes show nothing but contempt. But for Lord Orville, I would be so unhappy living here!
We were joined in the ball-room by Mr. Coverley, Mr. Lovel, and Lord Merton, who looked as if he was doing penance, and sat all the evening next to Lady Louisa, vainly endeavouring to appease her anger.
We were joined in the ballroom by Mr. Coverley, Mr. Lovel, and Lord Merton, who looked like he was doing penance and sat next to Lady Louisa all evening, unsuccessfully trying to calm her down.
Lord Orville began the minuets: he danced with a young lady who seemed to engage the general attention, as she had not been seen here before. She is pretty, and looks mild and good-humoured.
Lord Orville started the minuets: he danced with a young lady who caught everyone's attention since she hadn't been seen here before. She's pretty and has a gentle, cheerful demeanor.
“Pray, Mr. Lovel,” said Lady Louisa, “who is that?”
“Please, Mr. Lovel,” Lady Louisa said, “who is that?”
“Miss Belmont,” answered he, “the young heiress: she came to the Wells yesterday.”
“Miss Belmont,” he replied, “the young heiress; she arrived at the Wells yesterday.”
Struck with the name, I involuntarily repeated it; but nobody heard me.
Struck by the name, I repeated it without thinking; but no one heard me.
“What is her family?” said Mrs. Beaumont.
“What does her family look like?” asked Mrs. Beaumont.
“Have you not heard of her, Ma’am?” cried he; “she is only daughter and heiress of Sir John Belmont.”
“Have you not heard of her, ma’am?” he exclaimed; “she is the only daughter and heiress of Sir John Belmont.”
Good Heaven, how did I start! the name struck my ear like a thunderbolt. Mrs. Selwyn, who immediately looked at me, said, “Be calm, my dear, and we will learn the truth of all this.”
Good heavens, how I jumped! The name hit my ears like a lightning bolt. Mrs. Selwyn, who quickly turned to me, said, “Stay calm, my dear, and we’ll figure out the truth of all this.”
Till then I had never imagined her to be acquainted with my story; but she has since told me, that she knew my unhappy mother, and was well informed of the whole affair.
Until then, I had never thought she knew my story; but she has since told me that she knew my unhappy mother and was fully aware of everything that happened.
She asked Mr. Lovel a multitude of questions; and I gathered from his answers, that this young lady was just come from abroad with Sir John Belmont, who was now in London; that she was under the care of his sister, Mrs. Paterson; and that she would inherit a considerable estate.
She asked Mr. Lovel a ton of questions, and I gathered from his answers that this young woman had just returned from overseas with Sir John Belmont, who was now in London. She was being taken care of by his sister, Mrs. Paterson, and she was set to inherit a significant estate.
I cannot express the strange feelings with which I was agitated during this recital. What, my dearest Sir, can it possibly mean? Did you ever hear of any after-marriage?-or must I suppose, that, while the lawful child is rejected, another is adopted?-I know not what to think! I am bewildered with a contrariety of ideas!
I can’t describe the odd feelings I was experiencing during this recital. What, my dear Sir, could it possibly mean? Have you ever heard of anything after marriage? Or should I assume that while the legitimate child is rejected, another one is taken in? I don’t know what to think! I’m confused with so many conflicting thoughts!
When we came home, Mrs. Selwyn passed more than an hour in my room conversing upon this subject. She says, that I ought instantly to go to town, find out my father, and have the affair cleared up. She assures me I have too strong a resemblance to my dear, though unknown, mother, to allow of the least hesitation in my being owned, when once I am seen. For my part, I have no wish but to act by your direction.
When we got home, Mrs. Selwyn spent over an hour in my room talking about this topic. She says I should go to town immediately, find my father, and get everything sorted out. She assures me that I look too much like my dear, though unknown, mother for there to be any doubt about me being recognized once I'm seen. As for me, I just want to act according to your guidance.
I cannot give any account of the evening; so disturbed, so occupied am I by this subject, that I can think of no other. I have entreated Mrs. Selwyn to observe the strictest secrecy, and she has promised that she will. Indeed, she has too much sense to be idly communicative.
I can't really describe the evening; I'm so troubled and focused on this matter that I can't think about anything else. I've asked Mrs. Selwyn to keep this entirely confidential, and she has agreed to do so. In fact, she's too smart to share things unnecessarily.
Lord Orville took notice of my being absent and silent; but I ventured not to intrust him with the cause. Fortunately, he was not of the party at the time Mr. Lovel made the discovery.
Lord Orville noticed that I was absent and quiet; but I didn’t feel comfortable sharing the reason with him. Luckily, he wasn’t with the group when Mr. Lovel made the discovery.
Mrs. Selwyn says, that if you approve my going to town, she will herself accompany me. I had a thousand times rather ask the protection of Mrs. Mirvan, but, after this offer that will not be possible.
Mrs. Selwyn says that if you agree to me going to town, she will go with me herself. I would much rather ask for the protection of Mrs. Mirvan, but after this offer, that won't be possible.
Adieu, my dearest Sir. I am sure you will write immediately, and I shall be all impatience till your letter arrives.
Goodbye, my dearest Sir. I'm sure you'll write right away, and I'll be so impatient until your letter gets here.
LETTER LXX - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. Oct. 1st.
GOOD God, my dear Sir, what a wonderful tale have I again to relate! even yet, I am not recovered from my extreme surprise.
Good God, dear Sir, what an amazing story I have to share again! I’m still in shock from my intense surprise.
Yesterday morning, as soon as I had finished my hasty letter, I was summoned to attend a walking party to the Hot Wells. It consisted only of Mrs. Selwyn and Lord Orville. The latter walked by my side all the way; and his conversation dissipated my uneasiness, and insensibly restored my serenity.
Yesterday morning, right after I finished my rushed letter, I was called to join a walking group to the Hot Wells. It was just Mrs. Selwyn and Lord Orville. He walked beside me the entire way, and our conversation eased my anxiety and gradually brought back my calm.
At the pump-room I saw Mr. Macartney; I courtsied to him twice ere he would speak to me. When he did, I began to apologize for having disappointed him; but I did not find it very easy to excuse myself, as Lord Orville’s eyes, with an expression of anxiety that distressed me, turned from him to me, and me to him, every word I spoke. Convinced, however, that I had really trifled with Mr. Macartney, I scrupled not to beg his pardon. He was then not merely appeased, but even grateful.
At the pump-room, I saw Mr. Macartney. I curtsied to him twice before he would talk to me. When he finally did, I started to apologize for letting him down, but I found it hard to explain myself, especially since Lord Orville's eyes, filled with a worried expression that bothered me, kept shifting between him and me with every word I spoke. However, convinced that I had indeed played with Mr. Macartney's feelings, I didn’t hesitate to ask for his forgiveness. At that point, he wasn't just okay with it; he was even grateful.
He requested me to see him to-morrow; but I had not the folly to be again guilty of an indiscretion; which had already caused me so much uneasiness; and therefore I told him frankly, that it was not in my power at present to see him but by accident; and, to prevent his being offended, I hinted to him the reason I could not receive him as I wished to do.
He asked me to meet him tomorrow, but I wasn’t foolish enough to make the same mistake again, especially since it had already caused me so much distress. So, I told him honestly that I couldn’t see him right now unless by chance. To avoid upsetting him, I hinted at the reason I couldn’t meet him like I wanted to.
When I had satisfied both him and myself upon this subject, I turned to Lord Orville, and saw, with concern, the gravity of his countenance. I would have spoken to him, but knew not how; I believe, however, he read my thoughts; for, in a little time, with a sort of serious smile, he said, “Does not Mr. Macartney complain of his disappointment?”
When I had satisfied both him and myself on this topic, I turned to Lord Orville and noticed, with concern, the seriousness on his face. I wanted to talk to him, but I didn’t know how; I believe he understood what I was thinking, because after a while, with a kind of serious smile, he said, “Isn’t Mr. Macartney expressing his disappointment?”
“Not much, my Lord.”
"Not much, my Lord."
“And how have you appeased him?” Finding I hesitated what to answer, “Am I not your brother?” continued he, “and must I not enquire into your affairs?”
“And how have you satisfied him?” When he saw me hesitate with my reply, he said, “Am I not your brother? Don’t I have the right to ask about your business?”
“Certainly, my Lord,” said I, laughing. “I only wish it were better worth your Lordship’s while.”
“Of course, my Lord,” I said, laughing. “I just wish it were more worth your time.”
“Let me, then, make immediate use of my privilege. When shall you see Mr. Macartney again?”
“Let me go ahead and use my privilege. When will you see Mr. Macartney again?”
“Indeed, my Lord, I can’t tell.”
“Sure, my Lord, I can’t say.”
“But,-do you know that I shall not suffer my sister to make a private appointment?”
"But do you know that I won't let my sister make a private appointment?"
“Pray, my Lord,” cried I earnestly, “use that word no more! Indeed you shock me extremely.”
“Please, my Lord,” I said earnestly, “don’t use that word anymore! It really shocks me.”
“That would I not do for the world,” cried he, “yet you know not how warmly, how deeply I am interested, not only in all your concerns, but in all your actions.”
“There's nothing I wouldn't do for you,” he exclaimed, “but you have no idea how passionately and deeply I care, not just about everything you’re dealing with, but about everything you do.”
This speech-the most particular one Lord Orville had ever made to me, ended our conversation at that time; for I was too much struck by it to make any answer.
This speech—the most personal one Lord Orville had ever given me—ended our conversation then, as I was too taken aback to respond.
Soon after, Mr. Macartney, in a low voice, intreated me not to deny him the gratification of returning the money. While he was speaking, the young lady I saw yesterday at the assembly, with the large party, entered the pump-room. Mr. Macartney turned as pale as death, his voice faultered, and he seemed not to know what he said. I was myself almost equally disturbed, by the crowd of confused ideas that occurred to me. Good Heaven! thought I, why should he be thus agitated?-is it possible this can be the young lady he loved?-
Soon after, Mr. Macartney, in a soft voice, begged me not to deny him the pleasure of returning the money. While he was talking, the young lady I saw yesterday at the assembly, with the large group, walked into the pump-room. Mr. Macartney turned as pale as a ghost, his voice shook, and he seemed confused about what he was saying. I was also almost equally shaken, overwhelmed by a swirl of confusing thoughts. Good heavens! I thought, why is he so upset? Could it really be that this is the young lady he loved?
In a few minutes we quitted the pump-room; and, though I twice wished Mr. Macartney good morning, he was so absent he did not hear me.
In a few minutes, we left the pump-room; and, even though I said good morning to Mr. Macartney twice, he was so distracted that he didn't hear me.
We did not immediately return to Clifton, as Mrs. Selwyn had business at a pamphlet shop. While she was looking at some new poems, Lord Orville again asked me when I should see Mr. Macartney?
We didn't head back to Clifton right away because Mrs. Selwyn had some errands to run at a pamphlet shop. While she was browsing through some new poems, Lord Orville asked me again when I would be seeing Mr. Macartney.
“Indeed, my Lord,” cried I, “I know not, but I would give the universe for a few moments’ conversation with him!” I spoke this with a simple sincerity, and was not aware of the force of my own words.
“Honestly, my Lord,” I exclaimed, “I don’t know, but I would trade anything for a few moments of conversation with him!” I said this with genuine sincerity and didn’t realize the impact of my own words.
“The universe!” repeated he, “Good God, Miss Anville, do you say this to me?”
"The universe!" he repeated. "Oh my God, Miss Anville, are you really saying this to me?"
“I would say it,” returned I, “to any body, my Lord.”
"I would say it," I replied, "to anyone, my Lord."
“I beg your pardon,” said he, in a voice that showed him ill pleased, “I am answered.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, his tone making it clear he was not happy, “I have my answer.”
“My Lord,” cried I, “you must not judge hardly of me. I spoke inadvertently; but if you knew the painful suspense I suffer at this moment, you would not be surprised at what I have said.”
“My Lord,” I exclaimed, “please don’t judge me too harshly. I spoke without thinking; but if you knew the intense anxiety I’m feeling right now, you wouldn’t be surprised by what I said.”
“And would a meeting with Mr. Macartney relieve you from that suspense?”
“And would meeting with Mr. Macartney relieve you from that suspense?”
“Yes, my Lord, two words might be sufficient.”
“Yes, my Lord, two words should be enough.”
“Would to Heaven,” cried he, after a short pause, “that I were worthy to know their import!”
“Would to God,” he exclaimed after a brief pause, “that I were deserving to understand their meaning!”
“Worthy, my Lord!-O, if that were all, your Lordship could ask nothing I should not be ready to answer! If I were but at liberty to speak, I should be proud of your Lordship’s enquiries: but, indeed, I am not-I have not any right to communicate the affairs of Mr. Macartney;-your Lordship cannot suppose I have.”
“Worthy, my Lord! Oh, if that were all, you could ask me anything, and I’d be ready to respond! If I were free to speak, I would gladly address your inquiries. But unfortunately, I can’t—I don’t have the right to discuss Mr. Macartney’s matters; you can’t possibly think that I do.”
“I will own to you,” answered he, “I know not what to suppose; yet there seems a frankness even in your mystery-and such an air of openness in your countenance, that I am willing to hope,-” He stopped a moment, and then added, “This meeting, you say, is essential to your repose?”
“I’ll be honest with you,” he replied, “I’m not sure what to think; yet there’s a sincerity in your mystery—and such an air of honesty in your expression, that I’m eager to hope—” He paused for a moment, then added, “You say this meeting is crucial for your peace of mind?”
“I did not say that, my Lord; but yet I have the most important reasons for wishing to speak to him.”
“I didn’t say that, my Lord; but I have really important reasons for wanting to talk to him.”
He paused a few minutes; and then said, with warmth, “Yes, you shall speak to him!-I will myself assist you!-Miss Anville, I am sure, cannot form a wish against propriety: I will ask no questions, I will rely upon her own purity, and, uninformed, blindfold as I am, I will serve her with all my power!” And then he went into the shop, leaving me so strangely affected by his generous behaviour, that I almost wished to follow him with my thanks.
He paused for a few minutes and then said warmly, “Yes, you should talk to him! I’ll help you myself! Miss Anville, I'm sure, wouldn’t want anything inappropriate. I won't ask any questions; I trust her completely, and even though I’m in the dark, I’ll do everything I can for her!” Then he went into the store, leaving me feeling so touched by his generous behavior that I almost wanted to follow him to express my gratitude.
When Mrs. Selwyn had transacted her affairs, we returned home.
When Mrs. Selwyn finished her business, we went back home.
The moment dinner was over, Lord Orville went out, and did not come back till just as we were summoned to supper. This is the longest time he has spent from the house since I have been at Clifton; and you cannot imagine, my dear Sir, how much I missed him. I scarce knew before how infinitely I am indebted to him alone for the happiness I have enjoyed since I have been at Mrs. Beaumont’s.
The moment dinner ended, Lord Orville left and didn't return until just when we were called for supper. This is the longest he’s been away from the house since I’ve been at Clifton, and you can’t imagine, my dear Sir, how much I missed him. I hardly realized before how incredibly grateful I am to him for the happiness I’ve experienced since being at Mrs. Beaumont’s.
As I generally go down stairs last, he came to me, the moment the ladies had passed by, and said, “Shall you be at home tomorrow morning?”
As I usually go downstairs last, he approached me as soon as the ladies had walked by and asked, “Will you be home tomorrow morning?”
“I believe so, my Lord.”
“I think so, my Lord.”
“And will you then receive a visitor for me?”
“And will you receive a visitor for me?”
“For you, my Lord?”
"For you, my lord?"
“Yes:-I have made acquaintance with Mr. Macartney, and he has promised to call upon me to-morrow about three o’clock.”
“Yes, I met Mr. Macartney, and he promised to come by tomorrow around three o’clock.”
And then, taking my hand, he led me down stairs.
And then, taking my hand, he led me downstairs.
O, Sir!-was there ever such another man as Lord Orville?-Yes, one other now resides at Berry Hill!
O, Sir! Was there ever another man like Lord Orville? Yes, there’s one more who lives at Berry Hill!
This morning there has been a great deal of company here; but at the time appointed by Lord Orville, doubtless with that consideration, the parlour is almost always empty, as every body is dressing.
This morning, there's been a lot of company around; but at the time set by Lord Orville, likely for that reason, the parlor is almost always empty since everyone is getting ready.
Mrs. Beaumont, however, was not gone up stairs when Mr. Macartney sent in his name.
Mrs. Beaumont, however, had not gone upstairs when Mr. Macartney sent in his name.
Lord Orville immediately said, “Beg the favour of him to walk in. You see, Madam, that I consider myself as at home.”
Lord Orville immediately said, “Please ask him to come in. You see, Madam, I feel right at home here.”
“I hope so,” answered Mrs. Beaumont, “or I should be very uneasy.”
“I hope so,” replied Mrs. Beaumont, “or I would be very anxious.”
Mr. Macartney then entered. I believe we both felt very conscious to whom the visit was paid: but Lord Orville received him as his own guest; and not merely entertained him as such while Mrs. Beaumont remained in the room, but for some time after she had left it, a delicacy that saved me from the embarrassment I should have felt, had he immediately quitted us.
Mr. Macartney then walked in. I think we both understood why he was there; however, Lord Orville welcomed him like his own guest and didn't just entertain him while Mrs. Beaumont was still in the room, but for a while even after she had left, which spared me the awkwardness I would have felt if he had left us right away.
In a few minutes, however, he gave Mr. Macartney a book,-for I, too, by way of pretence for continuing in the room, pretended to be reading,-and begged he would be so good as to look it over, while he answered a note, which he would dispatch in a few minutes, and return to him.
In a few minutes, though, he handed Mr. Macartney a book—because I, also pretending to stay in the room, acted like I was reading—and asked if he would kindly take a look at it while he answered a note, which he would send off in a few minutes and then come back to him.
When he was gone, we both parted with our books; and Mr. Macartney, again producing the paper with the money, besought me to accept it.
When he left, we both put away our books, and Mr. Macartney, taking out the paper with the money, asked me to take it.
“Pray,” said I, still declining it, “did you know the young lady who came into the pump-room yesterday morning?”
“Please,” I said, still refusing, “did you know the young lady who came into the pump-room yesterday morning?”
“Know her!” repeated he, changing colour, “Oh, but too well!”
“Know her!” he repeated, his face changing color. “Oh, but I know her too well!”
“Indeed!”
"Absolutely!"
“Why, Madam, do you ask?”
“Why do you ask, Madam?”
“I must beseech you to satisfy me further upon this subject; pray tell me who she is.”
"I really need you to give me more information about this; please tell me who she is."
“Inviolably as I meant to keep my secret, I can refuse you, Madam, nothing;-that lady-is the daughter of Sir John Belmont!-of my father!”
“Inviolably as I meant to keep my secret, I can refuse you, Madam, nothing;—that lady is the daughter of Sir John Belmont!—of my father!”
“Gracious Heaven!” cried I, involuntarily laying my hand on his arm, “you are then-” my brother, I would have said, but my voice failed me, and I burst into tears.
“Gracious Heaven!” I exclaimed, instinctively placing my hand on his arm, “you are then-” my brother, I wanted to say, but my voice betrayed me, and I broke down in tears.
“Oh, Madam,” cried he, “what does this mean?-what can thus distress you?”
“Oh, Ma'am,” he exclaimed, “what does this mean? What could possibly upset you like this?”
I could not answer, but held out my hand to him. He seemed greatly surprised, and talked in high terms of my condescension.
I couldn't reply, but I reached out my hand to him. He looked really surprised and spoke very highly of my willingness to lower myself.
“Spare yourself,” cried I, wiping my eyes, “spare yourself this mistake,-you have a right to all I can do for you; the similarity of our circumstances-”
“Save yourself,” I said, wiping my eyes, “save yourself from this mistake—you deserve everything I can do for you; the similarity of our situations—”
We were then interrupted by the entrance of Mrs. Selwyn; and Mr. Macartney, finding no probability of our being left alone, was obliged to take leave, though, I believe, very reluctantly, while in such suspense.
We were then interrupted by Mrs. Selwyn walking in; and Mr. Macartney, seeing that there was no chance of us being alone, had to say goodbye, although I think he did so very reluctantly, while feeling so anxious.
Mrs. Selwyn, then, by dint of interrogatories, drew from me the state of this affair. She is so penetrating, that there is no possibility of evading to give her satisfaction.
Mrs. Selwyn, then, through a series of questions, got me to reveal the details of this situation. She is so insightful that there's no way to avoid giving her what she wants to know.
Is not this a strange event? Good Heaven! how little did I think that the visits I so unwillingly paid at Mr. Branghton’s would have introduced me to so near a relation! I will never again regret the time I spent in town this summer: a circumstance so fortunate will always make me think of it with pleasure. * * * * * *
Isn't this a strange event? Good heavens! I never thought that the visits I made so reluctantly at Mr. Branghton's would lead me to such a close relative! I will never again regret the time I spent in town this summer; this fortunate circumstance will always make me think of it fondly. * * * * * *
I have just received your letter,-and it has almost broken my heart!-Oh, Sir! the illusion is over, indeed! how vainly have I flattered, how miserably deceived myself! Long since, doubtful of the situation of my heart, I dreaded a scrutiny;-but now, now that I have so long escaped, I began, indeed, to think my safety insured, to hope that my fears were causeless, and to believe that my good opinion and esteem of Lord Orville might be owned without suspicion, and felt without danger;-miserably deceived, indeed! His sight is baneful to my repose;-his society is death to my future tranquillity! Oh, Lord Orville! could I have believed that a friendship so grateful to my heart, so soothing to my distresses, a friendship, which, in every respect, did me so much honour, would only serve to embitter all my future moments!-What a strange, what an unhappy circumstance, that my gratitude, though so justly excited, should be so fatal to my peace!
I just got your letter, and it nearly broke my heart! Oh, Sir! The illusion is really over! How foolishly I flattered myself, how terribly I misled myself! A while ago, unsure of how I truly felt, I feared being examined; but now, after having avoided it for so long, I started to think I was safe, hoped my fears were unfounded, and believed that I could openly appreciate and hold Lord Orville in high regard without any suspicion or risk—what a miserable deception! Just seeing him disrupts my peace; being around him destroys any chance of future tranquility! Oh, Lord Orville! Could I have ever imagined that a friendship so dear to my heart, so comforting in my struggles, a friendship that brought me so much respect, would only serve to poison all my future moments? What a strange and unfortunate situation that my gratitude, so rightly stirred, should be so destructive to my peace!
Yes, Sir, I will quit him;-would to Heaven I could at this moment! without seeing him again,-without trusting to my now conscious emotion!-Oh, Lord Orville, how little do you know the evils I owe to you! how little suppose that, when most dignified by your attention, I was most to be pitied,-and when most exalted by your notice, you were most my enemy!
Yes, Sir, I will leave him; I wish I could do it right now! Without seeing him again—without relying on my now aware feelings! Oh, Lord Orville, you have no idea of the troubles you've caused me! You have no clue that when I was most honored by your attention, I was actually the most to be pitied—and that when I was most elevated by your notice, you were actually my greatest adversary!
You, Sir, relied upon my ignorance;-I, alas, upon your experience; and, whenever I doubted the weakness of my heart, the idea that you did not suspect it, reassured me,-restored my courage, and confirmed my error!-Yet am I most sensible of the kindness of your silence.
You relied on my ignorance, and unfortunately, I relied on your experience; and whenever I questioned the weakness of my heart, the thought that you didn’t suspect it reassured me, restored my courage, and confirmed my mistake! Yet I am very aware of the kindness of your silence.
Oh, Sir! why have I ever quitted you? why been exposed to dangers to which I am so unequal?
Oh, Sir! Why did I ever leave you? Why have I put myself in dangers that I can't deal with?
But I will leave this place, leave Lord Orville,-leave him, perhaps, for ever!-no matter; your counsel, your goodness, may teach me how to recover the peace and the serenity of which my unguarded folly has beguiled me. To you alone do I trust,-in you alone confide, for every future hope I may form.
But I will leave this place, leave Lord Orville—leave him, maybe, forever! It doesn’t matter; your advice, your kindness, might help me find the peace and calm that my careless mistakes have stolen from me. I trust only you—in you alone do I confide, for every future hope I have.
The more I consider the parting with Lord Orville, the less fortitude do I feel to bear the separation;-the friendship he has shown me,-his politeness,-his sweetness of manners,-his concern in my affairs,-his solicitude to oblige me,-all, all to be given up!-
The more I think about saying goodbye to Lord Orville, the less strength I feel to handle the separation. His friendship, his politeness, his kindness, his concern for me, his eagerness to help—all of it will be gone!
No, I cannot tell him I am going,-I dare not trust myself to take leave of him,-I will run away without seeing him:-implicitly will I follow your advice, avoid his sight, and shun his society!
No, I can’t tell him I’m leaving—I can’t trust myself to say goodbye to him—I’ll just run away without seeing him. I’ll completely follow your advice, avoid him, and stay away from his company!
To-morrow morning I will set off for Berry Hill. Mrs. Selwyn and Mrs. Beaumont shall alone know my intention. And to-day-I will spend in my own room. The readiness of my obedience is the only atonement I can offer for the weakness which calls for its exertion.
Tomorrow morning I will head to Berry Hill. Only Mrs. Selwyn and Mrs. Beaumont will know my plans. Today, I will stay in my room. My willingness to obey is the only way I can make up for the weakness that requires it.
Can you, will you, most honoured, most dear Sir! sole prop by which the poor Evelina is supported,-can you, without reproach, without displeasure, receive the child you have so carefully reared,-from whose education better fruit might have been expected, and who, blushing for her unworthiness, fears to meet the eye by which she has been cherished?-Oh, yes, I am sure you will! Your Evelina’s errors are those of the judgment; and you, I well know, pardon all but those of the heart!
Can you, will you, most honored, dear Sir! the only support for the poor Evelina—can you, without blame or anger, welcome the child you’ve raised so carefully—who, from her education, you might have hoped for better results, and who, blushing with shame for her shortcomings, is afraid to face the gaze that has cherished her? Oh, yes, I’m sure you will! Your Evelina’s mistakes come from judgment; and you, I know well, forgive everything except those of the heart!
LETTER LXXI - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. Clifton, October 1st.
I HAVE only time, my dearest Sir, for three words, to overtake my last letter, and prevent your expecting me immediately; for, when I communicated my intention to Mrs. Selwyn, she would not hear of it, and declared it would be highly ridiculous for me to go before I received an answer to my intelligence concerning the journey from Paris. She has, therefore, insisted upon my waiting till your next letter arrives. I hope you will not be displeased at my compliance, though it is rather against my own judgment: but Mrs. Selwyn quite overpowered me with the force of her arguments. I will, however, see very little of Lord Orville; I will never come down stairs before breakfast; give up all my walks in the garden; seat myself next to Mrs. Selwyn; and not merely avoid his conversation, but shun his presence. I will exert all the prudence and all the resolution in my power, to prevent this short delay from giving you any further uneasiness.
I only have time, my dearest Sir, to say three things to catch up with my last letter and stop you from expecting me right away; when I told Mrs. Selwyn about my plans, she wouldn’t hear of it and insisted it would be really foolish for me to go before I got a response regarding the trip from Paris. So, she’s made me promise to wait until your next letter arrives. I hope you won’t be upset with me for going along with her, even though it’s against my better judgment. Mrs. Selwyn really convinced me with her arguments. However, I will see very little of Lord Orville; I won’t come downstairs before breakfast, give up all my walks in the garden, sit next to Mrs. Selwyn, and not just avoid talking to him but stay away from him completely. I will do everything I can to make sure this short delay doesn’t cause you any more worry.
Adieu, my dearest Sir. I shall not now leave Clifton till I have your directions.
Goodbye, my dearest Sir. I won’t leave Clifton until I have your instructions.
LETTER LXXII - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. October 2nd.
YESTERDAY, from the time I received your kind, though heart-piercing letter, I kept my room,-for I was equally unable and unwilling to see Lord Orville; but this morning, finding I seemed destined to pass a few days longer here, I endeavoured to calm my spirits, and to appear as usual; though I determined to avoid him to the utmost of my power. Indeed, as I entered the parlour, when called to breakfast, my thoughts were so much occupied with your letter, that I felt as much confusion at his sight, as if he had himself been informed of its contents.
YESTERDAY, after I received your thoughtful, yet heart-wrenching letter, I stayed in my room because I couldn't bring myself to see Lord Orville. This morning, realizing that I was stuck here for a few more days, I tried to calm my nerves and act as usual, even though I decided to avoid him as much as I could. In fact, when I walked into the parlor for breakfast, my mind was so consumed with your letter that I felt just as embarrassed to see him as if he already knew what it said.
Mrs. Beaumont made me a slight compliment upon my recovery, for I had pleaded illness to excuse keeping my room: Lady Louisa spoke not a word; but Lord Orville, little imagining himself the cause of my indisposition, enquired concerning my health with the most distinguishing politeness. I hardly made any answer; and, for the first time since I have been here, contrived to sit at some distance from him.
Mrs. Beaumont gave me a small compliment when I got better, since I had pretended to be sick to avoid leaving my room. Lady Louisa didn't say a thing; however, Lord Orville, not realizing he was the reason for my discomfort, asked about my health with great politeness. I barely replied and, for the first time since arriving here, managed to sit some distance away from him.
I could not help observing that my reserve surprised him; yet he persisted in his civilities, and seemed to wish to remove it. But I paid him very little attention; and the moment breakfast was over, instead of taking a book, or walking in the garden, I retired to my own room.
I couldn't help but notice that my reserved attitude surprised him; still, he kept being polite and seemed eager to change that. But I barely paid him any attention, and as soon as breakfast ended, instead of grabbing a book or going for a walk in the garden, I went back to my room.
Soon after, Mrs. Selwyn came to tell me, that Lord Orville had been proposing I should take an airing, and persuading her to let him drive us both in his phaeton. She delivered the message with an archness that made me blush; and added, that an airing, in my Lord Orville’s carriage, could not fail to revive my spirits. There is no possibility of escaping her discernment; she has frequently rallied me upon his Lordship’s attention,-and, alas!-upon the pleasure with which I have received it! However, I absolutely refused the offer.
Soon after, Mrs. Selwyn came to tell me that Lord Orville had suggested I should get some fresh air and was trying to convince her to let him drive us both in his carriage. She delivered the message with a teasing tone that made me blush, and added that a ride in Lord Orville’s carriage would surely lift my spirits. There’s no escaping her observations; she has often teased me about his Lordship’s attention—and, unfortunately—about how happy I’ve been to receive it! However, I completely turned down the offer.
“Well,” said she, laughing, “I cannot just now indulge you with any solicitation; for, to tell you the truth, I have business to transact at the Wells, and am glad to be excused myself. I would ask you to walk with me; -but since Lord Orville is refused, I have not the presumption to hope for success.”
"Well," she said, laughing, "I can't really indulge you with any requests right now; to be honest, I have business to take care of at the Wells, and I’m happy to be excused. I would ask you to walk with me, but since Lord Orville has been turned down, I don't have the nerve to hope for success."
“Indeed,” cried I, “you are mistaken; I will attend you with pleasure.”
“Actually,” I exclaimed, “you’re wrong; I’ll join you happily.”
“O rare coquetry!” cried she, “surely it must be inherent in our sex, or it could not have been imbibed at Berry Hill.”
“O rare flirting!” she exclaimed, “surely it must be part of our nature, or it couldn’t have been picked up at Berry Hill.”
I had not spirits to answer her, and therefore put on my hat and cloak in silence.
I didn’t have the energy to respond to her, so I just put on my hat and coat in silence.
“I presume,” continued she, drily, “his Lordship may walk with us.”
“I assume,” she continued dryly, “his Lordship can walk with us.”
“If so, Madam,” said I, “you will have a companion, and I will stay at home.”
“If that's the case, ma'am,” I said, “you'll have a companion, and I'll just stay home.”
“My dear child,” cried she, “did you bring the certificate of your birth with you?”
“My dear child,” she exclaimed, “did you bring your birth certificate with you?”
“Dear Madam, no!”
"Dear Ma'am, no!"
“Why then, we shall never be known again at Berry Hill.”
“Why then, we will never be recognized again at Berry Hill.”
I felt too conscious to enjoy her pleasantry; but I believe she was determined to torment me, for she asked if she should inform Lord Orville that I desired him not to be of the party?
I felt too aware to enjoy her friendliness; but I think she was set on annoying me, because she asked if she should tell Lord Orville that I wanted him not to join us.
“By no means, Madam; but, indeed, I had rather not walk myself.”
"Not at all, ma'am; but honestly, I'd prefer not to walk myself."
“My dear,” cried she, “I really do not know you this morning,-you have certainly been taking a lesson of Lady Louisa.”
“My dear,” she exclaimed, “I really don’t recognize you this morning—you must have taken a lesson from Lady Louisa.”
She then went down stairs; but presently returning, told me she had acquainted Lord Orville that I did not choose to go out in the phaeton, but preferred a walk, tete-e-tete with her, by way of variety.
She then went downstairs; but soon after, she came back and told me she had informed Lord Orville that I didn’t want to go out in the phaeton, but would rather take a walk, just the two of us, for a change.
I said nothing, but was really vexed. She bad me go down stairs, and said she would follow me immediately.
I didn't say anything, but I was really annoyed. She told me to go downstairs and said she would follow me right away.
Lord Orville met me in the hall. “I fear,” said he, “Miss Anville is not yet quite well?” and he would have taken my hand, but I turned from him, and courtsying slightly, went into the parlour.
Lord Orville met me in the hall. “I’m afraid,” he said, “Miss Anville isn’t quite well yet?” He reached to take my hand, but I turned away from him, and with a slight curtsy, went into the parlor.
Mrs. Beaumont and Lady Louisa were at work: Lord Merton was talking with the latter; for he has now made his peace, and is again received into favour.
Mrs. Beaumont and Lady Louisa were busy working; Lord Merton was chatting with Lady Louisa, as he had now reconciled and was welcomed back into their good graces.
I seated myself, as usual, by the window. Lord Orville, in a few minutes, came to me, and said, “Why is Miss Anville so grave?”
I sat down, as usual, by the window. Lord Orville, a few minutes later, came over to me and asked, "Why is Miss Anville looking so serious?"
“Not grave, my Lord,” said I, “only stupid;” and I took up a book.
“Not serious, my Lord,” I said, “just foolish;” and I picked up a book.
“You will go,” said he, after a short pause, “to the assembly to-night?”
"You will go," he said after a brief pause, "to the gathering tonight?"
“No, my Lord, certainly not.”
“No, my Lord, definitely not.”
“Neither then will I; for I should be sorry to sully the remembrance I have of the happiness I enjoyed at the last.”
“Neither will I; because I would hate to tarnish the memory of the happiness I experienced last time.”
Mrs. Selwyn then coming in, general enquiries were made to all but me, of who would go to the assembly? Lord Orville instantly declared he had letters to write at home; but every one else settled to go.
Mrs. Selwyn then came in, and everyone except me started asking general questions about who would be going to the assembly. Lord Orville quickly said he had letters to write at home, but everyone else decided to go.
I then hastened Mrs. Selwyn away, though not before she had said to Lord Orville, “Pray, has your Lordship obtained Miss Anville’s leave to favour us with your company?”
I quickly urged Mrs. Selwyn to leave, but not before she said to Lord Orville, “Please, have you gotten Miss Anville’s permission to join us?”
“I have not, Madam,” answered he, “had the vanity to ask it.”
"I haven't, ma'am," he replied, "had the arrogance to ask for it."
During our walk, Mrs. Selvyn tormented me unmercifully. She told me, that since I declined any addition to our party, I must, doubtless, be conscious of my own powers of entertainment; and begged me, therefore, to exert them freely. I repented a thousand times having consented to walk alone with her; for though I made the most painful efforts to appear in spirits, her raillery quite overpowered me.
During our walk, Mrs. Selvyn teased me relentlessly. She said that since I refused to let anyone join us, I must be fully aware of my ability to keep myself entertained and asked me to show that off openly. I regretted a thousand times agreeing to walk alone with her because, even though I tried hard to seem upbeat, her mockery completely overwhelmed me.
We went first to the pump-room. It was full of company; and the moment we entered, I heard a murmuring of, “That’s she!” and, to my great confusion, I saw every eye turned towards me. I pulled my hat over my face, and, by the assistance of Mrs. Selwyn, endeavoured to screen myself from observation, nevertheless, I found I was so much the object of general attention, that I entreated her to hasten away. But unfortunately she had entered into conversation, very earnestly, with a gentleman of her acquaintance, and would not listen to me; but said, that if I was tired of waiting, I might walk on to the milliner’s with the Miss Watkins, two young ladies I had seen at Mrs. Beaumont’s, who were going thither.
We went to the pump-room first. It was crowded, and as soon as we walked in, I heard people whispering, “That’s her!” To my embarrassment, I noticed that everyone was staring at me. I pulled my hat down over my face and tried to hide from view with Mrs. Selwyn’s help, but I realized I was still the focus of attention, so I begged her to leave. Unfortunately, she had started a serious conversation with a man she knew and wouldn't listen to me; she told me that if I was tired of waiting, I could go ahead to the milliner’s with the Miss Watkins, two young ladies I had seen at Mrs. Beaumont’s, who were headed there.
I accepted the offer very readily, and away we went. But we had not gone three yards, before we were followed by a party of young men, who took every possible opportunity of looking at us, and, as they walked behind, talked aloud, in a manner at once unintelligible and absurd. “Yes,” cried one,” ’tis certainly she!-mark but her blushing cheek!”
I quickly accepted the offer, and off we went. But we hadn’t gone three yards before a group of young men started following us, looking at us whenever they could. As they walked behind us, they talked loudly in a way that was both confusing and ridiculous. “Yes,” one of them shouted, “that’s definitely her! Just look at her blushing cheek!”
“And then her eye -her downcast eye!”-cried another.
“And then her eye—her downcast eye!” another one exclaimed.
“True, oh most true,” said a third, “every beauty is her own!”
“Absolutely, that’s so true,” said a third person, “every beauty is unique to herself!”
“But then,” said the first, “her mind,-now the difficulty is, to find out the truth of that, for she will not say a word.”
“But then,” said the first, “her mind—now the challenge is figuring out the truth of that, because she won’t say a word.”
“She is timid,” answered another; “mark but her timid air.”
“She’s shy,” replied another; “just look at her nervous vibe.”
During this conversation, we walked on silent and quick; as we knew not to whom it was particularly addressed, we were all equally ashamed, and equally desirous to avoid such unaccountable observations.
During this conversation, we walked silently and quickly; since we didn't know who it was specifically directed at, we were all equally embarrassed and equally eager to avoid such strange scrutiny.
Soon after we were caught in a shower of rain. We hurried on; and these gentlemen, following us, offered their services in the most pressing manner, begging us to make use of their arms; and, while I almost ran, in order to avoid their impertinence, I was suddenly met by Sir Clement Willoughby!
Soon after, we got caught in a rain shower. We rushed on, and these gentlemen, trailing behind us, insisted on helping us in the most urgent way, urging us to take advantage of their assistance. While I hurried along to escape their rudeness, I suddenly ran into Sir Clement Willoughby!
We both started; “Good God!” he exclaimed, “Miss Anville!” and then, regarding my tormentors with an air of displeasure, he earnestly enquired, if any thing had alarmed me?
We both jumped. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed, “Miss Anville!” Then, looking at my tormentors with an expression of disapproval, he urgently asked if anything had scared me.
“No, no;” cried I, for I found no difficulty now to disengage myself from these youths, who, probably, concluding from the commanding air of Sir Clement, that he had a right to protect me, quietly gave way to him, and entirely quitted us.
“No, no,” I said, as I easily pulled away from these guys who, probably thinking that Sir Clement had the authority to protect me because of his dominant presence, stepped aside for him and completely left us.
With his usual impetuosity, he then began a thousand enquiries, accompanied with as many compliments; and he told me, that he arrived at Bristol but this morning, which he had entirely devoted to endeavours to discover where I lodged.
With his usual eagerness, he started asking me a ton of questions, along with just as many compliments; he told me that he arrived in Bristol just this morning, which he had completely dedicated to trying to find out where I was staying.
“Did you know, then,” said I, “that I was at Bristol?”
“Did you know, then,” I said, “that I was in Bristol?”
“Would to Heaven,” cried he, “that I could remain in ignorance of your proceedings with the same contentment you do of mine! then should I not for ever journey upon the wings of Hope, to meet my own despair! You cannot even judge of the cruelty of my fate; for the ease and serenity of your mind incapacitates you from feeling for the agitation of mine!”
“Would to Heaven,” he exclaimed, “that I could stay blissfully unaware of your actions like you do of mine! Then I wouldn’t have to constantly ride the waves of Hope only to face my own despair! You can’t even comprehend the cruelty of my situation; your calm and ease prevent you from understanding my turmoil!”
The ease and serenity of my mind! alas, how little do I merit those words!
The calm and peace of my mind! Oh, how unworthy I am of those words!
“But,” added he, “had accident brought me hither, had I not known of your journey, the voice of fame would have proclaimed it to me instantly upon my arrival.”
"But," he added, "if an accident had brought me here and I hadn't known about your journey, word would have spread it to me right away as soon as I arrived."
“The voice of fame!” repeated I.
“The voice of fame!” I repeated.
“Yes, for yours was the first name I heard at the pump-room. But had I not heard your name, such a description could have painted no one else.”
“Yes, yours was the first name I heard at the pump-room. But even if I hadn’t heard your name, that description could only fit you.”
“Indeed,” said I, “I do not understand you.” But just then arriving at the milliner’s our conversation ended; for Miss Watkins called me to look at caps and ribbons.
“Yeah,” I said, “I don’t get what you’re saying.” But just as we got to the milliner’s, our chat was cut short; Miss Watkins called me over to check out some caps and ribbons.
Sir Clement, however, has the art of being always at home; he was very soon engaged, as busily as ourselves, in looking at lace ruffles; yet he took an opportunity of saying to me, in a low voice, “How charmed I am to see you look so well! I was told you were ill;-but I never saw you in better health,-never more infinitely lovely!”
Sir Clement, however, has a knack for always being at home; he quickly got as caught up as we were in looking at lace ruffles. Still, he found a moment to lean in and say to me, in a low voice, “I’m so thrilled to see you looking so well! I heard you were sick—but I’ve never seen you in better health—never more stunning!”
I turned away to examine the ribbons, and soon after Mrs. Selwyn made her appearance. I found that she was acquainted with Sir Clement; and her manner of speaking to him convinced me that he was a favourite with her.
I turned away to look at the ribbons, and soon after, Mrs. Selwyn showed up. I discovered that she knew Sir Clement, and the way she talked to him made it clear he was one of her favorites.
When their mutual compliments were over, she turned to me, and said, “Pray, Miss Anville, how long can you live without nourishment?”
When their back-and-forth compliments ended, she looked at me and said, “So, Miss Anville, how long do you think you can go without food?”
“Indeed, Ma’am,” said I, laughing, “I have never tried.”
“Of course, Ma’am,” I said, laughing, “I’ve never tried.”
“Because so long, and no longer,” answered she, “you may remain at Bristol.”
“Because it's been so long, and no more,” she replied, “you can stay in Bristol.”
“Why, what is the matter, Ma’am?”
"What's wrong, Ma'am?"
“The matter!-why, all the ladies are at open war with you,-the whole pump-room is in confusion; and you, innocent as you pretend to look, are the cause. However, if you take my advice, you will be very careful how you eat and drink during your stay.”
“The issue is that all the ladies are openly at war with you—the entire pump room is in chaos; and you, as innocent as you try to look, are the reason for it. However, if you want my advice, be very careful about what you eat and drink while you’re here.”
I begged her to explain herself: and she then told me, that a copy of verses had been dropped in the pump-room, and read there aloud: “The beauties of the Wells,” said she, “are all mentioned, but you are the Venus to whom the prize is given.”
I begged her to explain herself, and she told me that a copy of some verses had been left in the pump room and read aloud there: “The beauties of the Wells,” she said, “are all mentioned, but you are the Venus who gets the prize.”
“Is it then possible,” cried Sir Clement, “that you have not seen these verses?”
“Is it really possible,” exclaimed Sir Clement, “that you haven’t seen these verses?”
“I hardly know,” answered I, “whether any body has.”
“I barely know,” I replied, “if anyone has.”
“I assure you,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “if you give me the invention of them, you do me an honour I by no means deserve.”
"I promise you," Mrs. Selwyn said, "if you credit me with creating them, you're giving me an honor I definitely don't deserve."
“I wrote down in my tablets,” said Sir Clement, “the stanzas which concern Miss Anville this morning at the pump-room; and I will do myself the honour of copying them for her this evening.”
“I wrote down in my notebook,” said Sir Clement, “the verses that are about Miss Anville this morning at the pump-room; and I will take the pleasure of copying them for her this evening.”
“But why the part that concerns Miss Anville?” said Mrs. Selwyn; “Did you ever see her before this morning?”
“But why the part that involves Miss Anville?” said Mrs. Selwyn; “Have you ever seen her before this morning?”
“O yes,” answered he, “I have had that happiness frequently at Captain Mirvan’s. Too, too frequently!” added he, in a low voice, as Mrs. Selwyn turned to the milliner: and as soon as she was occupied in examining some trimmings, he came to me, and almost whether I would or not, entered into conversation with me.
“Oh yes,” he replied, “I’ve experienced that joy often at Captain Mirvan’s. Way too often!” he added quietly as Mrs. Selwyn turned to the milliner. Once she was busy looking at some trimmings, he approached me and, almost whether I wanted to or not, struck up a conversation.
“I have a thousand things,” cried he, “to say to you. Pray where are you?”
“I have a ton of things,” he exclaimed, “to tell you. Where are you?”
“With Mrs. Selwyn, Sir.”
"With Mrs. Selwyn, Sir."
“Indeed!-then, for once, chance is my friend. And how long have you been here?”
“Really! For once, luck is on my side. How long have you been here?”
“About three weeks.”
“Approximately three weeks.”
“Good Heaven! what an anxious search have I had, to discover your abode, since you so suddenly left town! The termagant, Madame Duval, refused me all intelligence. Oh, Miss Anville, did you know what I have endured! the sleepless, restless state of suspense I have been tortured with, you could not, all cruel as you are, you could not have received me with such frigid indifference?”
“Goodness! What an anxious search I’ve had to find out where you are since you left town so suddenly! That terrible Madame Duval wouldn’t give me any information. Oh, Miss Anville, if you only knew what I’ve gone through! The sleepless, restless state of suspense I’ve been tortured with—you couldn’t have received me with such cold indifference, no matter how cruel you are.”
“Received you, Sir!”
"Got it, Sir!"
“Why, is not my visit to you?” Do you think I should have made this journey, but for the happiness of again seeing you?”
“Why, isn’t my visit to you enough reason? Do you think I would have made this trip if it wasn’t to be happy seeing you again?”
“Indeed it is possible I might,-since so many others do.”
"Yes, it's possible I might, since so many others do."
“Cruel, cruel girl! you know that I adore you! you know you are the mistress of my soul, and arbitress of my fate!”
“Cruel, cruel girl! You know that I adore you! You know you are the mistress of my soul and the one who controls my fate!”
Mrs. Selwyn then advancing to us, he assumed a more disengaged air, and asked, if he should not have the pleasure of seeing her in the evening at the assembly?
Mrs. Selwyn then approached us, and he took on a more casual demeanor and asked if he would have the pleasure of seeing her that evening at the assembly.
“Oh, yes,” cried she, “we shall certainly be there; so you may bring the verses with you, if Miss Anville can wait for them so long.”
“Oh, yes,” she exclaimed, “we'll definitely be there; so you can bring the verses with you, if Miss Anville can wait for them that long.”
“I hope then,” returned he, “that you will do me the honour to dance with me?”
“I hope then,” he replied, “that you will do me the honor of dancing with me?”
I thanked him, but said I should not be at the assembly.
I thanked him, but said I wouldn't be at the meeting.
“Not be at the assembly?” cried Mrs. Selwyn, “Why, have you, too, letters to write?”
“Not going to the meeting?” exclaimed Mrs. Selwyn. “What, do you have letters to write too?”
She looked at me with a significant archness, that made me colour; and I hastily answered, “No, indeed, Ma’am!”
She looked at me with a meaningful smirk that made me blush, and I quickly replied, “No, of course not, Ma’am!”
“You have not!” cried she, yet more drily; “then pray, my dear, do you stay at home to help,-or to hinder others?”
“You haven't!” she exclaimed, even more dryly; “then please, my dear, are you staying at home to help or to hold others back?”
“To do neither, Ma’am,” answered I, in much confusion; “so, if you please, I will not stay at home.”
“To do neither, Ma’am,” I replied, feeling quite confused; “so, if you don’t mind, I won’t stay at home.”
“You allow me, then,” said Sir Clement, “to hope for the honour of your hand?”
“You let me hope for the honor of your hand, then?” said Sir Clement.
I only bowed,-for the dread of Mrs. Selwyn’s raillery made me not dare refuse him.
I just bowed—because the fear of Mrs. Selwyn's teasing made me too afraid to refuse him.
Soon after this we walked home: Sir Clement accompanied us; and the conversation that passed between Mrs. Selwyn and him was supported in so lively a manner, that I should have been much entertained, had my mind been more at ease: but, alas! I could think of nothing but the capricious, the unmeaning appearance which the alteration in my conduct must make in the eyes of the Lord Orville! And much as I wished to avoid him, greatly as I desire to save myself from having my weakness known to him,-yet I cannot endure to incur his ill opinion,-and, unacquainted as he is with the reasons by which I am actuated, how can he fail contemning a change to him so unaccountable?
Soon after that, we walked home: Sir Clement joined us; and the conversation between Mrs. Selwyn and him was so lively that I would have found it very entertaining if I had been feeling more relaxed. But, unfortunately, I could think of nothing but how strange and pointless my sudden change in behavior must seem to Lord Orville! As much as I wanted to avoid him and was eager to protect myself from him knowing my weakness, I couldn't stand the thought of him thinking poorly of me. And since he doesn't know the reasons behind my actions, how could he not look down on a change that must seem so baffling to him?
As we entered the garden, he was the first object we saw. He advanced to meet us; and I could not help observing, that at sight of each other both he and Sir Clement changed colour.
As we walked into the garden, he was the first thing we noticed. He came over to greet us, and I couldn't help but notice that both he and Sir Clement looked pale when they saw each other.
We went into the parlour, where we found the same party we had left. Mrs. Selwyn presented Sir Clement to Mrs. Beaumont; Lady Louisa and Lord Merton he seemed well acquainted with already.
We went into the living room, where we found the same group we had left. Mrs. Selwyn introduced Sir Clement to Mrs. Beaumont; he already seemed to know Lady Louisa and Lord Merton well.
The conversation was upon the general subjects, of the weather, the company at the Wells, and the news of the day. But Sir Clement, drawing his chair next to mine, took every opportunity of addressing himself to me in particular.
The conversation was about general topics like the weather, the people at the Wells, and the day's news. But Sir Clement, pulling his chair closer to mine, took every chance to talk directly to me.
I could not but remark the striking difference of his attention, and that of Lord Orville: the latter has such gentleness of manners, such delicacy of conduct, and an air so respectful, that, when he flatters most, he never distresses; and when he most confers honour, appears to receive it! The former obtrudes his attention, and forces mine; it is so pointed, that it always confuses me, and so public, that it attracts general notice. Indeed I have sometimes thought that he would rather wish, than dislike to have his partiality for me known, as he takes great care to prevent my being spoken to by any but himself.
I couldn't help but notice the stark contrast between his attention and that of Lord Orville: the latter has such a gentle demeanor, such tact in his actions, and a presence so respectful that, even when he flatters me the most, he never makes me uncomfortable; and when he honors me, it feels like he’s the one receiving the honor! The former, on the other hand, forces his attention on me, making it hard for me to respond; it's so intense that it always throws me off, and so obvious that it draws everyone's attention. In fact, I've sometimes thought he would prefer my knowledge of his favoritism rather than dislike it, since he makes a point of ensuring that only he speaks to me.
When at length he went away, Lord Orville took his seat, and said, with a half smile, “Shall I call Sir Clement,-or will you call me an usurper for taking this place?-You make me no answer?-Must I then suppose that Sir Clement-”
When he finally left, Lord Orville sat down and said with a half-smile, “Should I call Sir Clement, or will you just call me an intruder for sitting here? You’re not answering me? So, should I assume that Sir Clement—”
“It is little worth your Lordship’s while,” said I, “to suppose any thing upon so insignificant an occasion.”
“It’s not worth your time,” I said, “to think anything about such a trivial matter.”
“Pardon me,” cried he;-“to me nothing is insignificant in which you are concerned.”
“Excuse me,” he exclaimed, “nothing is unimportant to me when it involves you.”
To this I made no answer; neither did he say any thing more, till the ladies retired to dress: and then, when I would have followed them, he stopped me, saying, “One moment, I entreat you!”
To this, I didn’t respond; nor did he say anything more until the ladies went to get ready. Then, when I was about to follow them, he stopped me, saying, “Just a moment, please!”
I turned back, and he went on, “I greatly fear that I have been so unfortunate as to offend you; yet so repugnant to my very soul is the idea, that I know not how to suppose it possible I can unwittingly have done the thing in the world that, designedly, I would wish to avoid.”
I turned back, and he continued, “I really fear that I might have accidentally offended you; yet the thought of that is so distressing to me that I can't imagine how I could have unknowingly done something that I would never want to do on purpose.”
“No, indeed, my Lord, you have not,” said I.
“No, you definitely haven’t, my Lord,” I said.
“You sigh!” cried he, taking my hand, “would to Heaven I were the sharer of your uneasiness, whencesoever it springs! with what earnestness would I not struggle to alleviate it!-Tell me, my dear Miss Anville,-my new-adopted sister, my sweet and most amiable friend!-tell me, I beseech you, if I can afford you any assistance?”
“You sigh!” he exclaimed, taking my hand. “I wish to God I could share your worries, no matter where they come from! I would do everything I could to ease it! Please, my dear Miss Anville—my newly adopted sister, my sweet and wonderful friend—tell me, I beg you, if there's anything I can do to help you?”
“None, none, my Lord!” cried I, withdrawing my hand, and moving towards the door.
“None, none, my Lord!” I exclaimed, pulling my hand back and stepping toward the door.
“Is it then impossible I can serve you?-Perhaps you wish to see Mr. Macartney again?”
“Is it really impossible for me to help you? Maybe you want to see Mr. Macartney again?”
“No, my Lord.” And I held the door open.
“No, my Lord.” I held the door open.
“I am not, I own, sorry for that. Yet, oh! Miss Anville, there is a question,-there is a conjecture,-I know not how to mention, because I dread the result!-But I see you are in haste;-perhaps in the evening I may have the honour of a longer conversation.-Yet one thing, will you have the goodness to allow me to ask?-Did you, this morning, when you went to the Wells,-did you know whom you should meet there?”
“I’m not sorry for that, to be honest. But, oh! Miss Anville, there’s something I want to ask—a thought I’m hesitant to bring up because I fear the outcome! But I can see you’re in a hurry—maybe I can have the honor of a longer conversation this evening. Still, there’s one thing I’d like to ask you—when you went to the Wells this morning, did you know who you were going to meet there?”
“Who, my Lord?”
"Who is it, my Lord?"
“I beg your pardon a thousand times for a curiosity so unlicensed;-but I will say no more at present.”
“I’m really sorry for being so nosy, but I won’t say anything else for now.”
He bowed, expecting me to go;-and then, with quick steps, but a heavy heart, I came to my own room. His question, I am sure, meant Sir Clement Willoughby; and had I not imposed upon myself the severe task of avoiding, flying Lord Orville, with all my power, I would instantly have satisfied him of my ignorance of Sir Clement’s journey. And yet more did I long to say something of the assembly, since I found he depended upon my spending the evening at home.
He bowed, expecting me to leave; and then, with quick steps but a heavy heart, I went to my room. I’m sure his question was about Sir Clement Willoughby; if I hadn’t committed to the difficult task of avoiding Lord Orville with all my strength, I would have instantly let him know that I was unaware of Sir Clement’s trip. Still, I really wanted to say something about the gathering since I realized he was counting on me to spend the evening at home.
I did not go down stairs again till the family was assembled to dinner. My dress, I saw, struck Lord Orville with astonishment; and I was myself so much ashamed of appearing whimsical and unsteady, that I could not look up.
I didn’t go downstairs again until the family was gathered for dinner. My dress, I noticed, surprised Lord Orville; and I was so embarrassed about looking peculiar and unpredictable that I couldn’t make eye contact.
“I understood,” said Mrs. Beaumont, “that Miss Anville did not go out this evening.”
“I understand,” said Mrs. Beaumont, “that Miss Anville didn’t go out tonight.”
“Her intention in the morning,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “was to stay at home; but there is a fascinating power in an assembly, which, upon second thoughts, is not to be resisted.”
“Her plan in the morning,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “was to stay home; but there’s an irresistible allure in a gathering that, upon reflection, cannot be ignored.”
“The assembly!” cried Lord Orville; “are you then going to the assembly?”
“The assembly!” shouted Lord Orville. “Are you really going to the assembly?”
I made no answer; and we all took our places at table.
I didn't reply, and we all sat down at the table.
It was not without difficulty that I contrived to give up my usual seat; but I was determined to adhere to the promise in my yesterday’s letter, though I saw that Lord Orville seemed quite confounded at my visible endeavours to avoid him.
It wasn't easy for me to give up my usual seat; however, I was determined to stick to the promise I made in my letter yesterday, even though I could tell that Lord Orville looked completely baffled by my obvious attempts to steer clear of him.
After dinner, we all went into the drawing-room together, as there were no gentlemen to detain his Lordship; and then, before I could place myself out of his way, he said, “You are then really going to the assembly?-May I ask if you shall dance?”
After dinner, we all went into the living room together, since there were no gentlemen to keep his Lordship busy; and then, before I could step aside, he said, “So you’re really going to the assembly? Can I ask if you’re going to dance?”
“I believe not,-my Lord.”
"I don't believe so, my Lord."
“If I did not fear,” continued he, “that you would be tired of the same partner at two following assemblies, I would give up my letter-writing till to-morrow evening, and solicit the honour of your hand.”
“If I didn't worry,” he continued, “that you might get tired of the same partner at two consecutive events, I would save my letter-writing for tomorrow evening and ask for the honor of your hand.”
“If I do dance,” said I, in great confusion, “I believe I am engaged.”
“If I dance,” I said, feeling really awkward, “I think I’m committed.”
“Engaged!” cried he, with earnestness, “May I ask to whom?”
“Engaged!” he exclaimed earnestly. “Can I ask who to?”
“To-Sir Clement Willoughby, my Lord.”
"To Sir Clement Willoughby, my Lord."
He said nothing, but looked very little pleased, and did not address himself to me any more all the afternoon. Oh, Sir!-thus situated, how comfortless were the feelings of your Evelina!
He said nothing, but looked pretty unhappy, and didn’t talk to me at all for the rest of the afternoon. Oh, Sir! In this situation, your Evelina felt so alone!
Early in the evening, with his accustomed assiduity, Sir Clement came to conduct us to the assembly. He soon contrived to seat himself next me, and, in a low voice, paid me so many compliments, that I knew not which way to look.
Early in the evening, with his usual diligence, Sir Clement came to take us to the gathering. He quickly managed to sit next to me and, in a quiet voice, gave me so many compliments that I didn't know where to look.
Lord Orville hardly spoke a word, and his countenance was grave and thoughtful; yet, whenever I raised my eyes, his, I perceived, were directed towards me, though instantly, upon meeting mine, he looked another way.
Lord Orville hardly said a word, and his expression was serious and contemplative; still, whenever I looked up, I noticed his gaze was on me, though as soon as our eyes met, he quickly looked away.
In a short time, Sir Clement, taking from his pocket a folded paper, said, almost in a whisper, “Here, loveliest of women, you will see a faint, an unsuccessful attempt to paint the object of all my adoration! yet, weak as are the lines for the purpose, I envy beyond expression the happy mortal who has dared make the effort.”
In no time, Sir Clement pulled a folded paper from his pocket and said, almost in a whisper, “Here, most beautiful woman, you’ll see a feeble, unsuccessful attempt to capture the essence of everything I adore! Even though the lines are weak for the purpose, I can't help but envy the lucky soul who has dared to make the effort.”
“I will look at them,” said I, “some other time.” For, conscious that I was observed by Lord Orville, I could not bear he should see me take a written paper, so privately offered, from Sir Clement. But Sir Clement is an impracticable man, and I never succeeded in any attempt to frustrate whatever he had planned.
“I’ll look at them later,” I said. Since I was aware that Lord Orville was watching me, I couldn't stand the thought of him seeing me take a private note from Sir Clement. But Sir Clement is an impossible man, and I never succeeded in any effort to stop anything he had planned.
“No,” said he, still in a whisper, “you must take them now, while Lady Louisa is away;” for she and Mrs. Selwyn were gone up stairs to finish their dress, “as she must by no means see them.”
“No,” he said, still whispering, “you have to take them now, while Lady Louisa is out;” because she and Mrs. Selwyn had gone upstairs to finish their dress, “she absolutely must not see them.”
“Indeed,” said I, “I have no intention to show them.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I don’t plan on showing them.”
“But the only way,” answered he, “to avoid suspicion, is to take them in her absence. I would have read them aloud myself, but that they are not proper to be seen by any body in this house, yourself and Mrs. Selwyn excepted.”
“But the only way,” he replied, “to avoid any suspicion is to take them when she’s not around. I would have read them aloud myself, but they’re not appropriate for anyone else in this house to see, except you and Mrs. Selwyn.”
Then again he presented me the paper, which I now was obliged to take, as I found declining it was vain. But I was sorry that this action should be seen, and the whispering remarked, though the purport of the conversation was left to conjecture.
Then he handed me the paper again, which I was now forced to accept, as refusing it seemed pointless. But I regretted that this action would be noticed, and the whispering commented on it, even though the details of the conversation were left to speculation.
As I held it in my hand, Sir Clement teazed me to look at it immediately; and told me, the reason he could not produce the lines publicly was, that among the ladies who were mentioned, and supposed to be rejected, was Lady Louisa Larpent. I am much concerned at this circumstance, as I cannot doubt but that it will render me more disagreeable to her than ever, if she should hear of it.
As I held it in my hand, Sir Clement urged me to look at it right away and explained that the reason he couldn't share the lines publicly was that one of the women mentioned, who was thought to be rejected, was Lady Louisa Larpent. I'm quite worried about this situation, as I can't help but think it will make me even more unpleasant to her if she finds out.
I will now copy the verses, which Sir Clement would not let me rest till I had read.
I will now copy the verses that Sir Clement insisted I read.
See last advance, with bashful grace,
Downcast eye, and blushing cheek,
Timid air, and beauteous face,
Anville,-whom the Graces seek.
Though ev’ry beauty is her own,
And though her mind each virtue fills,
Anville,-to her power unknown,
Artless strikes,-unconscious kills.
See the latest improvement, with shy elegance,
Downcast eyes and a flushed face,
Timid demeanor and lovely features,
Anville, whom the Graces seek.
Though every beauty belongs to her,
And her mind is full of every virtue,
Anville, unaware of her own power,
Naturally captivates, unwittingly enchants.I am sure, my dear Sir, you will not wonder that a panegyric such as this should, in reading, give me the greatest confusion; and, unfortunately, before I had finished it, the ladies returned.
I’m sure, my dear Sir, you won’t be surprised that reading a praise like this made me feel really flustered; and, unfortunately, before I could finish it, the ladies came back.
“What have you there, my dear?” said Mrs. Selwyn.
“What do you have there, my dear?” said Mrs. Selwyn.
“Nothing, Ma’am,” said I, hastily folding, and putting it in my pocket.
“Nothing, Ma’am,” I said, quickly folding it up and putting it in my pocket.
“And has nothing,” cried she, “the power of rouge?”
“And has nothing,” she cried, “the power of makeup?”
I made no answer; a deep sigh, which escaped Lord Orville at that moment, reached my ears, and gave me sensations-which I dare not mention!
I didn’t respond; a deep sigh from Lord Orville at that moment reached my ears and stirred feelings I can’t even describe!
Lord Merton then handed Lady Louisa and Mrs. Beaumont to the latter’s carriage. Mrs. Selwyn led the way to Sir Clement’s, who handed me in after her.
Lord Merton then escorted Lady Louisa and Mrs. Beaumont to Mrs. Beaumont’s carriage. Mrs. Selwyn led the way to Sir Clement’s, who helped me in after her.
During the ride I did not once speak; but when I came to the assembly room, Sir Clement took care that I should not preserve my silence. He asked me immediately to dance; I begged him to excuse me, and seek some other partner. But on the contrary, he told me, he was very glad I would sit still, as he had a million of things to say to me.
During the ride, I didn’t say a word; but when I got to the assembly room, Sir Clement made sure I wouldn’t stay quiet. He immediately asked me to dance, and I asked him to find someone else. But instead, he said he was actually glad I would sit still because he had a million things to say to me.
He then began to tell me, how much he had suffered from absence; how greatly he was alarmed when he heard I had left town; and how cruelly difficult he had found it to trace me; which, at last, he could only do by sacrificing another week to Captain Mirvan.
He then started telling me how much he had suffered from my absence, how worried he was when he heard I had left town, and how frustratingly hard it had been for him to find me; in the end, he could only do so by giving up another week to Captain Mirvan.
“And Howard Grove,” continued he, “which, at my first visit, I thought the most delightful spot upon earth, now appeared to me the most dismal: the face of the country seemed altered; the walks, which I had thought most pleasant, were now most stupid: Lady Howard, who had appeared a cheerful and respectable old lady, now appeared in the common John Trot style of other aged dames: Mrs. Mirvan, whom I had esteemed as an amiable piece of still-life, now became so insipid, that I could hardly keep awake in her company: the daughter, too, whom I had regarded as a good-humoured, pretty sort of a girl, now seemed too insignificant for notice: and as to the Captain, I had always thought him a booby,-but now he appeared a savage!”
“And Howard Grove,” he continued, “which, on my first visit, I thought was the most amazing place on earth, now felt like the most depressing. The landscape seemed different; the paths that I once found so enjoyable were now boring. Lady Howard, who had seemed like a cheerful and respectable old lady, now looked just like any other elderly woman. Mrs. Mirvan, whom I had seen as a nice but quiet person, now felt so dull that I could barely stay awake around her. The daughter, whom I had thought was a cheerful, pretty girl, now seemed too unremarkable to notice. And as for the Captain, I had always thought he was a fool—but now he seemed like a brute!”
“Indeed, Sir Clement,” cried I, angrily, “I will not hear you speak thus of my best friends.”
“Absolutely not, Sir Clement,” I exclaimed, angrily, “I refuse to let you talk like that about my closest friends.”
“I beg your pardon,” said he, “but the contrast of my two visits was too striking not to be mentioned.”
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but the difference between my two visits was too obvious not to mention.”
He then asked what I thought of the verses?
He then asked what I thought of the verses.
“Either,” said I, “they are written ironically, or by some madman.”
“Either,” I said, “they're written sarcastically, or by some crazy person.”
Such a profusion of compliments ensued, that I was obliged to propose dancing, in my own defence. When we stood up, “I intended,” said he, “to have discovered the author by his looks; but I find you so much the general loadstone of attention, that my suspicions change their object every moment. Surely you must yourself have some knowledge who he is?”
So many compliments poured in that I felt I had to suggest dancing to protect myself. As we got up, he said, “I planned to figure out who the author was by their looks, but I see that you attract so much attention that my suspicions keep shifting every moment. Surely you must know who it is?”
I told him no. Yet, my dear Sir, I must own to you, I have no doubt but that Mr. Macartney must be the author; no one else would speak of me so partially; and, indeed, his poetical turn puts it, with me, beyond dispute.
I told him no. However, my dear Sir, I have to admit that I have no doubt that Mr. Macartney must be the author; no one else would talk about me so favorably, and honestly, his poetic talent makes it clear to me.
He asked me a thousand questions concerning Lord Orville; how long he had been at Bristol?-what time I had spent at Clifton?-whether he rode out every morning?-whether I ever trusted myself in a phaeton? and a multitude of other enquiries, all tending to discover if I was honoured with much of his Lordship’s attention, and all made with his usual freedom and impetuosity.
He asked me a ton of questions about Lord Orville: how long he had been in Bristol? How much time I spent in Clifton? Did he go for a ride every morning? Did I ever take a ride in a phaeton? And a bunch of other questions, all trying to figure out if I received a lot of attention from his Lordship, and he asked them all with his typical straightforwardness and eagerness.
Fortunately, as I much wished to retire early, Lady Louisa makes a point of being the first who quit the rooms, and therefore we got home in very tolerable time.
Fortunately, since I really wanted to leave early, Lady Louisa made sure to be the first one to leave the rooms, so we got home at a pretty decent time.
Lord Orville’s reception of us was grave and cold: far from distinguishing me, as usual, by particular civilities, Lady Louisa herself could not have seen me enter the room with more frigid unconcern, nor have more scrupulously avoided honouring me with any notice. But chiefly I was struck to see, that he suffered Sir Clement, who stayed supper, to sit between us, without any effort to prevent him, though till then, he had seemed to be even tenacious of a seat next mine.
Lord Orville welcomed us with a serious and distant attitude: instead of showing me the usual courtesies, Lady Louisa herself couldn't have acknowledged my entrance into the room with more icy indifference, nor could she have been more determined to avoid giving me any attention. But what really struck me was that he allowed Sir Clement, who stayed for supper, to sit between us without trying to stop it, even though up until that point, he had seemed very insistent about sitting next to me.
This little circumstance affected me more than I can express; yet I endeavoured to rejoice at it, since neglect and indifference from him may be my best friends.-But, alas!-so suddenly, so abruptly to forfeit his attention!-to lose his friendship!-Oh, Sir, these thoughts pierced my soul!-scarce could I keep my seat; for not all my efforts could restrain the tears from trickling down my cheeks: however, as Lord Orville saw them not, for Sir Clement’s head was constantly between us, I tried to collect my spirits, and succeeded so far as to keep my place with decency, till Sir Clement took leave; and then, not daring to trust my eyes to meet those of Lord Orville, I retired.
This situation affected me more than I can express; still, I tried to see the positive side, since his neglect and indifference might actually be what I need. But, oh no! To suddenly and completely lose his attention! To lose his friendship! Oh, sir, these thoughts cut deep! I could barely stay in my seat; no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't stop the tears from streaming down my face. However, since Lord Orville couldn’t see them because Sir Clement’s head was in the way, I tried to pull myself together and managed to stay composed enough until Sir Clement left. Then, not daring to meet Lord Orville’s gaze, I slipped away.
I have been writing ever since; for, certain that I could not sleep, I would not go to bed. Tell me, my dearest Sir, if you possibly can, tell me that you approve my change of conduct,-tell me that my altered behaviour to Lord Orville is right,-that my flying his society, and avoiding his civilities, are actions which you would have dictated.-Tell me this, and the sacrifices I have made will comfort me in the midst of my regret,-for never, never can I cease to regret that I have lost the friendship of Lord Orville!-Oh, Sir, I have slighted,-have rejected,-have thrown it away!-No matter, it was an honour I merited not to preserve; and now I see,-that my mind was unequal to sustaining it without danger.
I’ve been writing ever since; because I knew I couldn’t sleep, I just wouldn’t go to bed. Please, my dearest Sir, if you can, tell me you approve of the way I’ve changed my behavior—tell me that my decision to avoid Lord Orville’s company and sidestep his kindness is something you would support. If you say this, it will ease my sacrifices amidst my regret—because I will always, always regret losing Lord Orville’s friendship! Oh, Sir, I’ve overlooked it, I’ve pushed it away, I’ve thrown it away! But it doesn’t matter; it was an honor I didn’t deserve to keep, and now I realize that my mind wasn’t strong enough to handle it without risk.
Yet so strong is the desire you have implanted in me to act with uprightness and propriety, that, however the weakness of my heart may distress and afflict me, it will never, I humbly trust, render me wilfully culpable. The wish of doing well governs every other, as far as concerns my conduct,-for am I not your child?-the creature of your own forming!-Yet, Oh Sir, friend, parent, of my heart!-my feelings are all at war with my duties! and, while I most struggle to acquire self-approbation, my peace, my happiness, my hopes,-are lost!
Yet the desire you've instilled in me to act with integrity and respect is so strong that, no matter how much my heart struggles and suffers, I sincerely believe it will never lead me to act willfully wrong. The desire to do right controls every other wish when it comes to my behavior—after all, I am your child—the product of your own making! Yet, oh Sir, friend, parent of my heart!—my feelings are at odds with my responsibilities! And while I strive to gain self-approval, my peace, happiness, and hopes are all lost!
?Tis you alone can compose a mind so cruelly agitated: you, I well know, can feel pity for the weakness to which you are a stranger; and, though you blame the affliction, soothe and comfort the afflicted.
It’s only you who can calm a mind so tormented: you, I know, can feel compassion for the weakness that you don't experience; and, even though you criticize the suffering, you can also soothe and comfort those who are hurting.
LETTER LXXIII - MR. VILLARS TO EVELINA. Berry Hill, Oct. 3rd.
YOUR last communication, my dearest child, is indeed astonishing; that an acknowledged daughter and heiress of Sir John Belmont should be at Bristol, and still my Evelina bear the name of Anville, is to me inexplicable; yet the mystery of the letter to Lady Howard prepared me to expect something extraordinary upon Sir John Belmont’s return to England.
YOUR last message, my dearest child, is truly amazing; that an acknowledged daughter and heiress of Sir John Belmont should be in Bristol, and still my Evelina carries the name of Anville, is beyond my understanding; yet the mystery of the letter to Lady Howard had me anticipating something extraordinary upon Sir John Belmont’s return to England.
Whoever this young lady may be, it is certain she now takes a place to which you have a right indisputable. An after-marriage I never heard of; yet, supposing such a one to have happened, Miss Evelyn was certainly the first wife, and therefore her daughter must, at least, be entitled to the name of Belmont.
Whoever this young lady is, it's clear she now holds a position that you have an undeniable claim to. I've never heard of an after-marriage; however, if such a thing did occur, Miss Evelyn would definitely be the first wife, and therefore her daughter is at least entitled to the name Belmont.
Either there are circumstances in this affair at present utterly incomprehensible, or else some strange and most atrocious fraud has been practiced; which of these two is the case it now behoves us to enquire.
Either there are circumstances in this situation right now that are completely unclear, or some strange and horrible fraud has been committed; we need to find out which of these two is true.
My reluctance to this step gives way to my conviction of its propriety, since the reputation of your dear and much-injured mother must now either be fully cleared from blemish, or receive its final and indelible wound.
My hesitation about this step is replaced by my belief in its necessity, as the reputation of your beloved and much-wronged mother must now either be completely cleared of any disgrace, or suffer a permanent and irreparable blow.
The public appearance of a daughter of Sir John Belmont will revive the remembrance of Miss Evelyn’s story in all who have heard it,-who the mother was, will be universally demanded,-and if any other Lady Belmont should be named, the birth of my Evelina will receive a stigma, against which, honour, truth, and innocence may appeal in vain!-a stigma, which will eternally blast the fair fame of her virtuous mother, and cast upon her blameless self the odium of a title, which not all her purity can rescue from established shame and dishonour!
The public appearance of Sir John Belmont's daughter will bring back memories of Miss Evelyn’s story for everyone who knows it. People will definitely want to know who her mother was, and if any other Lady Belmont is mentioned, my Evelina will be unfairly marked. Honor, truth, and innocence will have no power against this mark—a mark that will forever tarnish the good name of her virtuous mother and unfairly put a stain on her innocent self with a title that not even her purity can redeem from lasting shame and dishonor!
No, my dear child, no; I will not quietly suffer the ashes of your mother to be treated with ignominy! her spotless character shall be justified to the world-her marriage shall be acknowledged, and her child shall bear the name to which she is lawfully entitled.
No, my dear child, no; I will not quietly allow your mother's ashes to be treated with disrespect! Her flawless character will be proven to the world—her marriage will be recognized, and her child will carry the name she is legally entitled to.
It is true, that Mrs. Mirvan would conduct this affair with more delicacy than Mrs. Selwyn; yet, perhaps, to save time, is of all considerations the most important, since the longer this mystery is suffered to continue, the more difficult may be rendered its explanation. The sooner, therefore, you can set out for town, the less formidable will be your task.
It’s true that Mrs. Mirvan would handle this situation more delicately than Mrs. Selwyn; however, to save time is arguably the most crucial consideration. The longer this mystery drags on, the harder it may be to explain. So, the sooner you can head to town, the easier your task will be.
Let not your timidity, my dear love, depress your spirits: I shall, indeed, tremble for you at a meeting so singular and so affecting, yet there can be no doubt of the success of your application: I enclose a letter from your unhappy mother, written, and reserved purposely for this occasion: Mrs. Clinton too, who attended her in her last illness, must accompany you to town.-But, without any other certificate of your birth, that which you carry in your countenance, as it could not be affected by artifice, so it cannot admit of a doubt.
Don't let your shyness, my dear, get you down: I will definitely feel anxious for you at such a unique and emotional meeting, but I have no doubt that your efforts will succeed. I'm enclosing a letter from your troubled mother, written especially for this occasion. Mrs. Clinton, who took care of her during her final illness, will also go with you to the city. But even without any other proof of your birth, the one that shows in your face cannot be faked, so there's no question about it.
And now, my Evelina, committed at length to the care of your real parent, receive the fervent prayers, wishes, and blessings, of him who so fondly adopted you!
And now, my Evelina, finally entrusted to the care of your true parent, receive the heartfelt prayers, wishes, and blessings from the one who so lovingly took you in!
May’st thou, O child of my bosom! may’st thou, in this change of situation, experience no change of disposition! but receive with humility, and support with meekness the elevation to which thou art rising! May thy manners, language, and deportment, all evince that modest equanimity, and cheerful gratitude, which not merely deserve, but dignify prosperity! May’st thou, to the last moments of an unblemished life, retain thy genuine simplicity, thy singleness of heart, thy guileless sincerity! And may’st thou, stranger to ostentation, and superior to insolence, with true greatness of soul shine forth conspicuous only in beneficence! ARTHUR VILLARS.
May you, O child of my heart! may you, in this change of circumstances, experience no change in your character! But accept with humility, and handle with grace the rise to which you are ascending! May your manners, speech, and conduct all reflect that modest calmness and joyful gratitude, which not only deserve but elevate prosperity! May you, until the very last moments of a pure life, hold onto your genuine simplicity, your wholeheartedness, and your honest sincerity! And may you, free from showiness and above rudeness, with true greatness of spirit stand out by your kindness! ARTHUR VILLARS.
LETTER LXXIV. [Inclosed in the preceding Letter.]
LADY BELMONT TO SIR JOHN BELMONT.
IN the firm hope that the moment of anguish which approaches will prove the period of my sufferings, once more I address myself to Sir John Belmont, in behalf of the child, who, if it survives its mother, will hereafter be the bearer of this letter.
IN the strong hope that the painful moment that’s coming will mark the end of my suffering, I once again reach out to Sir John Belmont on behalf of the child who, if it outlives its mother, will be the one to carry this letter.
Yet, in what terms,-Oh, most cruel of men!-can the lost Caroline address you, and not address you in vain? Oh, deaf to the voice of compassion-deaf to the sting of truth-deaf to every tie of honour-say, in what terms may the lost Caroline address you, and not address you in vain!
Yet, in what words—Oh, most cruel of men—can the lost Caroline speak to you, and not be ignored? Oh, deaf to the voice of compassion—deaf to the sting of truth—deaf to every bond of honor—tell me, in what words can the lost Caroline speak to you, and not be ignored!
Shall I call you by the loved, the respected title of husband?-No, you disclaim it!-the father of my infant?-No, you doom it to infamy!-the lover who rescued me from a forced marriage?-No, you have yourself betrayed me!-the friend from whom I hoped succour and protection?-No, you have consigned me to misery and destruction!
Shall I call you by the cherished, respected title of husband? No, you reject it! The father of my child? No, you condemn it to disgrace! The lover who saved me from an unwanted marriage? No, you have betrayed me yourself! The friend from whom I expected help and safety? No, you have doomed me to misery and ruin!
Oh, hardened against every plea of justice, remorse, or pity! how, and in what manner, may I hope to move thee? Is there one method I have left untried? remains there one resource unessayed? No! I have exhausted all the bitterness of reproach, and drained every sluice of compassion!
Oh, toughened against every appeal for justice, regret, or compassion! How can I hope to touch you? Is there any way I haven't tried? Is there any option I haven't explored? No! I've used up all the bitterness of blame and emptied every source of mercy!
Hopeless, and almost desperate, twenty times have I flung away my pen;-but the feelings of a mother, a mother agonizing for the fate of her child, again animating my courage, as often I have resumed it.
Hopeless and nearly desperate, I've thrown away my pen twenty times; but the emotions of a mother, a mother tormented by the fate of her child, have encouraged me to pick it up again just as many times.
Perhaps when I am no more, when the measure of my woes is completed, and the still, silent, unreproaching dust has received my sad remains,-then, perhaps, when accusation is no longer to be feared, nor detection to be dreaded, the voice of equity and the cry of nature may be heard.
Perhaps when I am gone, when the weight of my troubles is finally over, and the quiet, peaceful dust has taken my sorrowful body, then, maybe, when there's no more fear of accusation or worry about being found out, the voice of fairness and the call of nature may finally be heard.
Listen, Oh Belmont, to their dictates! reprobate not your child, though you have reprobated its mother. The evils that are past, perhaps, when too late, you may wish to recal; the young creature you have persecuted, perhaps, when too late, you may regret that you have destroyed;-you may think with horror of the deceptions you have practised, and the pangs of remorse may follow me to the tomb:-Oh, Belmont, all my resentment softens into pity at the thought! what will become of thee, good Heaven, when, with the eye of penitence, thou reviewest thy past conduct!
Listen, oh Belmont, to their advice! Don’t reject your child, even though you’ve turned away from its mother. You might regret the mistakes of the past; when it's too late, you may wish you could take them back. The young one you’ve treated so harshly might one day be a source of your regret—you may find yourself horrified by the lies you’ve told, and feelings of guilt might follow me to my grave. Oh, Belmont, all my anger turns to sympathy at the thought! What will happen to you, good heavens, when you look back on your past actions with remorse?
Hear, then, the solemn, the last address, with which the unhappy Caoline will importune thee.
Hear now the serious, final speech that the unfortunate Caroline will bother you with.
If when the time of thy contrition arrives,-for arrive it must!-when the sense of thy treachery shall rob thee of almost every other, if then thy tortured heart shall sigh to expiate thy guilt,-mark the conditions upon which I leave thee my forgiveness.
If the time comes for you to feel remorse—and it will come!—when the realization of your betrayal takes almost everything else away from you, if then your aching heart longs to make up for your guilt, pay attention to the conditions under which I grant you my forgiveness.
Thou knowest I am thy wife!-clear, then, to the world the reputation thou hast sullied, and receive, as thy lawful successor, the child who will present thee this, my dying request!
You know I am your wife! So, clear your tarnished reputation with the world and accept, as your rightful heir, the child who will present this, my dying request!
The worthiest, the most benevolent, the best of men, to whose consoling kindness I owe the little tranquillity I have been able to preserve, has plighted me his faith, that, upon no other conditions, he will part with his helpless charge.
The most worthy, the kindest, the best man, to whose comforting kindness I owe the little peace I’ve been able to maintain, has promised me that he will not let go of his helpless responsibility under any circumstances.
Should’st thou, in the features of this deserted innocent, trace the resemblance of the wretched Caroline,-should its face bear the marks of its birth, and revive in thy memory the image of its mother, wilt thou not, Belmont, wilt thou not therefore renounce it?-Oh, babe of my fondest affection! for whom already I experience all the tenderness of maternal pity! look not like thy unfortunate mother,-lest the parent, whom the hand of death may spare, shall be snatched from thee by the more cruel means of unnatural antipathy!
If you see, in the features of this abandoned child, a resemblance to the miserable Caroline—if its face shows the signs of its origins and brings to mind the image of its mother, won't you, Belmont, won't you renounce it then? Oh, child of my deepest love! For whom I already feel all the tenderness of a mother’s pity! Do not look like your unfortunate mother—otherwise, the parent whom death might spare could be taken from you by the crueler force of unnatural hatred!
I can write no more. The small share of serenity I have painfully acquired, will not bear the shock of the dreadful ideas that crowd upon me.
I can’t write any more. The little bit of peace I’ve managed to find won’t withstand the overwhelming dread of the terrible thoughts that keep flooding in.
Adieu,-for ever!-
Goodbye, forever!
Yet, Oh!-shall I not, in this last farewell, which thou wilt not read till every stormy passion is extinct, and the kind grave has embosomed all my sorrows,-shall I not offer to the man, once so dear to me, a ray of consolation to those afflictions he has in reserve? Suffer me, then, to tell thee, that my pity far exceeds my indignation,-that I will pray for thee in my last moments, and that the recollection of the love I once bore thee, shall swallow up every other!
Yet, oh! In this final goodbye, which you won’t read until all my stormy emotions have faded and the gentle grave has embraced all my sorrows, shall I not offer you, once so dear to me, a glimmer of comfort for the struggles you still have ahead? Let me then say that my compassion far outweighs my anger, that I will pray for you in my last moments, and that the memory of the love I once had for you will overshadow everything else!
Once more, adieu! CAROLINE BELMONT.
See you again! CAROLINE BELMONT.
LETTER LXXV - EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS. Clifton, Oct. 3rd.
THIS morning I saw from my window, that Lord Orville was walking in the garden; but I would not go down stairs till breakfast was ready: and then, he paid me his compliments almost as coldly as Lady Louisa paid hers.
THIS morning I saw from my window that Lord Orville was walking in the garden, but I didn’t want to go downstairs until breakfast was ready. Then, he complimented me almost as coldly as Lady Louisa did.
I took my usual place, and Mrs. Belmont, Lady Louisa, and Mrs. Selwyn, entered into their usual conversation.-Not so your Evelina: disregarded, silent, and melancholy, she sat like a cypher, whom, to nobody belonging, by nobody was noticed.
I took my usual spot, and Mrs. Belmont, Lady Louisa, and Mrs. Selwyn fell into their regular conversation. Not like Evelina: ignored, quiet, and downcast, she sat there like a zero, belonging to no one, and unnoticed by anyone.
Ill brooking such a situation, and unable to suport the neglect of Lord Orville, the moment breakfast was over I left the room, and was going up stairs; when, very unpleasantly, I was stopped by Sir Clement Willoughby, who, flying into the hall, prevented my proceeding.
Unable to tolerate the situation and frustrated by Lord Orville's neglect, as soon as breakfast was over, I left the room and started to head upstairs. However, I was unpleasantly interrupted by Sir Clement Willoughby, who rushed into the hall and blocked my way.
He enquired very particularly after my health, and entreated me to return into the parlour. Unwillingly, I consented, but thought any thing preferable to continuing alone with him; and he would neither leave me, nor suffer me to pass on. Yet, in returning, I felt not a little ashamed at appearing thus to take the visit of Sir Clement to myself. And, indeed, he endeavoured, by his manner of addressing me, to give it that air.
He asked a lot about my health and urged me to go back into the living room. Reluctantly, I agreed, thinking anything would be better than staying alone with him; plus, he wouldn’t let me go or let me move on. Still, as I went back, I felt pretty embarrassed about seeming to take Sir Clement's visit so personally. In fact, he tried to make it seem that way with how he spoke to me.
He stayed, I believe, an hour; nor would he, perhaps, even then have gone, had not Mrs. Beaumont broken up the party, by proposing an airing in her coach. Lady Louisa consented to accompany her; but Mrs. Selwyn, when applied to, said, “If my Lord, or Sir Clement, will join us, I shall be happy to make one;-but really a trio of females will be nervous to the last degree.”
He stayed, I think, for about an hour; and he probably wouldn’t have left even then, if Mrs. Beaumont hadn’t interrupted the gathering by suggesting a ride in her coach. Lady Louisa agreed to join her, but when Mrs. Selwyn was asked, she said, “If my Lord or Sir Clement will join us, I’d be happy to come along; but honestly, a trio of women is going to be incredibly anxious.”
Sir Clement readily agreed to attend them; indeed, he makes it his evident study to court the favour of Mrs. Beaumont. Lord Orville excused himself from going out; and I retired to my own room. What he did with himself I know not, for I would not go down stairs till dinner was ready: his coldness, though my own change of behaviour had occasioned it, so cruelly depresses my spirits, that I know not how to support myself in his presence.
Sir Clement quickly agreed to join them; in fact, he clearly makes it his goal to win over Mrs. Beaumont. Lord Orville opted out of going out, and I went back to my room. I have no idea what he did during that time because I wouldn’t go downstairs until dinner was ready. His coldness, which was caused by my own change in behavior, weighs so heavily on my spirits that I don’t know how to handle being around him.
At dinner, I found Sir Clement again of the party. Indeed, he manages every thing his own way; for Mrs. Beaumont, though by no means easy to please, seems quite at his disposal.
At dinner, I saw Sir Clement was part of the group again. In fact, he does everything his way; Mrs. Beaumont, who is definitely hard to please, seems to be totally under his influence.
The dinner, the afternoon, and the evening, were to me the most irksome imaginable: I was tormented by the assiduity of Sir Clement, who not only took, but made opportunities of speaking to me,-and I was hurt,-Oh, how inexpressibly hurt!-that Lord Orville not only forebore, as hitherto, seeking, he even neglected all occasions of talking with me!
The dinner, the afternoon, and the evening were the most annoying times I could imagine: I was bothered by Sir Clement's constant attention, as he not only spoke to me but also created chances to do so. It really hurt—Oh, how deeply it hurt—that Lord Orville not only continued to avoid seeking me out but even ignored all opportunities to talk to me!
I begin to think, my dear Sir, that the sudden alteration in my behaviour was ill-judged and improper; for, as I had received no offence, as the cause of the change was upon my account, not his, I should not have assumed, so abruptly, a reserve for which I dared assign no reason,-nor have shunned his presence so obviously, without considering the strange appearance of such a conduct.
I’m starting to realize, my dear Sir, that the sudden change in my behavior was misguided and inappropriate; since I hadn’t been offended, and the reason for my change was about me, not him, I shouldn’t have abruptly acted distant without being able to explain why—I also shouldn’t have obviously avoided him without thinking about how strange that looked.
Alas, my dearest Sir, that my reflections should always be too late to serve me! dearly, indeed, do I purchase experience! and much, I fear, I shall suffer yet more severely, from the heedless indiscretion of my temper, ere I attain that prudence and consideration, which, by foreseeing distant consequences, may rule and direct in present exigencies. Oct. 4th.
Unfortunately, my dear Sir, my thoughts always come too late to help me! I pay dearly for my lessons! I’m afraid I will suffer even more from my rash temper before I gain the wisdom and thoughtfulness that can anticipate future outcomes and guide me in current situations. Oct. 4th.
Yesterday morning every body rode out, except Mrs. Selwyn and myself; and we two sat for some time together in her room; but, as soon as I could, I quitted her, to saunter in the garden; for she diverts herself so unmercifully with rallying me, either upon my gravity, or concerning Lord Orville,-that I dread having any conversation with her.
Yesterday morning, everyone went out except for Mrs. Selwyn and me; so we spent some time together in her room. But as soon as I could, I left her to wander in the garden because she loves to tease me mercilessly, either about my seriousness or about Lord Orville, and I really dread having any conversations with her.
Here I believe I spent an hour by myself; when, hearing the garden-gate open, I went into an arbour at the end of a long walk, where, ruminating, very unpleasantly, upon my future prospects, I remained quietly seated but a few minutes, before I was interrupted by the appearance of Sir Clement Willoughby.
Here, I think I spent about an hour alone; when I heard the garden gate open, I went into a gazebo at the end of a long path, where I sat and uncomfortably thought about my future. I hadn't been seated for more than a few minutes before Sir Clement Willoughby showed up.
I started; and would have left the arbour, but he prevented me. Indeed, I am almost certain he had heard in the house where I was, as it is not, otherwise, probable he would have strolled down the garden alone.
I started to leave the arbor, but he stopped me. Honestly, I'm pretty sure he had heard something in the house where I was, or else it wouldn't make sense for him to wander down the garden by himself.
“Stop, stop,” cried he, “loveliest and most beloved of women, stop and hear me!”
“Stop, stop,” he cried, “most beautiful and beloved of women, please stop and listen to me!”
Then, making me keep my place, he sat down by me, and would have taken my hand; but I drew it back, and said I could not stay.
Then, making me stay where I was, he sat down next to me and tried to take my hand; but I pulled it away and said I couldn’t stay.
“Can you, then,” cried he, “refuse me the smallest gratification, though, but yesterday, I almost suffered martyrdom for the pleasure of seeing you?”
“Can you, then,” he exclaimed, “really deny me the smallest pleasure, when just yesterday, I nearly went through hell to see you?”
“Martyrdom! Sir Clement.”
“Martyrdom! Sir Clement!”
“Yes, beauteous insensible! martyrdom: for did I not compel myself to be immured in a carriage, the tedious length of a whole morning, with the three most fatiguing women in England?”
“Yes, beautiful but unaware! Martyrdom: for did I not force myself to be stuck in a carriage for the boring length of an entire morning with the three most exhausting women in England?”
“Upon my word, the ladies are extremely obliged to you.”
"Honestly, the ladies are really grateful to you."
“Oh,” returned he, “they have, every one of them, so copious a share of their own personal esteem, that they have no right to repine at the failure of it in the world; and, indeed, they will themselves be the last to discover it.”
“Oh,” he replied, “each of them has such a huge amount of self-esteem that they have no right to complain about its absence in the world; and, in fact, they'll be the last to realize it.”
“How little,” cried I, “are those ladies aware of such severity from you!”
“How little,” I exclaimed, “those ladies know about your harshness!”
“They are guarded,” answered he, “so happily and so securely by their own conceit, that they are not aware of it from any body. Oh, Miss Anville, to be torn away from you, in order to be shut up with them,-is there a human being, except your cruel self, could forbear to pity me?”
“They are so protected by their own arrogance that they don’t realize it from anyone else. Oh, Miss Anville, to be pulled away from you just to be stuck with them—who could possibly not feel sorry for me, except for your heartless self?”
“I believe, Sir Clement, however hardly you may choose to judge of them, your situation, by the world in general, would rather have been envied than pitied.”
“I believe, Sir Clement, no matter how harshly you might decide to judge them, your situation, in the eyes of the world, would have been more likely to be envied than pitied.”
“The world in general,” answered he, “has the same opinion of them that I have myself: Mrs. Beaumont is every where laughed at, Lady Louisa ridiculed, and Mrs. Selwyn hated.”
“The world in general,” he replied, “holds the same view of them that I do: Mrs. Beaumont is laughed at everywhere, Lady Louisa is mocked, and Mrs. Selwyn is hated.”
“Good God, Sir Clement, what cruel strength of words do you use!”
“Goodness, Sir Clement, what harsh power your words have!”
“It is you, my angel, are to blame, since your perfections have rendered their faults so glaring. I protest to you, during our whole ride, I thought the carriage drawn by snails. The absurd pride of Mrs. Beaumont, and the respect she exacts, are at once insufferable and stupifying; had I never before been in her company, I should have concluded that this had been her first airing from the herald’s office,-and wished her nothing worse, than that it might also be the last. I assure you, that but for gaining the freedom of her house, I would fly her as I would plague, pestilence, and famine. Mrs. Selwyn, indeed, afforded some relief from this formality, but the unbounded license of her tongue-”
“It’s you, my angel, who is to blame, since your perfection makes their flaws so obvious. I swear to you, during our whole ride, I felt like the carriage was being pulled by snails. Mrs. Beaumont’s ridiculous pride and the respect she demands are both unbearable and ridiculous; if I hadn’t been in her company before, I would have thought this was her first outing from the herald’s office—and I would wish nothing worse for her than for it to be her last. I assure you, if it weren’t for wanting to have access to her house, I would avoid her like the plague, pestilence, and famine. Mrs. Selwyn did provide some relief from this formality, but her endless chatter—”
“O, Sir Clement, do you object to that?”
“O, Sir Clement, do you have a problem with that?”
“Yes, my sweet reproacher, in a woman I do; in a woman I think it intolerable. She has wit, I acknowledge, and more understanding than half her sex put together; but she keeps alive a perpetual expectation of satire, that spreads a general uneasiness among all who are in her presence; and she talks so much, that even the best things she says weary the attention. As to the little Louisa, ’tis such a pretty piece of languor, that ’tis almost cruel to speak rationally about her,-else I should say, she is a mere compound of affectation, impertinence, and airs.”
“Yes, my sweet critic, I do in a woman; I find it intolerable. She’s witty, I’ll admit, and has more understanding than half the women around her, but she creates this constant expectation of sarcasm that makes everyone in her presence feel uneasy. She talks so much that even her best remarks start to wear on people’s patience. As for little Louisa, she’s such a cute bundle of laziness that it feels almost harsh to talk about her logically—otherwise, I’d say she’s just a mix of pretentiousness, rudeness, and melodrama.”
“I am quite amazed,” said I, “that, with such opinions, you can behave to them all with so much attention and civility.”
“I’m really amazed,” I said, “that with those opinions, you can treat them all with so much attention and politeness.”
“Civility! my angel,-why I could worship, could adore them, only to procure myself a moment of your conversation! Have you not seen me pay my court to the gross Captain Mirvan, and the virago Madame Duval? Were it possible that a creature so horrid could be formed, as to partake of the worst qualities of all these characters,-a creature who should have the haughtiness of Mrs. Beaumont, the brutality of Captain Mirvan, the self-conceit of Mrs. Selwyn, the affectation of Lady Louisa, and the vulgarity of Madame Duval,-even to such a monster as that I would pay homage, and pour forth adulation, only to obtain one word, one look from my adored Miss Anville!”
“Civility! My angel, I would worship and adore them just to have a moment of your conversation! Haven't you seen me fawning over the obnoxious Captain Mirvan and the domineering Madame Duval? If it were possible for a creature so hideous to exist, combining the worst traits of all these characters—a creature with the arrogance of Mrs. Beaumont, the brutality of Captain Mirvan, the self-importance of Mrs. Selwyn, the pretentiousness of Lady Louisa, and the crudeness of Madame Duval—I'd still pay my respects and shower them with flattery, just to get one word, one glance from my beloved Miss Anville!”
“Sir Clement,” said I, “you are greatly mistaken if you suppose this duplicity of character recommends you to my good opinion. But I must take this opportunity of begging you never more to talk to me in this strain.”
“Sir Clement,” I said, “you are very mistaken if you think this two-faced behavior earns you my respect. But I have to take this chance to ask you to never speak to me like this again.”
“Oh, Miss Anville, your reproofs, your coldness, pierce me to the soul! look upon me with less rigour, and make me what you please;-you shall govern and direct all my actions,-you shall new-form, new-model me:-I will not have even a wish but of your suggestion; only deign to look upon me with pity-if not with favour!”
“Oh, Miss Anville, your criticism, your coldness, cuts me to the core! Please look at me with a little less severity, and shape me however you want; you can control and guide all my actions—you can completely remake me. I won’t even have a single desire that isn't inspired by you; just have the kindness to look at me with pity—if not with kindness!”
“Suffer me, Sir,” said I, very gravely, “to make use of this occasion to put a final conclusion to such expressions. I entreat you never again to address me in a language so flighty and so unwelcome. You have already given me great uneasiness; and I must frankly assure you, that if you do not desire to banish me from wherever you are, you will adopt a very different style and conduct in future.”
“Please, Sir,” I said very seriously, “allow me to take this opportunity to put an end to such comments. I urge you to never again speak to me in such frivolous and unwelcome language. You’ve already made me quite anxious, and I must be honest with you: if you don’t want to drive me away from wherever you are, you’ll need to adopt a much different tone and behavior moving forward.”
I then rose, and was going, but he flung himself at my feet to prevent me, exclaiming, in a most passionate manner, “Good God! Miss Anville, what do you say?-is it, can it be possible, that, so unmoved, that, with such petrifying indifference, you can tear from me even the remotest hope!”
I stood up to leave, but he threw himself at my feet to stop me, exclaiming passionately, “Good God! Miss Anville, what are you saying? Is it possible that you can be so unaffected, so cold, that you can take away even my tiniest hope?”
“I know not, Sir,” said I, endeavouring to disengage myself from him, “what hope you mean, but I am sure that I never intended to give you any.”
“I don’t know, Sir,” I said, trying to pull away from him, “what hope you’re talking about, but I’m sure I never meant to give you any.”
“You distract me,” cried he, “I cannot endure such scorn;-I beseech you to have some moderation in your cruelty, lest you make me desperate:-say, then, that you pity me,-O fairest inexorable! loveliest tyrant!-say, tell me, at least, that you pity me!”
“You're distracting me,” he shouted, “I can't take this kind of scorn. Please, show some mercy with your cruelty, or you’ll drive me to despair. Just say that you feel sorry for me—oh, you beautiful, relentless one! Most lovely tyrant!—just tell me that you pity me!”
Just then, who should come in sight, as if intending to pass by the arbour, but Lord Orville! Good Heaven, how did I start! and he, the moment he saw me, turned pale, and was hastily retiring;-but I called out “Lord Orville!-Sir Clement, release me,-let go my hand!”
Just then, who should come into view, as if planning to walk past the arbor, but Lord Orville! Good heavens, how I jumped! The moment he saw me, he turned pale and quickly tried to leave; but I shouted, “Lord Orville! Sir Clement, let me go—release my hand!”
Sir Clement, in some confusion, suddenly rose, but still grasped my hand. Lord Orville, who had turned back, was again walking away; but, still struggling to disengage myself, I called out “Pray, pray, my Lord, don’t go!-Sir Clement, I insist upon your releasing me!”
Sir Clement, feeling a bit confused, suddenly stood up but still held onto my hand. Lord Orville, who had turned around, was walking away again; but as I tried to pull away, I called out, “Please, please, my Lord, don’t go! Sir Clement, I insist that you let me go!”
Lord Orville then, hastily approaching us, said, with great spirit, “Sir Clement, you cannot wish to detain Miss Anville by force!”
Lord Orville then, quickly coming over to us, exclaimed with enthusiasm, “Sir Clement, you can't seriously want to keep Miss Anville here against her will!”
“Neither, my Lord,” cried Sir Clement, proudly, “do I request the honour of your Lordship’s interference.”
“Neither, my Lord,” shouted Sir Clement, proudly, “do I ask for the privilege of your Lordship’s involvement.”
However, he let go my hand, and I immediately ran into the house.
However, he released my hand, and I quickly ran into the house.
I was now frightened to death, lest Sir Clement’s mortified pride should provoke him to affront Lord Orville: I therefore ran hastily to Mrs. Selwyn, and entreated her, in a manner hardly to be understood, to walk towards the arbour. She asked no questions, for she is quick as lightening in taking a hint, but instantly hastened into the garden.
I was really scared that Sir Clement's wounded pride would lead him to insult Lord Orville, so I quickly rushed to Mrs. Selwyn and begged her, in a way that was hard to explain, to head toward the arbour. She didn't ask any questions because she picks up on hints super fast, and immediately made her way into the garden.
Imagine, my dear Sir, how wretched I must be till I saw her return! scarce could I restrain myself from running back: however, I checked my impatience, and waited, though in agonies, till she came.
Imagine, my dear Sir, how miserable I must have felt until I saw her come back! I could hardly hold myself back from running away, but I controlled my impatience and waited, even though I was in agony, until she arrived.
And now, my dear Sir, I have a conversation to write, the most interesting to me that I ever heard. The comments and questions with which Mrs. Selwyn interrupted her account I shall not mention; for they are such as you may very easily suppose.
And now, my dear Sir, I have a conversation to share, the most interesting one I've ever heard. I won't mention the comments and questions that Mrs. Selwyn interrupted her account with; they're just what you might easily imagine.
Lord Orville and Sir Clement were both seated very quietly in the arbour: and Mrs. Selwyn, standing still, as soon as she was within a few yards of them, heard Sir Clement say, “Your question, my Lord, alarms me, and I can by no means answer it, unless you will allow me to propose another.”
Lord Orville and Sir Clement were both sitting quietly in the arbour. Mrs. Selwyn, standing still as she approached them, heard Sir Clement say, “Your question, my Lord, concerns me, and I can’t answer it unless you let me ask another one.”
“Undoubtedly, Sir.”
"Definitely, Sir."
“You ask me, my Lord, what are my intentions?-I should be very happy to be satisfied as to your Lordship’s.”
“You ask me, my Lord, what my intentions are? I would be very happy to know what your Lordship’s are.”
“I have never, Sir, professed any.”
“I have never, sir, claimed any.”
Here they were both, for a few moments, silent; and then Sir Clement said, “To what, my Lord, must I then impute your desire of knowing mine?”
Here they were both, silent for a moment, and then Sir Clement said, “So, my Lord, what should I make of your curiosity about mine?”
“To an unaffected interest in Miss Anville’s welfare.”
“To an unselfish concern for Miss Anville’s well-being.”
“Such an interest,” said Sir Clement, drily, “is indeed very generous; but, except in a father,-a brother,-or a lover-”
“Such an interest,” said Sir Clement, dryly, “is indeed very generous; but, except in a father, a brother, or a lover—”
“Sir Clement,” interrupted his Lordship, “I know your inference; and I acknowledge I have not the right of enquiry which any of those three titles bestow; and yet I confess the warmest wishes to serve her and to see her happy. Will you, then, excuse me, if I take the liberty to repeat my question?”
“Sir Clement,” his Lordship interrupted, “I understand what you're implying; and I admit I don’t have the authority to ask the questions that any of those three titles grant. Still, I must confess that I sincerely want to help her and see her happy. So, if you don’t mind, may I take the liberty of asking my question again?”
“Yes, if your Lordship will excuse my repeating, that I think it a rather extraordinary one.”
“Yes, if you'll pardon my repetition, I think it's quite extraordinary.”
“It may be so,” said Lord Orville; “but this young lady seems to be peculiarly situated; she is very young, very inexperienced, yet appears to be left totally to her own direction. She does not, I believe, see the dangers to which she is exposed, and I will own to you, I feel a strong desire to point them out.”
“It might be true,” said Lord Orville; “but this young lady seems to be in a unique situation; she is very young, very naive, yet seems to be left completely to her own choices. I don’t think she realizes the dangers she’s facing, and I have to admit, I feel a strong urge to highlight them.”
“I don’t rightly understand your Lordship,-but I think you cannot mean to prejudice her against me?”
“I don’t really understand, Your Lordship, but I hope you don't mean to turn her against me?”
“Her sentiments of you, Sir, are as much unknown to me, as your intentions towards her. Perhaps, were I acquainted with either, my officiousness might be at an end: but I presume not to ask upon what terms-”
“Her feelings about you, Sir, are as unknown to me as your intentions toward her. Maybe if I knew either, my meddling would stop: but I don’t presume to ask what the situation is-”
Here he stopped; and Sir Clement said, “You know, my Lord, I am not given to despair; I am by no means such a puppy as to tell you I am upon sure ground; however, perseverance-”
Here he stopped; and Sir Clement said, “You know, my Lord, I’m not one to give up easily; I’m definitely not foolish enough to claim I’m on solid ground; however, perseverance-”
“You are, then, determined to perservere?”
"You’re set on sticking it out, then?"
“I am, my Lord.”
"I'm here, my Lord."
“Pardon me, then, Sir Clement, if I speak to you with freedom. This young lady, though she seems alone, and, in some measure, unprotected, is not entirely without friends; she has been extremely well educated, and accustomed to good company; she has a natural love of virtue, and a mind that might adorn any station, however exalted: is such a young lady, Sir Clement, a proper object to trifle with?-for your principles, excuse me, Sir, are well known.”
“Excuse me, Sir Clement, if I speak openly to you. This young lady, although she appears alone and somewhat defenseless, is not without friends; she has received an excellent education and is used to being around good company. She has a natural love for virtue and a mind that could enhance any position, no matter how high. Is such a young lady, Sir Clement, someone you should take lightly? – because your principles, if I may say so, are well known.”
“As to that, my Lord, let Miss Anville look to herself; she has an excellent understanding, and needs no counsellor.”
“As for that, my Lord, Miss Anville can take care of herself; she has great insight and doesn’t need any advice.”
“Her understanding is indeed excellent; but she is too young for suspicion, and has an artlessness of disposition I never saw equalled.”
"Her understanding is definitely impressive; but she is still too young to be suspicious, and her innocence is something I’ve never seen matched."
“My Lord,” cried Sir Clement, warmly, “your praises make me doubt your disinterestedness, and there exists not the man, whom I would so unwillingly have for a rival as yourself. But you must give me leave to say, you have greatly deceived me in regard to this affair.”
“My Lord,” exclaimed Sir Clement warmly, “your compliments make me question your sincerity, and there's no one I would less want as a rival than you. But I have to say, you've really misled me about this situation.”
“How so, Sir?” cried Lord Orville, with equal warmth.
"How come, Sir?" exclaimed Lord Orville, with the same intensity.
“You were pleased, my Lord,” answered Sir Clement, “upon our first conversation concerning this young lady, to speak to her in terms by no means suited to your present encomiums; you said she was a poor, weak, ignorant girl, and I had great reason to believe you had a most contemptuous opinion of her.”
“You were pleased, my Lord,” answered Sir Clement, “during our first conversation about this young lady, to describe her in ways that are definitely not in line with your current praises; you said she was a poor, weak, ignorant girl, and I had good reason to think you held her in quite a contemptuous light.”
“It is very true,” said Lord Orville, “that I did not, at our first acquaintance, do justice to the merits of Miss Anville; but I knew not then how new she was to the world; at present, however, I am convinced, that whatever might appear strange in her behaviour, was simply the effect of inexperience, timidity, and a retired education; for I find her informed, sensible, and intelligent. She is not, indeed, like most modern young ladies, to be known in half an hour: her modest worth, and fearful excellence, require both time and encouragement to show themselves. She does not, beautiful as she is, seize the soul by surprise, but, with more dangerous fascination, she steals it almost imperceptibly.”
“It’s very true,” said Lord Orville, “that I didn’t appreciate Miss Anville’s qualities at first; I didn’t realize how new she was to the world. However, now I’m convinced that whatever seemed odd in her behavior was just due to her inexperience, shyness, and sheltered upbringing. I find her to be informed, sensible, and intelligent. She is not like most modern young women, who you can get to know in half an hour; her quiet worth and hesitant excellence need time and encouragement to reveal themselves. Although she’s beautiful, she doesn’t captivate the soul with a sudden impact; instead, with a more subtle allure, she captures it almost without us noticing.”
“Enough, my Lord,” cried Sir Clement, “your solicitude for her welfare is now sufficiently explained.”
“Enough, my Lord,” Sir Clement said, “your concern for her well-being is now clear.”
“My friendship and esteem,” returned Lord Orville, “I do not wish to disguise; but assure yourself, Sir Clement, I should not have troubled you upon this subject, had Miss Anville and I ever conversed but as friends. However, since you do not choose to avow your intentions, we must drop the subject.”
“My friendship and respect,” replied Lord Orville, “I don’t want to hide; but rest assured, Sir Clement, I wouldn’t have brought this up if Miss Anville and I had only spoken as friends. However, since you don’t want to reveal your intentions, we should drop the topic.”
“My intentions,” cried he, “I will frankly own, are hardly known to myself. I think Miss Anville the loveliest of her sex; and, were I a marrying man, she, of all the women I have seen, I would fix upon for a wife: but I believe that not even the philosophy of your Lordship would recommend me to a connection of that sort, with a girl of obscure birth, whose only dowry is her beauty, and who is evidently in a state of dependency.”
“Honestly,” he exclaimed, “I’m not even sure of my own intentions. I think Miss Anville is the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen; if I were looking to get married, she’s the one I’d choose as my wife. But I doubt that even your Lordship’s philosophy would support me forming a relationship like that with a girl of humble origins, whose only asset is her beauty and who clearly relies on others.”
“Sir Clement,” cried Lord Orville, with some heat, “we will discuss this point no further; we are both free agents, and must act for ourselves.”
“Sir Clement,” exclaimed Lord Orville passionately, “we won't debate this any longer; we’re both independent individuals and need to make our own choices.”
Here Mrs. Selwyn, fearing a surprise, and finding my apprehensions of danger were groundless, retired hastily into another walk, and soon after came to give me this account.
Here, Mrs. Selwyn, worried about a surprise, and realizing that my fears of danger were unfounded, quickly left for another path and soon returned to share this story with me.
Good Heaven, what a man is this Sir Clement! So designing, though so easy; so deliberately artful, though so flighty! Greatly, however, is he mistaken, all confident as he seems; for the girl, obscure, poor, dependent as she is, far from wishing the honour of his alliance, would not only now, but always have rejected it.
Good heavens, what a man Sir Clement is! So scheming, yet so charming; so intentionally crafty, yet so impulsive! However, he is greatly mistaken, no matter how confident he appears; because the girl, being obscure, poor, and dependent, has no desire for the honor of his connection and would have rejected it now and always.
As to Lord Orville,-but I will not trust my pen to mention him,-tell me, my dear sir, what you think of him?-tell me if he is not the noblest of men?-and if you can either wonder at, or blame my admiration?
As for Lord Orville, I won't rely on my pen to bring him up—just tell me, my dear sir, what you think of him. Is he not the most honorable man? Can you either be amazed by or criticize my admiration for him?
The idea of being seen immediately by either party, after so singular a conversation, was both awkward and distressing to me; but I was obliged to appear at dinner. Sir Clement, I saw, was absent and uneasy; he watched me, he watched Lord Orville, and was evidently disturbed in his mind. Whenever he spoke to me, I turned from him with undisguised disdain, for I am too much irritated against him, to bear with his ill-meant assiduities any longer.
The thought of being seen right away by either person, after such a unique conversation, was both uncomfortable and upsetting for me; but I had to show up for dinner. I noticed that Sir Clement was missing and looked anxious; he was keeping an eye on me and on Lord Orville, clearly troubled. Whenever he talked to me, I turned away from him with clear disdain, because I was too annoyed with him to tolerate his unwelcome attention any longer.
But, not once,-not a moment, did I dare meet the eyes of Lord Orville! All consciousness myself, I dreaded his penetration, and directed mine every way-but towards his. The rest of the day I never quitted Mrs. Selwyn.
But not once—not for a moment—did I dare to meet Lord Orville's gaze! Fully aware of myself, I feared his insight and looked everywhere but at him. For the rest of the day, I stayed close to Mrs. Selwyn.
Adieu, my dear Sir: to-morrow I expect your directions, whether I am to return to Berry Hill, or once more to visit London.
Goodbye, my dear Sir: tomorrow I expect your instructions on whether I should return to Berry Hill or visit London again.
LETTER LXXVI - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. Oct. 6th.
AND now, my dearest Sir, if the perturbation of my spirits will allow me, I will finish my last letter from Clifton Hill. This morning, though I did not go down stairs early, Lord Orville was the only person in the parlour when I entered it. I felt no small confusion at seeing him alone, after having so long and successfully avoided such a meeting. As soon as the usual compliments were over, I would have left the room, but he stopped me by saying, “If I disturb you Miss Anville, I am gone.”
AND now, my dearest Sir, if my troubled mind permits, I will finish my last letter from Clifton Hill. This morning, even though I didn't go downstairs early, Lord Orville was the only one in the parlor when I walked in. I felt quite flustered at seeing him alone, after having so long and successfully avoided such a situation. Once the usual pleasantries were exchanged, I intended to leave the room, but he stopped me by saying, “If I’m bothering you, Miss Anville, I will leave.”
“My Lord,” said I, rather embarrassed, “I did not mean to stay.”
"My Lord," I said, feeling a bit awkward, "I didn’t mean to stay."
“I flattered myself,” cried he, “I should have had a moment’s conversation with you.”
“I really thought,” he exclaimed, “that I would’ve had a moment to talk with you.”
I then turned back; and he seemed himself in some perplexity: but, after a short pause, “You are very good,” said he, “to indulge my request; I have, indeed, for some time past, most ardently desired an opportunity of speaking to you.”
I then turned back; and he looked a bit confused himself: but, after a brief pause, “You’re very kind,” he said, “to grant my request; I have truly been eager for some time now to have the chance to talk to you.”
Again he paused; but I said nothing, so he went on.
Again he paused, but I didn't say anything, so he continued.
“You allowed me, Madam, a few days since, you allowed me to lay claim to your friendship,-to interest myself in your affairs,-to call you by the affectionate title of sister;-and the honour you did me, no man could have been more sensible of; I am ignorant, therefore, how I have been so unfortunate as to forfeit it:-but, at present, all is changed! you fly me,-your averted eye shuns to meet mine, and you sedulously avoid my conversation.”
“You allowed me, Madam, a few days ago to consider you my friend, to take an interest in your life, and to call you sister affectionately. No one could appreciate that honor more than I did. I’m at a loss as to how I’ve been unfortunate enough to lose it. But now, everything has changed! You avoid me—your averted gaze refuses to meet mine, and you carefully steer clear of our conversations.”
I was extremely disconcerted at this grave, and but too just accusation, and I am sure I must look very simple;-but I made no answer.
I was really unsettled by this serious and quite accurate accusation, and I’m sure I must have looked really naive; but I didn’t say anything.
“You will not, I hope,” continued he, “condemn me unheard; if there is any thing I have done,-or any thing I have neglected, tell me, I beseech you, what, and it shall be the whole study of my thoughts how to deserve your pardon.”
“You won’t, I hope,” he continued, “judge me without hearing me out; if there’s anything I’ve done—or anything I’ve failed to do—please tell me what it is, and I will focus all my thoughts on how to earn your forgiveness.”
“Oh, my Lord,” cried I, penetrated at once with shame and gratitude, “your too, too great politeness oppresses me!-you have done nothing,-I have never dreamt of offence-if there is any pardon to be asked it is rather for me, than for you to ask it.”
“Oh my Lord,” I exclaimed, filled with a mix of shame and gratitude, “your overwhelming politeness is too much for me! You haven’t done anything wrong—I never intended to offend. If anyone needs to apologize, it’s me, not you.”
“You are all sweetness and condescension!” cried he, “and I flatter myself you will again allow me to claim those titles which I find myself so unable to forego. Yet, occupied as I am, with an idea that gives me the greatest uneasiness, I hope you will not think me impertinent, if I still solicit, still intreat, nay implore, you to tell me, to what cause your late sudden, and to me most painful, reserve was owing?”
“You're all so sweet and patronizing!” he exclaimed, “and I’d like to think you’ll let me keep calling you that, which I find so hard to give up. However, as much as I’m preoccupied with a thought that's causing me great distress, I hope you won’t see me as rude if I still ask, still plead, even beg you to tell me what led to your recent sudden, and most distressing, distance?”
“Indeed, my Lord,” said I, stammering, “I don’t,-I can’t,-indeed, my Lord,-”
“Definitely, my Lord,” I said, stammering, “I don’t—I can’t—honestly, my Lord—”
“I am sorry to distress you,” said he, “and ashamed to be so urgent,-yet I know not how to be satisfied while in ignorance,-and the time when the change happened, makes me apprehend,-may I, Miss Anville, tell you what it makes me apprehend?”
“I’m sorry to upset you,” he said, “and I feel embarrassed to be so insistent, but I can’t feel at ease when I don’t know. The timing of the change raises my concerns—may I, Miss Anville, share with you what it makes me worry about?”
“Certainly, my Lord.”
“Of course, my Lord.”
“Tell me, then,-and pardon a question most essentially important to me;-Had, or had not, Sir Clement Willoughby any share in causing your inquietude?”
“Tell me, then—and excuse the question that is very important to me—did Sir Clement Willoughby have any part in causing your unease?”
“No, my Lord,” answered I, with firmness, “none in the world.”
“No, my Lord,” I answered firmly, “none at all.”
“A thousand, thousand thanks!” cried he: “you have relieved me from a weight of conjecture which I supported very painfully. But one thing more; is it, in any measure, to Sir Clement that I may attribute the alteration in your behaviour to myself, which, I could not but observe, began the very day after his arrival at the Hot Wells?”
“A thousand thanks!” he exclaimed. “You’ve lifted a heavy burden of uncertainty that I was carrying very painfully. But one more thing: can I attribute the change in how you treat me to Sir Clement? I couldn’t help but notice it started the very day after he arrived at the Hot Wells.”
“To Sir Clement, my Lord,” said I, “attribute nothing. He is the last man in the world who would have any influence over my conduct.”
“To Sir Clement, my Lord,” I said, “don’t attribute anything to him. He’s the last person in the world who would have any influence over what I do.”
“And will you, then, restore to me that share of confidence and favour with which you honoured me before he came?”
"And will you, then, give me back the trust and support you showed me before he arrived?"
Just then, to my great relief,-for I knew not what to say,-Mrs. Beaumont opened the door, and in a few minutes we went to breakfast.
Just then, to my great relief—since I didn’t know what to say—Mrs. Beaumont opened the door, and a few minutes later, we went to breakfast.
Lord Orville was all gaiety; never did I see him more lively or more agreeable. Very soon after, Sir Clement Willoughby called, to pay his respects, he said, to Mrs. Beaumont. I then came to my own room, where, indulging my reflections, which, now soothed, and now alarmed me, I remained very quietly, till I received your most kind letter.
Lord Orville was in great spirits; I had never seen him more lively or pleasant. Soon after, Sir Clement Willoughby stopped by to pay his respects to Mrs. Beaumont, as he put it. I then went to my own room, where I indulged my thoughts, which soothed me at times and alarmed me at others, and I stayed there quietly until I received your very kind letter.
Oh, Sir, how sweet are the prayers you offer for your Evelina! how grateful to her are the blessings you pour upon her head!-You commit me to my real parent,-Ah, Guardian, Friend, Protector of my youth,-by whom my helpless infancy was cherished, my mind formed, my very life preserved,-you are the Parent my heart acknowledges, and to you do I vow eternal duty, gratitude, and affection!
Oh, Sir, how sweet are the prayers you offer for your Evelina! How grateful she is for the blessings you bestow upon her! You entrust me to my true parent. Ah, Guardian, Friend, Protector of my youth, who cherished my helpless infancy, shaped my mind, and preserved my very life—you are the Parent my heart recognizes, and to you, I vow eternal loyalty, gratitude, and love!
I look forward to the approaching interview with more fear than hope; but, important as is this subject, I am just now wholly engrossed with another, which I must hasten to communicate.
I’m looking forward to the upcoming interview with more fear than hope; however, as important as this topic is, I’m currently completely absorbed in another one that I need to hurry and share.
I immediately acquainted Mrs. Selwyn with the purport of your letter. She was charmed to find your opinion agreed with her own, and settled that we should go to town to-morrow morning: and a chaise is actually ordered to be here by one o’clock.
I quickly informed Mrs. Selwyn about the main point of your letter. She was delighted to see that your opinion matched hers, and decided we should go to town tomorrow morning: a carriage is actually scheduled to arrive by one o’clock.
She then desired me to pack up my clothes; and said she must go herself to make speeches and tell lies to Mrs. Beaumont.
She then asked me to pack my clothes, saying she needed to go herself to give speeches and tell lies to Mrs. Beaumont.
When I went down stairs to dinner, Lord Orville, who was still in excellent spirits, reproached me for secluding myself so much from the company. He sat next me,-he would sit next me,-at table; and he might, I am sure, repeat what he once said of me before, that he almost exhausted himself in fruitless endeavours to entertain me; -for, indeed, I was not to be entertained: I was totally spiritless and dejected; the idea of the approaching meeting,-and Oh, Sir, the idea of the approaching parting,-gave a heaviness to my heart that I could neither conquer nor repress. I even regretted the half explanation that had passed, and wished Lord Orville had supported his own reserve, and suffered me to support mine.
When I went downstairs for dinner, Lord Orville, who was still in great spirits, teased me for isolating myself so much from everyone. He sat next to me—he always sat next to me—at the table, and I’m sure he could repeat what he once said about me before, that he nearly wore himself out trying to keep me entertained; because honestly, I wasn't in the mood to be entertained. I felt completely low and gloomy; the thought of the upcoming meeting—oh, and the thought of the upcoming goodbye—filled my heart with a heaviness I couldn’t shake off or hide. I even regretted the partial explanation we’d had and wished Lord Orville had stuck to his own distance, allowing me to stick to mine.
However, when, during dinner, Mrs. Beaumont spoke of our journey, my gravity was no longer singular; a cloud instantly overspread the countenance of Lord Orville, and he became nearly as thoughtful and as silent as myself.
However, when Mrs. Beaumont talked about our trip during dinner, my serious mood wasn’t the only one; Lord Orville's expression instantly changed, and he became nearly as pensive and quiet as I was.
We all went together to the drawing-room. After a short and unentertaining conversation, Mrs. Selwyn said she must prepare for her journey, and begged me to see for some books she had left in the parlour.
We all went to the living room together. After a brief and boring conversation, Mrs. Selwyn said she needed to get ready for her trip and asked me to look for some books she had left in the parlor.
And here, while I was looking for them, I was followed by Lord Orville. He shut the door after he came in, and, approaching me with a look of anxiety, said, “Is this true, Miss Anville, are you going?”
And while I was looking for them, Lord Orville followed me. He closed the door after he entered and, coming closer with a worried expression, asked, “Is it true, Miss Anville, that you’re leaving?”
“I believe so, my Lord,” said I, still looking for the books.
“I think so, my Lord,” I said, still searching for the books.
“So suddenly, so unexpectedly must I lose you?”
“So suddenly, so unexpectedly do I have to lose you?”
“No great loss, my Lord,” cried I, endeavouring to speak cheerfully.
“No big deal, my Lord,” I said, trying to sound cheerful.
“Is it possible,” said he gravely, “Miss Anville can doubt my sincerity?”
“Is it possible,” he asked seriously, “that Miss Anville doubts my sincerity?”
“I can’t imagine,” cried I, “what Mrs. Selwyn has done with these books.”
“I can’t imagine,” I exclaimed, “what Mrs. Selwyn has done with these books.”
“Would to Heaven,” continued he, “I might flatter myself you would allow me to prove it!”
“Would to Heaven,” he continued, “I could hope that you would let me prove it!”
“I must run up stairs,” cried I, greatly confused, “and ask what she has done with them.”
“I need to run upstairs,” I said, feeling really confused, “and ask what she did with them.”
“You are going, then,” cried he, taking my hand, “and you give me not the smallest hope of your return!-will you not, then, my too lovely friend!-will you not, at least, teach me, with fortitude like your own, to support your absence?”
“You're really leaving,” he exclaimed, taking my hand, “and you’re not giving me the tiniest bit of hope that you’ll come back! Will you not, my beautiful friend, at least teach me how to cope with your absence like you do?”
“My Lord,” cried I, endeavouring to disengage my hand, “pray let me go!”
“Please, my Lord,” I exclaimed, trying to pull my hand away, “just let me go!”
“I will,” cried he, to my inexpressible confusion, dropping on one knee, “if you wish to leave me!”
“I will,” he shouted, to my utter confusion, dropping to one knee, “if you want to leave me!”
“O, my Lord,” exclaimed I, “rise, I beseech you, rise!-such a posture to me!-surely your Lordship is not so cruel as to mock me!”
“O, my Lord,” I exclaimed, “please, rise! Such a position is unbearable for me! Surely you’re not so cruel as to mock me!”
“Mock you!” repeated he earnestly, “no I revere you! I esteem and I admire you above all human beings! you are the friend to whom my soul is attached as to its better half! you are the most amiable, the most perfect of women! and you are dearer to me than language has the power of telling.”
“Mock you!” he said earnestly. “No, I revere you! I value and admire you more than anyone else! You are the friend to whom my soul is connected as if you were its other half! You are the kindest, most extraordinary woman! And you mean more to me than words can express.”
I attempt not to describe my sensations at that moment; I scarce breathed; I doubted if I existed,-the blood forsook my cheeks, and my feet refused to sustain me: Lord Orville, hastily rising, supported me to a chair, upon which I sunk, almost lifeless.
I tried not to describe how I felt at that moment; I could hardly breathe; I doubted if I was even real. The blood drained from my face, and my legs wouldn't hold me up. Lord Orville quickly got up and helped me to a chair, where I collapsed, almost unconscious.
For a few minutes, we neither of us spoke; and then, seeing me recover, Lord Orville, though in terms hardly articulate, intreated my pardon for his abruptness. The moment my strength returned, I attempted to rise, but he would not permit me.
For a few minutes, neither of us spoke; then, seeing me recover, Lord Orville, though his words were barely clear, asked for my forgiveness for his suddenness. As soon as I felt strong enough to get up, he wouldn’t let me.
I cannot write the scene that followed, though every word is engraven on my heart; but his protestations, his expressions, were too flattering for repetition: nor would he, in spite of my repeated efforts to leave him, suffer me to escape:-in short, my dear Sir, I was not proof against his solicitations-and he drew from me the most sacred secret of my heart!
I can't describe the scene that happened next, even though every word is etched in my memory; his declarations and words were too flattering to repeat. Despite my constant attempts to walk away, he wouldn't let me go. In short, my dear Sir, I couldn’t resist his pleas—and he got me to reveal the most sacred secret of my heart!
I know not how long we were together; but Lord Orville was upon his knees, when the door was opened by Mrs. Selwyn!-To tell you, Sir, the shame with which I overwhelmed, would be impossible;-I snatched my hand from Lord Orville,-he, too, started and rose, and Mrs. Selwyn, for some instants, stood facing us both in silence.
I don't know how long we were together, but Lord Orville was on his knees when Mrs. Selwyn opened the door! To describe the shame I felt is impossible—I yanked my hand away from Lord Orville, and he, too, jumped up and stood. Mrs. Selwyn stood there facing both of us in silence for a few moments.
At last, “My Lord” said she, sarcastically, “have you been so good as to help Miss Anville to look for my books?”
At last, "My Lord," she said sarcastically, "have you been so kind as to help Miss Anville search for my books?"
“Yes, Madam,” answered he, attempting to rally, “and I hope we shall soon be able to find them.”
“Yes, ma'am,” he replied, trying to gather himself, “and I hope we’ll be able to locate them soon.”
“Your Lordship is extremely kind,” said she, drily, “but I can by no means consent to take up any more of your time.” Then looking on the window-seat, she presently found the books, and added, “Come, here are just three, and so like the servants in the Drummer, this important affair may give employment to us all.” She then presented one of them to Lord Orville, another to me, and taking a third herself, with a most provoking look, she left the room.
“Your Lordship is very kind,” she said dryly, “but I really can’t take up any more of your time.” Then, glancing at the window-seat, she quickly spotted the books and added, “Here, there are just three, and like the servants in the Drummer, this important matter can keep us all busy.” She then handed one of them to Lord Orville, another to me, and took the third herself, giving a most annoying look as she left the room.
I would instantly have followed her; but Lord Orville, who could not help laughing, begged me to stay a minute, as he had many important matters to discuss.
I would have immediately followed her; but Lord Orville, who couldn’t help but laugh, asked me to stay for a minute because he had a lot of important things he wanted to talk about.
“No, indeed, my Lord, I cannot,-perhaps I have already stayed too long.”
“No, really, my Lord, I can’t—maybe I’ve already stayed too long.”
“Does Miss Anville so soon repent her goodness?”
“Does Miss Anville regret her kindness so quickly?”
“I scarce know what I do, my Lord,-I am quite bewildered!”
“I hardly know what I’m doing, my Lord—I’m completely confused!”
“One hour’s conversation,” cried he, “will, I hope, compose your spirits, and confirm my happiness. When, then, may I hope to see you alone?-shall you walk in the garden to-morrow before breakfast?”
“One hour’s conversation,” he exclaimed, “will, I hope, calm your nerves and make me happy. So, when can I expect to see you alone? Will you take a walk in the garden tomorrow before breakfast?”
“No, no, my Lord; you must not, a second time, reproach me with making an appointment.”
“No, no, my Lord; you must not blame me again for setting up an appointment.”
“Do you then,” said he, laughing, “reserve that honour only for Mr. Macartney?”
“Do you then,” he said, laughing, “save that honor just for Mr. Macartney?”
“Mr. Mccartney,” said I, “is poor, and thinks himself obliged to me; otherwise-”
“Mr. Mccartney,” I said, “is struggling financially and feels indebted to me; otherwise-”
“Poverty,” cried he, “I will not plead; but, if being obliged to you has any weight, who shall dispute my title to an appointment?”
“Poverty,” he exclaimed, “I won’t make excuses; but if being in your debt means anything, who can challenge my claim to a position?”
“My Lord, I can stay no longer,-Mrs. Selwyn will lose all patience.”
“Sir, I can't stay any longer—Mrs. Selwyn will lose all her patience.”
“Deprive her not of the pleasure of her conjectures,-but tell me, are you under Mrs. Selwyn’s care?”
“Don’t take away the joy of her guesses, but tell me, are you in Mrs. Selwyn’s care?”
“Only for the present, my Lord.”
"Just for now, my Lord."
“Not a few are the questions I have to ask Miss Anville: among them, the most important is, whether she depends wholly on herself, or whether there is any other person for whose interest I must solicit?”
“Not a few are the questions I have to ask Miss Anville: among them, the most important is, whether she depends wholly on herself, or whether there is any other person for whose interest I must solicit?”
“I hardly know, my Lord, I hardly know myself to whom I most belong.”
“I barely know, my Lord, I barely know who I truly belong to.”
“Suffer, suffer me, then,” cried he, with warmth, “to hasten the time when that shall no longer admit a doubt!-when your grateful Orville may call you all his own!”
“Please, let me hurry the day when there’s no doubt about it!—when your thankful Orville can claim you as his own!”
At length, but with difficulty, I broke from him. I went, however, to my own room, for I was too much agitated to follow Mrs. Selwyn. Good God, my dear Sir, what a scene! surely the meeting for which I shall prepare to-morrow cannot so greatly affect me! To be loved by Lord Orville,-to be the honoured choice of his noble heart,-my happiness seemed too infinite to be borne, and I wept, even bitterly I wept, from the excess of joy which overpowered me.
Eventually, but with great difficulty, I managed to break away from him. I went to my own room because I was too shaken to go after Mrs. Selwyn. Good God, my dear Sir, what a scene! Surely the meeting I’m preparing for tomorrow won’t affect me this much! To be loved by Lord Orville—to be the chosen one of his noble heart—my happiness felt too immense to handle, and I cried, even sobbed, from the overwhelming joy that consumed me.
In this state of almost painful felicity I continued till I was summoned to tea. When I re-entered the drawing room, I rejoiced much to find it full of company, as the confusion with which I met Lord Orville was rendered the less observable.
In this state of almost painful happiness, I stayed until I was called to tea. When I walked back into the drawing room, I was really glad to see it filled with people, as the awkwardness I felt with Lord Orville was less noticeable.
Immediately after tea, most of the company played at cards,-and then-till supper time, Lord Orville devoted himself wholly to me.
Immediately after tea, most of the group played cards, and then, until supper, Lord Orville focused entirely on me.
He saw that my eyes were red, and would not let me rest till he made me confess the cause; and when, though most reluctantly, I had acknowledged my weakness, I could with difficulty refrain from weeping again at the gratitude he expressed.
He noticed that my eyes were red and wouldn't let me rest until I admitted why; and when, though very reluctantly, I finally confessed my weakness, I could barely hold back my tears again at how grateful he was.
He earnestly desired to know if my journey could not be postponed! and when I no, entreated permission to attend me to town.
He really wanted to know if my trip could be delayed! And when I said no, he begged for permission to come with me to town.
“Oh, my Lord,” cried I, “what a request!”
“Oh my God,” I exclaimed, “what a request!”
“The sooner,” answered he, “I make my devotion to you in public, the sooner I may expect, from your delicacy, you will convince the world you encourage no mere danglers.”
“The sooner,” he replied, “I openly show my devotion to you, the sooner I can expect that, out of your refinement, you'll prove to the world that you don't encourage just any wannabes.”
“You teach me, then, my Lord, the inference I might expect, if I complied.”
"You teach me then, my Lord, what I could expect if I went along with it."
“And can you wonder I should seek to hasten the happy time, when no scruples, no discretion will demand our separation? and the most punctilious delicacy will rather promote, than oppose, my happiness in attending you?”
"And can you blame me for wanting to speed up the time when no doubts or concerns will force us apart? When even the strictest etiquette will support, rather than hinder, my joy in being with you?"
To this I was silent, and he re-urged his request.
To this, I didn’t respond, and he repeated his request.
“My Lord,” said I, “you ask what I have no power to grant. This journey will deprive me of all right to act for myself.”
“My Lord,” I said, “you’re asking for something I can’t give. This journey will take away my ability to make my own choices.”
“What does Miss Anville mean?”
“What does Ms. Anville mean?”
“I cannot now explain myself; indeed, if I could, the task would be both painful and tedious.”
“I can’t explain myself right now; in fact, even if I could, it would be a painful and tedious task.”
“O, Miss Anville,” cried he, “when may I hope to date the period of this mystery? when flatter myself that my promised friend will indeed honour me with her confidence?”
“O, Miss Anville,” he exclaimed, “when can I expect to know the truth behind this mystery? When can I hope that my promised friend will truly trust me?”
“My Lord,” said I, “I mean not to affect any mystery,-but my affairs are so circumstanced, that a long and most unhappy story can alone explain them. However, if a short suspense will give your Lordship any uneasiness,-”
“My Lord,” I said, “I don’t intend to create any mystery, but my situation is such that a long and very unhappy story is the only way to explain it. However, if keeping you in suspense for a short while will cause you any discomfort,-”
“My beloved Miss Anville,” cried he, eagerly, “pardon my impatience!-You shall tell me nothing you would wish to conceal,-I will wait your own time for information, and trust to your goodness for its speed.”
“My dear Miss Anville,” he exclaimed eagerly, “please forgive my impatience! You don’t have to share anything you want to keep to yourself—I’ll wait until you’re ready to tell me, and I trust you’ll do it soon.”
“There is nothing, my Lord, I wish to conceal,-to postpone an explanation is all I desire.”
“There’s nothing, my Lord, that I want to hide—delaying an explanation is all I want.”
He then requested, that, since I would not allow him to accompany me to town, I would permit him to write to me, and promise to answer his letters.
He then asked that, since I wouldn’t let him come with me to town, I would allow him to write to me and promise to reply to his letters.
A sudden recollection of the two letters which had already passed between us occurring to me, I hastily answered, “No, indeed, my Lord!-”
A sudden memory of the two letters that had already been exchanged between us came to mind, and I quickly replied, “No, not at all, my Lord!”
“I am extremely sorry,” said he, gravely, “that you think me too presumptuous. I must own I had flattered myself, that, to soften the inquietude of an absence, which seems attended by so many inexplicable circumstances, would not have been to incur your displeasure.” This seriousness hurt me; and I could not forbear saying, “Can you indeed desire, my Lord, that I should, a second time, expose myself, by an unguarded readiness, to write to you?”
“I’m really sorry,” he said seriously, “that you think I’m being too forward. I honestly thought that trying to ease the anxiety of an absence filled with so many confusing circumstances wouldn’t make you upset.” His serious tone hurt me, and I couldn’t stop myself from saying, “Do you really want me, my Lord, to put myself in the position of writing to you so openly a second time?”
“A second time! unguarded readiness!” repeated he; “you amaze me!”
“A second time! Unprotected openness!” he repeated; “you astonish me!”
“Has your Lordship then quite forgot the foolish letter I was so imprudent as to send you when in town?”
“Have you completely forgotten the silly letter I foolishly sent you when I was in town?”
“I have not the least idea,” cried he, “of what you mean.”
"I have no clue," he exclaimed, "what you mean."
“Why then, my Lord,” said I, “we had better let the subject drop.”
“Why then, my Lord,” I said, “we should probably drop the subject.”
“Impossible!” cried he, “I cannot rest without an explanation!”
“Impossible!” he exclaimed, “I can’t relax without an explanation!”
And then, he obliged me to speak very openly of both the letters: but, my dear Sir, imagine my surprise, when he assured me, in the most solemn manner, that, far from having ever written me a single line, he had never received, seen, or heard of my letter!
And then, he insisted that I talk very frankly about both letters: but, my dear Sir, imagine my shock when he earnestly told me that, far from ever having written me a single line, he had never received, seen, or even heard about my letter!
This subject, which caused mutual astonishment and perplexity to us both, entirely engrossed us for the rest of the evening; and he made me promise to show him the letter I had received in his name to-morrow morning, that he might endeavour to discover the author.
This topic, which left us both amazed and confused, kept us engaged for the rest of the evening; he made me promise to show him the letter I had gotten in his name tomorrow morning so he could try to figure out who wrote it.
After supper, the conversation became general.
After dinner, everyone joined in on the conversation.
And now, my dearest Sir, may I not call for your congratulations upon the events of this day? a day never to be recollected by me but with the most grateful joy! I know how much you are inclined to think well of Lord Orville; I cannot, therefore, apprehend that my frankness to him will displease you. Perhaps the time is not very distant, when your Evelina’s choice may receive the sanction of her best friend’s judgment and approbation,-which seems now all she has to wish!
And now, my dearest Sir, can I ask for your congratulations on the events of today? A day I will remember only with immense joy! I know you have a good opinion of Lord Orville; therefore, I can’t imagine my honesty toward him will upset you. Perhaps it won’t be long before your Evelina’s choice gets the approval and endorsement of her best friend’s judgment—which seems to be all she wishes for now!
In regard to the change in my situation which must first take place, surely I cannot be blamed for what has passed! the partiality of Lord Orville must not only reflect honour upon me, but upon all to whom I do, or may belong.
Regarding the change in my situation that needs to happen first, I definitely can’t be blamed for what’s happened! Lord Orville’s favoritism must not only bring honor to me but to everyone I am connected to or may be connected to.
Adieu, most dear Sir, I will write again when I arrive at London.
Goodbye, my dear Sir, I will write again when I get to London.
LETTER LXXVII - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. Clifton, Oct. 7th.
YOU will see, my dear Sir, that I was mistaken in supposing I should write no more from this place, where my residence now seems more uncertain than ever.
YOU will see, my dear Sir, that I was wrong to think I wouldn’t write again from this place, where my stay now seems more uncertain than ever.
This morning, during breakfast, Lord Orville took an opportunity to beg me, in a low voice, to allow him a moment’s conversation before I left Clifton; “May I hope,” added he, “that you will stroll into the garden after breakfast?”
This morning, at breakfast, Lord Orville quietly asked me to let him have a moment to talk before I left Clifton. “Can I hope,” he added, “that you’ll take a walk in the garden after breakfast?”
I made no answer, but I believe my looks gave no denial; for, indeed, I much wished to be satisfied concerning the letter. The moment, therefore, that I could quit the parlour, I ran up stairs for my calash; but, before I reached my room, Mrs. Selwyn called after me, “If you are going to walk, Miss Anville, be so good as to bid Jenny bring down my hat, and I’ll accompany you.”
I didn’t reply, but I think my expression showed I wasn’t denying it; I really wanted to know more about the letter. So, as soon as I could leave the parlor, I hurried upstairs to get my hood; but before I got to my room, Mrs. Selwyn called after me, “If you’re going for a walk, Miss Anville, please ask Jenny to bring my hat down, and I’ll join you.”
Very much disconcerted, I turned into the drawing-room, without making any answer, and there I hoped to wait unseen, till she had otherwise disposed of herself. But, in a few minutes, the door opened, and Sir Clement Willoughby entered.
Very confused, I walked into the living room without responding, hoping to wait there unnoticed until she decided to leave. But after a few minutes, the door opened, and Sir Clement Willoughby walked in.
Starting at the sight of him, in rising hastily, I let drop the letter which I had brought for Lord Orville’s inspection, and, before I could recover it, Sir Clement, springing forward, had it in his hand. He was just presenting it to me, and, at the same time, enquiring after my health, when the signature caught his eye, and he read aloud, “Orville.”
As soon as I saw him, I quickly stood up and accidentally dropped the letter I had brought for Lord Orville to look at. Before I could pick it up again, Sir Clement rushed forward and grabbed it. He was about to give it back to me and was asking how I was doing when he noticed the signature and read it out loud, “Orville.”
I endeavoured, eagerly, to snatch it from him, but he would not permit me; and, holding it fast, in a passionate manner exclaimed, “Good God, Miss Anville, is it possible you can value such a letter as this?”
I eagerly tried to grab it from him, but he wouldn't let me; and, holding it tightly, he exclaimed passionately, "Oh my God, Miss Anville, can you really value a letter like this?"
The question surprised and confounded me, and I was too much ashamed to answer him; but, finding he made an attempt to secure it, I prevented him, and vehemently demanded him to return it.
The question caught me off guard and threw me for a loop, and I was too embarrassed to respond; however, when I saw him trying to take it, I stopped him and insisted he give it back.
“Tell me first,” said he, holding it above my reach, “tell me if you have since received any more letters from the same person?”
“First, tell me,” he said, holding it out of my reach, “have you received any more letters from that person since then?”
“No, indeed,” cried I, “never!”
“No way,” I exclaimed, “never!”
“And will you also, sweetest of women, promise that you never will receive any more? Say that, and you will make me the happiest of men.”
“And will you also, sweetest of women, promise that you will never accept any more? Just say that, and you'll make me the happiest man alive.”
“Sir Clement,” cried I, greatly confused, “pray give me the letter.”
“Sir Clement,” I said, feeling really confused, “please give me the letter.”
“And will you not first satisfy my doubts?-will you not relieve me from the torture of the most distracting suspense?-tell me but that the detested Orville has written to you no more!”
“And will you not first ease my doubts? Will you not free me from the agony of this unbearable suspense? Just tell me that the hated Orville hasn't written to you anymore!”
“Sir Clement,” cried I, angrily, “you have no right to make any conditions,-so pray give me the letter directly.”
“Sir Clement,” I shouted angrily, “you have no right to set any conditions, so please give me the letter right now.”
“Why such solicitude about this hateful letter? can it possibly deserve your eagerness? tell me, with truth, with sincerity tell me, does it really merit the least anxiety?”
“Why are you so worried about this hateful letter? Does it really deserve your eagerness? Tell me, honestly and sincerely, does it actually warrant any anxiety at all?”
“No matter, Sir,” cried I, in great perplexity, “the letter is mine, and therefore-”
“No problem, Sir,” I exclaimed, feeling very confused, “the letter is mine, so-”
“I must conclude, then,” said he, “that the letter deserves your utmost contempt,-but that the name of Orville is sufficient to make you prize it.”
“I have to say, then,” he said, “that the letter deserves your complete disdain, but the name Orville is enough to make you value it.”
“Sir Clement,” cried I, colouring, “you are quite-you are very much-the letter is not-”
“Sir Clement,” I exclaimed, blushing, “you are really—you are very much—the letter isn’t—”
“O, Miss Anville,” cried he, “you blush!-you stammer!-Great Heaven! it is then all as I feared!”
“O, Miss Anville,” he exclaimed, “you’re blushing! You’re stammering! Oh my God! It’s all just as I feared!”
“I know not,” cried I, half-frightened, “what you mean; but I beseech you to give me the letter, and to compose yourself.”
“I don’t know,” I said, half-frightened, “what you mean; but please, give me the letter and calm down.”
“The letter,” cried he, gnashing his teeth, “you shall never see more! You ought to have burnt it the moment you had read it!” And in an instant he tore it into a thousand pieces.
“The letter,” he shouted, gritting his teeth, “you’ll never see again! You should have burned it the moment you read it!” And in no time, he ripped it into a thousand pieces.
Alarmed at a fury so indecently outrageous, I would have run out of the room; but he caught hold of my gown, and cried, “Not yet, not yet must you go! I am but half-mad yet, and you must stay to finish your work. Tell me, therefore, does Orville know your fatal partiality?-Say yes,” added he, trembling with passion, “and I will fly you for ever!”
Alarmed by such an outrageously intense anger, I almost ran out of the room; but he grabbed my dress and exclaimed, “Not yet, not yet must you leave! I'm only half-crazy right now, and you need to stay to complete your task. So tell me, does Orville know about your dangerous favoritism?—Say yes,” he added, shaking with emotion, “and I will pursue you forever!”
“For Heaven’s sake, Sir Clement,” cried I, “release me!-if you do not, you will force me to call for help.”
“For heaven's sake, Sir Clement,” I exclaimed, “let me go! If you don’t, you’ll make me call for help.”
“Call then,” cried he, “inexorable and most unfeeling girl; call, if you please, and bid all the world witness your triumph;-but could ten worlds obey your call, I would not part from you till you had answered me. Tell me, then, does Orville know you love him?”
“Call then,” he exclaimed, “heartless and incredibly cold girl; go ahead and invite the whole world to see your victory—but even if ten worlds could hear you, I wouldn’t leave until you’ve answered me. So tell me, does Orville know you love him?”
At any other time, an enquiry so gross would have given me inexpressible confusion; but now, the wildness of his manner terrified me, and I only said, “Whatever you wish to know, Sir Clement, I will tell you another time; but, for the present, I entreat you to let me go!”
At any other time, such a blatant question would have left me utterly embarrassed; but now, his erratic behavior scared me, and I merely replied, “Whatever you want to know, Sir Clement, I’ll tell you later; but for now, I beg you to let me go!”
“Enough,” cried he, “I understand you!-the art of Orville has prevailed;-cold, inanimate, phlegmatic as he is, you have rendered him the most envied of men!-One thing more, and I have done:-Will he marry you?”
“Enough,” he shouted, “I get it! Orville's skill has won out; despite being cold, lifeless, and unemotional, you've made him the most envied man! One more thing, and I'm done: Will he marry you?”
What a question! my cheeks glowed with indignation, and I felt too proud to make any answer.
What a question! My cheeks burned with anger, and I felt too proud to respond.
“I see, I see how it is,” cried he, after a short pause, “and I find I am undone for ever!” Then, letting loose my gown, he put his hand to his forehead, and walked up and down the room in a hasty and agitated manner.
“I get it, I see how things are,” he exclaimed after a brief pause, “and I realize I'm finished for good!” Then, loosening my gown, he placed his hand on his forehead and started pacing the room anxiously.
Though now at liberty to go, I had not the courage to leave him: for his evident distress excited all my compassion. And this was our situation, when Lady Louisa, Mr Coverley, and Mrs. Beaumont entered the room.
Though I was free to leave, I didn’t have the courage to go: his obvious distress stirred all my compassion. This was our situation when Lady Louisa, Mr. Coverley, and Mrs. Beaumont walked into the room.
“Sir Clement Willoughby,” said the latter, “I beg your pardon for making you wait so long, but-”
“Sir Clement Willoughby,” said the latter, “I apologize for keeping you waiting so long, but-”
She had not time for another word; Sir Clement, too much disordered to know or care what he did, snatched up his hat, and, brushing hastily past her, flew down stairs, and out of the house.
She didn't have time for another word; Sir Clement, too disturbed to know or care about his actions, grabbed his hat and rushed past her, flying down the stairs and out of the house.
And with him went my sincerest pity, though I earnestly hope I shall see him no more. But what, my dear Sir, am I to conclude from his strange speeches concerning the letter? Does it not seem as if he was himself the author of it? How else should he be so well acquainted with the contempt it merits? Neither do I know another human being who could serve any interest by such a deception. I remember, too, that just as I had given my own letter to the maid, Sir Clement came into the shop: probably he prevailed upon her, by some bribery, to give it to him; and afterwards, by the same means, to deliver to me an answer of his own writing. Indeed I can in no other manner account for this affair. Oh, Sir Clement, were you not yourself unhappy, I know not how I could pardon an artifice that has caused me so much uneasiness!
And with him went my deepest pity, though I really hope I won’t see him again. But what, my dear Sir, am I supposed to make of his strange comments about the letter? Doesn’t it seem like he may have written it himself? How else would he know so much about the disdain it received? I also don’t know anyone else who would benefit from such a trick. I remember that just as I handed my letter to the maid, Sir Clement walked into the shop; he probably persuaded her, maybe with a bribe, to give it to him, and then later, using the same approach, to bring me a response he wrote himself. Honestly, I can’t explain this situation any other way. Oh, Sir Clement, if you weren’t so miserable yourself, I don’t know how I could forgive a trick that has caused me so much distress!
His abrupt departure occasioned a kind of general consternation.
His sudden departure caused a sense of alarm among everyone.
“Very extraordinary behavior this!” cried Mrs. Beaumont.
“That's really unusual behavior!” exclaimed Mrs. Beaumont.
“Egad,” said Mr. Coverley, “the baronet has a mind to tip us a touch of the heroics this morning!”
“Wow,” said Mr. Coverley, “the baronet is in the mood to give us a bit of drama this morning!”
“I declare,” cried Miss Louisa, “I never saw any thing so monstrous in my life! it’s quite abominable;-I fancy the man’s mad;-I’m sure he has given me a shocking fright!”
“I swear,” cried Miss Louisa, “I’ve never seen anything so outrageous in my life! It’s totally unacceptable; I think the man’s insane; I’m sure he completely terrified me!”
Soon after, Mrs. Selwyn came up stairs with Lord Merton. The former, advancing hastily to me, said, “Miss Anville, have you an almanack?”
Soon after, Mrs. Selwyn came upstairs with Lord Merton. She quickly approached me and said, “Miss Anville, do you have an almanac?”
“Me?-no, Madam.”
“Not me, Madam.”
“Who has one, then?”
“Who has one now?”
“Egad,” cried Mr. Coverley, “I never bought one in my life; it would make me quite melancholy to have such a time-keeper in my pocket. I would as soon walk all day before an hour-glass.”
“Wow,” exclaimed Mr. Coverley, “I’ve never bought one in my life; having such a timepiece in my pocket would make me feel really down. I’d rather walk all day in front of an hourglass.”
“You are in the right,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “not to watch time, lest you should be betrayed, unawares, into reflecting how you employ it.”
“You're right,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “not to pay attention to time, so you won’t inadvertently find yourself thinking about how you spend it.”
“Egad, Ma’am,” cried he, “if Time thought no more of me than I do of Time, I believe I should bid defiance, for one while, to old age and wrinkles; for deuce take me, if ever I think about it at all.”
“Wow, Ma’am,” he exclaimed, “if Time cared about me any less than I care about Time, I think I could ignore old age and wrinkles for a bit; I swear, I hardly ever think about it at all.”
“Pray, Mr. Coverley,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “why do you think it necessary to tell me this so often?”
“Please, Mr. Coverley,” Mrs. Selwyn said, “why do you feel the need to tell me this so often?”
“Often!” repeated he; “Egad, Madam, I don’t know why I said it now;-but I’m sure I can’t recollect that ever I owned as much before.”
“Often!” he repeated; “Wow, Madam, I don’t know why I said that just now—but I’m sure I can’t remember ever having owned as much before.”
“Owned it before!” cried she, “why, my dear Sir, you own it all day long; for every word, every look, every action proclaims it.”
“Owned it before!” she exclaimed, “why, my dear Sir, you own it all day long; every word, every look, every action makes that clear.”
I now not if he understood the full severity of her satire, but he only turned off with a laugh: and she then applied to Mr. Lovel, and asked if he had an almanack?
I don't know if he understood the full seriousness of her sarcasm, but he just laughed it off: and then she turned to Mr. Lovel and asked if he had a calendar.
Mr. Lovel, who always looks alarmed when she addresses him, with some hesitation answered, “I assure you, Ma’am, I have no manner of antipathy to an almanack,-none in the least,-I assure you;-I dare say I have four or five.”
Mr. Lovel, who always seems startled when she talks to him, hesitated a bit before answering, “I promise you, Ma’am, I have no dislike for an almanac—none at all, I assure you—I’m sure I have four or five.”
“Four or five!-pray, may I ask what use you make of so many?”
"Four or five! Can I ask what you do with so many?"
“Use!-really, Ma’am, as to that,-I don’t make any particular use of them; but one must have them, to tell one the day of the month:-I’m sure, else I should never keep it in my head.”
“Honestly, Ma’am, I don’t really use them for anything specific; but you need them to know what day it is—because otherwise, I wouldn't be able to remember at all.”
“And does your time pass so smoothly unmarked, that, without an almanack, you could not distinguish one day from another?”
“Does your time go by so smoothly that, without a calendar, you couldn't tell one day from the next?”
“Really, Ma’am,” cried he, colouring, “I don’t see anything so very particular in having a few almanacks; other people have them, I believe, as well as me.”
“Honestly, Ma'am,” he exclaimed, blushing, “I don’t see anything so special about having a few calendars; other people have them too, I think, just like I do.”
“Don’t be offended,” cried she, “I have but made a little digression. All I want to know is, the state of the moon;-for if it is at the full, I shall be saved a world of conjectures, and know at once to what cause to attribute the inconsistencies I have witnessed this morning. In the first place, I heard Lord Orville excuse himself from going out, because he had business of importance to transact at home;-yet have I seen him sauntering alone in the garden this half hour. Miss Anville, on the other hand, I invited to walk out with me; and, after seeking her every where round the house, I find her quietly seated in the drawing-room. And, but a few minutes since, Sir Clement Willoughby, with even more than his usual politeness, told me he was come to spend the morning here;-when, just now, I met him flying down stairs, as if pursued by the Furies; and far from repeating his compliments, or making any excuse, he did not even answer a question I asked him, but rushed past me, with the rapidity of a thief from a bailiff!”
"Don’t take it the wrong way," she exclaimed, "I just strayed off topic a bit. All I want to know is the state of the moon; if it’s full, it would save me a lot of guessing and help me understand the odd behavior I’ve seen this morning. First, I heard Lord Orville say he couldn't go out because he had important business at home; yet I’ve seen him wandering alone in the garden for the last half hour. On the other hand, I asked Miss Anville to join me for a walk, but after searching everywhere around the house, I found her comfortably settled in the drawing-room. And just a few minutes ago, Sir Clement Willoughby, with even more politeness than usual, told me he had come to spend the morning here; but then I saw him rushing down the stairs as if he was being chased by the Furies. He didn’t repeat his compliments or offer any excuse, and he didn’t even answer a question I asked him, just darted past me like a thief escaping from a bailiff!"
“I protest,” said Mrs. Beaumont, “I can’t think what he meant; such rudeness, from a man of any family, is quite incomprehensible.”
“I protest,” said Mrs. Beaumont, “I can’t believe what he meant; such rudeness from a man of any background is completely unimaginable.”
“My Lord,” cried Lady Louisa to Lord Merton, “do you know he did the same by me?-I was just going to ask him what was the matter; but he ran past me so quick, that I declare he quite dazzled my eyes. You can’t think, my Lord, how he frightened me; I dare say I look as pale-don’t I look very pale, my Lord?”
“My Lord,” shouted Lady Louisa to Lord Merton, “do you know he did the same thing to me? I was just about to ask him what was wrong, but he rushed past me so fast that it nearly blinded me. You can't imagine, my Lord, how scared I was; I bet I look as pale—don't I look very pale, my Lord?”
“Your Ladyship,” said Mr. Lovel, “so well becomes the lilies, that the roses might blush to see themselves so excelled.”
“Your Ladyship,” Mr. Lovel said, “you wear the lilies so beautifully that the roses might blush at how they fall short.”
“Pray, Mr. Lovel,” said Mrs. Selwyn,” if the roses should blush, how would you find it out?”
“Please, Mr. Lovel,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “if the roses were to blush, how would you notice?”
“Egad,” cried Mr. Coverley, “I suppose they must blush, as the saying is, like a blue dog,-for they are red already.”
“Wow,” exclaimed Mr. Coverley, “I guess they must be blushing, as they say, like a blue dog—because they’re already red.”
“Prithee, Jack,” said Lord Merton, “don’t you pretend to talk about blushes, that never knew what they were in your life.”
“Come on, Jack,” said Lord Merton, “don’t act like you know anything about blushes when you’ve never experienced them in your life.”
“My Lord,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “if experience alone can justify mentioning them, what an admirable treatise upon the subject may we not expect from your Lordship!”
“My Lord,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “if experience alone can justify mentioning them, what an excellent discussion on the subject can we not expect from you!”
“O, pray, Ma’am,” answered he, “stick to Jack Coverley,-he’s your only man; for my part, I confess I have a mortal aversion to arguments.”
“O, please, Ma’am,” he replied, “stick with Jack Coverley—he’s the right guy for you; as for me, I’ll admit I have a strong dislike for arguments.”
“O, fie, my Lord,” cried Mrs. Selwyn, “a senator of the nation! a member of the noblest parliament in the world!-and yet neglect the art of oratory!”
“O, come on, my Lord,” Mrs. Selwyn exclaimed, “a senator of the nation! A member of the greatest parliament in the world! And yet you ignore the art of speaking!”
“Why, faith, my Lord,” said Mr. Lovel, “I think, in general, your House is not much addicted to study; we of the Lower House have indubitably most application; and, if I did not speak before a superior power (bowing to Lord Merton) I should presume to add, we have likewise the most able speakers.”
“Why, truly, my Lord,” said Mr. Lovel, “I believe, in general, your House isn’t really into studying; we in the Lower House definitely put in the most effort; and if I weren’t speaking in front of a higher authority (bowing to Lord Merton), I would dare to say we also have the best speakers.”
“Mr. Lovel,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “you deserve immortality for that discovery! But for this observation, and the confession of Lord Merton, I protest that I should have supposed that a peer of the realm, and an able logician, were synonymous terms.”
“Mr. Lovel,” Mrs. Selwyn said, “you deserve to live forever for that discovery! If it weren't for this observation and Lord Merton's confession, I would have thought that a nobleman and a skilled logician were the same thing.”
Lord Merton, turning upon his heel, asked Lady Louisa if she would take the air before dinner?
Lord Merton, turning on his heel, asked Lady Louisa if she would like to take a walk before dinner.
“Really,” answered she, “I don’t know;-I’m afraid it’s monstrous hot; besides (putting her hand to her forehead) I an’t half well; it’s quite horrid to have such weak nerves!-the least thing in the world discomposes me: I declare, that man’s oddness has given me such a shock,-I don’t know when I shall recover from it. But I’m a sad, weak creature;-don’t you think I am, my Lord?”
“Honestly,” she replied, “I have no idea; I’m really afraid it’s incredibly hot; plus (she placed her hand on her forehead) I’m not feeling well at all; it’s awful to have such weak nerves! The slightest thing throws me off balance: I swear, that man’s strange behavior has shocked me so much—I don’t know when I’ll get over it. But I’m a miserable, fragile person; don’t you think so, my Lord?”
“O, by no means,” answered he, “your Ladyship is merely delicate,-and devil take me if ever I had the least passion for an Amazon.”
“Oh, not at all,” he replied, “your Ladyship is just a bit fragile—and I swear, I’ve never had the slightest interest in an Amazon.”
“I have the honour to be quite of your Lordship’s opinion,” said Mr. Lovel, looking maliciously at Mrs. Selwyn; “for I have an insuperable aversion to strength, either of body or mind, in a female.”
“I’m honored to share your Lordship’s opinion,” said Mr. Lovel, looking spitefully at Mrs. Selwyn; “because I have an unshakeable dislike for strength, whether it’s in body or mind, in a woman.”
“Faith, and so have I,” said Mr. Coverley; “for egad, I’d as soon see a woman chop wood, as hear her chop logic.”
“Faith, and so have I,” said Mr. Coverley; “for goodness' sake, I’d just as soon see a woman chop wood as hear her argue.”
“So would every man in his senses,” said Lord Merton, “for a woman wants nothing to recommend her but beauty and good-nature; in everything else she is either impertinent or unnatural. For my part, deuce take me if ever I wish to hear a word of sense from a woman as long as I live!”
“So would every man in his right mind,” said Lord Merton, “because a woman has nothing to offer other than beauty and a good attitude; in every other way, she is either rude or unnatural. As for me, I swear I’ll never want to hear a sensible word from a woman for the rest of my life!”
“It has always been agreed,” said Mrs. Selwyn, looking round her with the utmost contempt, “that no man ought to be connected with a woman whose understanding is superior to his own. Now I very much fear, that to accommodate all this good company, according to such a rule, would be utterly impracticable, unless we should choose subjects from Swift’s hospital of idiots.”
“It’s always been understood,” said Mrs. Selwyn, glancing around her with total disdain, “that no man should be involved with a woman who is smarter than he is. Now, I’m really worried that trying to make things work for all this good company under that rule would be completely impossible, unless we pick topics from Swift’s hospital of idiots.”
How many enemies, my dear Sir, does this unbounded severity excite! Lord Merton, however, only whistled; Mr. Coverley sang; and Mr. Lovel, after biting his lips, said “‘Pon honour, that lady-if she was not a lady-I should be half tempted to observe,-that there is something,-in such severity,-that is rather, I must say,-rather oddish.”
How many enemies, my dear Sir, does this extreme harshness create! Lord Merton, however, just whistled; Mr. Coverley sang; and Mr. Lovel, after biting his lips, said, “Honestly, that lady—if she wasn't a lady—I might be tempted to point out that there's something, in such harshness, that's a bit, I must say, a bit strange.”
Just then a servant brought Lady Louisa a note upon a waiter, which is a ceremony always used to her Ladyship; and I took the opportunity of this interruption to the conversation to steal out of the room.
Just then, a servant brought Lady Louisa a note on a tray, which is a custom always observed for her Ladyship; and I seized the chance of this interruption in the conversation to slip out of the room.
I went immediately to the parlour, which I found quite empty; for I did not dare walk in the garden, after what Mrs. Selwyn had said.
I went straight to the living room, which I found completely empty; I didn’t dare go into the garden after what Mrs. Selwyn had said.
In a few minutes a servant announced Mr. Macartney; saying, as he entered the room, that he would acquaint Lord Orville he was there.
In a few minutes, a servant announced Mr. Macartney, saying as he entered the room that he would let Lord Orville know he was there.
Mr. Macartney rejoiced much at finding me alone. He told me he had taken the liberty to enquire for Lord Orville, by way of pretext for coming to the house.
Mr. Macartney was very pleased to find me by myself. He said he had taken the liberty of asking about Lord Orville as an excuse for coming to the house.
I then very eagerly enquired if he had seen his father.
I then eagerly asked if he had seen his father.
“I have, Madam,” said he, “and the generous compassion you have shown made me hasten to acquaint you, that, upon reading my unhappy mother’s letter, he did not hesitate to acknowledge me.”
“I have, Madam,” he said, “and your kind compassion made me rush to let you know that, after reading my unfortunate mother’s letter, he didn’t hesitate to recognize me.”
“Good God,” cried I, with no little emotion, “how similar are our circumstances! And did he receive you kindly?”
“Good God,” I exclaimed, feeling quite emotional, “how similar are our situations! Did he treat you well?”
“I could not, Madam, expect that he would; the cruel, transaction, which obliged me to fly to Paris, was recent in his memory.”
"I honestly didn't think he would, ma'am; the harsh situation that forced me to run away to Paris was still fresh in his mind."
“And,-have you seen the young lady?”
“And, have you seen the young woman?”
“No, Madam,” said he, mournfully, “I was forbid her sight.”
“No, ma’am,” he said sadly, “I wasn’t allowed to see her.”
“Forbid her sight!-and why?”
“Don’t let her see! Why?”
“Partly, perhaps, from prudence,-and partly from the remains of a resentment which will not easily subside. I only requested leave to acquaint her with my relationship, and to be allowed to call her sister;-but it was denied me! ‘You have no sister,’ said Sir John, ?you must forget her existence.’ Hard and vain command!”
“Partly, maybe out of caution,-and partly because of lingering resentment that won't easily go away. I only asked for permission to let her know about our relationship and to be able to call her sister;-but that was denied! ‘You don’t have a sister,’ said Sir John, ‘you must forget she exists.’ What a harsh and pointless command!”
“You have-you have a sister!” cried I, from an impulse of pity, which I could not repress; “a sister who is most warmly interested in your welfare, and who only wants opportunity to manifest her friendship and regard.”
“You have—you have a sister!” I exclaimed, driven by a wave of pity I couldn’t hold back; “a sister who cares deeply about your wellbeing and just wants the chance to show her friendship and support.”
“Gracious Heaven!” cried he, “what does Miss Anville mean?”
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed, “what does Miss Anville mean?”
“Anville,” said I, “is not my real name; Sir John Belmont is my father,-he is your’s,-and I am your sister!-You see, therefore, the claim we mutually have to each other’s regard; we are not merely bound by the ties of friendship, but by those of blood. I feel for you, already, all the affection of a sister; I felt it, indeed, before I knew I was one.-Why, my dear brother, do you not speak?-do you hesitate to acknowledge me?”
“Anville,” I said, “is not my real name; Sir John Belmont is my father—he’s yours too—and I’m your sister! So you can see the connection we have with each other. We’re bonded not just by friendship, but by blood. I already feel all the love of a sister for you; I actually felt it even before I knew I was one. Why, my dear brother, don’t you speak? Are you hesitant to recognize me?”
“I am so lost in astonishment,” cried he, “that I know not if I hear right!”-
“I’m so shocked right now,” he exclaimed, “that I can’t even tell if I’m hearing this correctly!”
“I have, then, found a brother,” cried I, holding out my hand, “and he will not own me!”
“I’ve found a brother,” I exclaimed, reaching out my hand, “and he won’t acknowledge me!”
“Own you!-Oh, Madam,” cried he, accepting my offered hand, “is it indeed possible you can own me? -a poor, wretched adventurer! who so lately had no support but from your generosity?-whom your benevolence snatched from utter destruction?-Can you,-Oh, Madam, can you, indeed, and without a blush, condescend to own such an outcast for a brother?”
“Do you really claim me? Oh, Madam,” he exclaimed, taking my outstretched hand, “is it truly possible for you to acknowledge me? A poor, miserable adventurer! Just recently, I had no support except for your kindness—someone your generosity saved from complete ruin. Can you—Oh, Madam, can you truly, without a hint of embarrassment, acknowledge such an outcast as your brother?”
“Oh, forbear, forbear,” cried I, “is this language proper for a sister? are we not reciprocally bound to each other?-Will you not suffer me to expect from you all the good offices in your power?-But tell me, where is our father at present?”
“Oh, please, stop,” I cried. “Is this how a sister should talk? Aren't we bound to each other? Will you not let me expect all the kindness you can offer? But tell me, where is our father right now?”
“At the Hot-Wells, Madam; he arrived there yesterday morning.”
“At the Hot-Wells, ma'am; he got there yesterday morning.”
I would have proceeded with further questions, but the entrance of Lord Orville prevented me. The moment he saw us, he started, and would have retreated; but, drawing my hand from Mr. Macartney’s, I begged him to come in.
I would have asked more questions, but then Lord Orville walked in and stopped me. The moment he saw us, he jumped back and looked like he was about to leave; however, I pulled my hand away from Mr. Macartney’s and asked him to come in.
For a few moments we were all silent, and, I believe, all in equal confusion. Mr. Macartney, however, recollecting himself said “I hope your Lordship will forgive the liberty I have taken in making use of your name.”
For a few moments, we all stood in silence, and I think we were all just as confused. Mr. Macartney, however, collected himself and said, “I hope you’ll forgive me for using your name, my Lord.”
Lord Orville, rather coldly, bowed, but said nothing.
Lord Orville bowed politely but didn’t say anything.
Again we were all silent, and then Mr. Macartney took leave.
Again we were all quiet, and then Mr. Macartney said goodbye.
“I fancy,” said Lord Orville, when he was gone, “I have shortened Mr. Macartney’s visit?”
“I think,” said Lord Orville, after he left, “I’ve cut Mr. Macartney’s visit short?”
“No, my Lord, not at all.”
“No, my Lord, not at all.”
“I had presumed,” said he, with some hesitation, “I should have seen Miss Anville in the garden;-but I knew not she was so much better engaged.”
“I thought,” he said, hesitantly, “I would have seen Miss Anville in the garden; but I didn't realize she was so much more occupied.”
Before I could answer, a servant came to tell me the chaise was ready, and that Mrs. Selwyn was enquiring for me.
Before I could respond, a servant arrived to inform me that the carriage was ready and that Mrs. Selwyn was asking for me.
“I will wait on her immediately,” cried I, and away I was running; but Lord Orville, stopping me, said, with great emotion, “Is it thus, Miss Anville, you leave me?”
“I'll go to her right away,” I exclaimed, and I took off running; but Lord Orville, stopping me, said with deep emotion, “Is this how you’re going to leave me, Miss Anville?”
“My Lord,” cried I, “how can I help it?-perhaps, soon, some better opportunity may offer-”
“My Lord,” I said, “how can I help it? Maybe, soon, a better opportunity will come along.”
“Good Heaven!” cried he, “do you take me for a Stoic! what better opportunity may I hope for?-is not the chaise come?-are you not going? have you even deigned to tell me whither?”
“Good heavens!” he exclaimed, “do you think I’m some kind of Stoic! What better chance could I hope for? Hasn’t the carriage arrived? Are you not leaving? Have you even bothered to tell me where you’re going?”
“My journey, my Lord, will now be deferred. Mr. Macartney has brought me intelligence which renders it at present unnecessary.”
"My journey, my Lord, will now be postponed. Mr. Macartney has brought me news that makes it unnecessary for now."
“Mr. Macartney,” said he, gravely, “seems to have great influence;-yet he is a very young counsellor.”
“Mr. Macartney,” he said seriously, “seems to have a lot of influence; yet he is quite a young advisor.”
“Is it possible, my Lord, Mr. Macartney can give you the least uneasiness?”
“Is it possible, my Lord, that Mr. Macartney could cause you any concern?”
“My dearest Miss Anville,” said he, taking my hand, “I see, and I adore the purity of your mind, superior as it is to all little arts, and all apprehensions of suspicion; and I should do myself, as well as you, injustice, if I were capable of harbouring the smallest doubts of that goodness which makes you mine forever: nevertheless, pardon me, if I own myself surprised,-nay, alarmed, at these frequent meetings with so young a man as Mr. Macartney.”
“My dearest Miss Anville,” he said, taking my hand, “I see and admire the purity of your mind, which is above all petty tricks and any feelings of suspicion. It would be unfair to both of us if I were to have even the slightest doubts about your goodness that makes you mine forever. However, please forgive me if I admit that I am surprised—indeed, alarmed—at these frequent meetings with such a young man as Mr. Macartney.”
“My Lord,” cried I, eager to clear myself, “Mr. Macartney is my brother.”
“My Lord,” I exclaimed, eager to defend myself, “Mr. Macartney is my brother.”
“Your brother! you amaze me!-What strange mystery, then, makes his relationship a secret?”
“Your brother! You surprise me! What strange mystery makes his relationship a secret?”
Just then Mrs. Selwyn opened the door. “O, you are here!” cried she: “Pray, is my Lord so kind as to assist you in preparing for your journey, or in retarding it?”
Just then, Mrs. Selwyn opened the door. “Oh, you’re here!” she exclaimed. “Are you so fortunate as to have my Lord helping you get ready for your journey, or is he delaying it?”
“I should be most happy,” said Lord Orville, smiling, “if it were in my power to do the latter.”
“I would be very happy,” said Lord Orville, smiling, “if I could do the latter.”
I then acquainted her with Mr. Macartney’s communication.
I then informed her about Mr. Macartney’s message.
She immediately ordered the chaise away: and then took me into her own room, to consider what should be done.
She quickly had the chaise removed and then took me into her own room to figure out what to do next.
A few minutes sufficed to determine her; and she wrote the following note.
A few minutes were enough for her to figure things out, and she wrote the following note.
“To Sir John Belmont, Bart.”
“To Sir John Belmont, Bart.”
“MRS. SELWYN presents her compliments to Sir John Belmont;
and, if he is at leisure, will be glad to wait on him this
morning, upon business of importance.”
“MRS. SELWYN sends her regards to Sir John Belmont; and, if he's available, she would be happy to meet with him this morning regarding an important matter.”
She then ordered her man to enquire at the pump-room for a direction; and went herself to Mrs. Beaumont to apologize for deferring her journey.
She then told her husband to ask at the pump room for directions and went to Mrs. Beaumont to apologize for delaying her trip.
An answer was presently returned, that Sir John would be glad to see her.
An answer came back that Sir John would be happy to see her.
She would have had me immediately accompany her to the Hot-Wells; but I entreated her to spare me the distress of so abrupt an introduction, and to pave the way for my reception. She consented rather reluctantly, and, attended only by her servant, walked to the Wells.
She wanted me to go with her to the Hot-Wells right away, but I begged her to let me avoid the stress of such a sudden introduction and to make it easier for me when I arrived. She agreed, though somewhat hesitantly, and, just with her servant, walked to the Wells.
She was not absent two hours; yet so miserably did time seem to linger, that I thought a thousand accidents had happened, and feared she would never return. I passed the whole time in my own room, for I was too much agitated even to converse with Lord Orville.
She was gone for less than two hours, but time dragged on so slowly that I imagined a thousand things could go wrong and worried she might never come back. I spent the entire time in my room because I was too shaken up to even talk to Lord Orville.
The instant that, from my window, I saw her returning, I flew down stairs, and met her in the garden.
The moment I saw her coming back from my window, I rushed downstairs and met her in the garden.
We both walked to the arbour.
We both walked to the arbor.
Her looks, in which both disappointment and anger were expressed, presently announced to me the failure of her embassy. Finding that she did not speak, I asked her, in a faltering voice, whether or not I had a father?
Her expression, which showed both disappointment and anger, clearly told me that her mission had failed. Noticing she didn't respond, I asked her, my voice shaky, if I had a father.
“You have not, my dear!” said she abruptly.
“You haven't, my dear!” she said suddenly.
“Very well, Madam,” said I, with tolerable calmness, “let the chaise then be ordered again;-I will go to Berry Hill;-and there, I trust, I shall still find one!”
“Alright, ma'am,” I said, fairly calmly, “let's order the carriage again; I'll go to Berry Hill; and there, I hope, I'll still find one!”
It was some time ere she could give, or I could hear, the account of her visit; and then she related it in a hasty manner; yet, I believe I can recollect every word.
It took a while before she could share, or I could hear, the details of her visit; and when she finally did, she spoke quickly. Still, I think I can remember every word.
“I found Sir John alone. He received me with the utmost politeness. I did not keep him a moment in suspense as to the purport of my visit. But I had no sooner made it known, than, with a supercilious smile, he said, ‘And have you, Madam, been prevailed upon to revive that ridiculous old story?’ Ridiculous, I told him, was a term which he would find no one else do him the favour to make use of, in speaking of the horrible actions belonging to the old story he made so light of; ?actions’ continued I, ‘which would dye still deeper the black annals of Nero or Caligula.’ He attempted in vain to rally; for I pursued him with all the severity in my power, and ceased not painting the enormity of his crime till I stung him to the quick, and, in a voice of passion and impatience, he said, ‘No more, Madam,-this is not a subject upon which I need a monitor.’ ‘Make then,’ cried I, ’the only reparation in your power.-Your daughter is now at Clifton; send for her hither; and, in the face of the world, proclaim the legitimacy of her birth, and clear the reputation of your injured wife.’ ‘Madam,’ said he, ?you are much mistaken, if you suppose I waited for the honour of this visit before I did what little justice now depends upon me, to the memory of that unfortunate woman: her daughter has been my care from her infancy; I have taken her into my house; she bears my name; and she will be my sole heiress.’ For some time this assertion appeared so absurd, that I only laughed at it: but, at last, he assured me, I had myself been imposed upon; for that very woman who attended Lady Belmont in her last illness, conveyed the child to him while he was in London, before she was a year old. ‘Unwilling,’ he added, ?at that time to confirm the rumour of my being married, I sent the woman with the child to France: as soon as she was old enough, I put her into a convent, where she has been properly educated, and now I have taken her home. I have acknowledged her for my lawful child, and paid, at length, to the memory of her unhappy mother a tribute of fame, which has made me wish to hide myself hereafter from all the world.’ This whole story sounded so improbable, that I did not scruple to tell him I discredited every word. He then rung his bell; and, enquiring if his hair-dresser was come, said he was sorry to leave me; but that, if I would favour him with my company to-morrow, he would do himself the honour of introducing Miss Belmont to me, instead of troubling me to introduce her to him. I rose in great indignation; and assuring him I would make his conduct as public as it was infamous-I left the house.”
“I found Sir John alone. He greeted me with the utmost politeness. I didn't keep him waiting even a moment to reveal the purpose of my visit. But as soon as I did, with a condescending smile, he said, ‘And have you, madam, been convinced to bring up that ridiculous old story?’ Ridiculous, I told him, was a word he would find no one else use when talking about the awful actions tied to that old story he dismissed so easily; ‘actions,’ I continued, ‘that would deepen the dark history of Nero or Caligula.’ He tried in vain to be witty, but I pressed on with all the seriousness I could muster, not stopping until I highlighted the seriousness of his crime until he was visibly hurt, and in a voice filled with passion and impatience, he said, ‘No more, madam—this is not a subject on which I require a monitor.’ ‘Then make,’ I exclaimed, ‘the only reparation in your power. Your daughter is currently in Clifton; summon her here, and in front of everyone, declare her legitimacy and clear your injured wife's name.’ ‘Madam,’ he said, ‘you are greatly mistaken if you think I waited for the honor of this visit before doing what little justice I could to the memory of that unfortunate woman: I have cared for her daughter since infancy; I’ve taken her into my home; she carries my name; and she will be my only heiress.’ For a while, this claim seemed so absurd that I could only laugh at it: but eventually, he assured me that I had been misled; for it was that very woman who cared for Lady Belmont during her last illness who brought the child to him while he was in London, before she was even a year old. ‘Reluctant,’ he added, ‘at that time to confirm the rumors of my marriage, I sent the woman with the child to France: as soon as she was old enough, I placed her in a convent, where she was properly educated, and now I’ve brought her home. I have recognized her as my lawful child and finally paid tribute to the memory of her unfortunate mother, which has made me wish to hide from the world henceforth.’ This entire story sounded so implausible that I didn’t hesitate to tell him I didn’t believe a word of it. He then rang his bell and, inquiring whether his hairdresser had arrived, said he was sorry to leave me; but if I would do him the honor of joining him tomorrow, he would introduce Miss Belmont to me instead of making me introduce her to him. I stood up in great indignation and assured him I would make his behavior as public as it was infamous—and left the house.”
Good Heaven, how strange the recital! how incomprehensible an affair! The Miss Belmont then who is actually at Bristol, passes for the daughter of my unhappy mother!-passes, in short, for your Evelina! Who she can be, or what this tale can mean, I have not any idea.
Good heavens, how strange this story is! How mysterious this situation! The Miss Belmont, who is currently in Bristol, is considered the daughter of my poor mother! In short, she is thought to be your Evelina! I have no idea who she is or what this story could mean.
Mrs. Selwyn soon after left me to my own reflections. Indeed they were not very pleasant. Quietly as I had borne her relation, the moment I was alone I felt most bitterly both the disgrace and sorrow of a rejection so cruelly inexplicable.
Mrs. Selwyn soon left me to my own thoughts. Honestly, they weren't very pleasant. Even though I had handled her story quietly, the moment I was alone, I felt the deep shame and sadness of a rejection that was so painfully confusing.
I know not how long I might have continued in this situation, had I not been awakened from my melancholy reverie by the voice of Lord Orville. “May I come in,” cried he, “or shall I interrupt you?”
I don't know how much longer I would have stayed in this state if I hadn't been pulled out of my sad thoughts by Lord Orville's voice. "Can I come in?" he called, "Or am I disturbing you?"
I was silent, and he seated himself next me.
I was quiet, and he sat down next to me.
“I fear,” he continued, “Miss Anville will think I persecute her: yet so much as I have to say, and so much as I wish to hear, with so few opportunities for either, she cannot wonder-and I hope she will not be offended-that I seize with such avidity every moment in my power to converse with her. You are grave,” added he, taking my hand; “I hope the pleasure it gives to me, will not be a subject of pain to you? -You are silent!-Something, I am sure, has afflicted you:-would to Heaven I were able to console you!-Would to Heaven I were worthy to participate in your sorrows!”
“I’m worried,” he continued, “that Miss Anville will think I’m bothering her. But with so much I want to say and hear, and so few chances to do so, she can't blame me—and I hope she won't be upset—that I take every opportunity to talk with her. You seem serious,” he said, taking my hand; “I hope the happiness it brings me won’t cause you any pain? -You’re quiet! I can tell something is troubling you: I wish I could comfort you! I wish I were worthy enough to share in your sadness!”
My heart was too full to bear this kindness, and I could only answer by my tears. “Good Heaven,” cried he, “how you alarm me!-My love, my sweet Miss Anville, deny me no longer to be the sharer of your griefs!-tell me, at least, that you have not withdrawn your esteem!-that you do not repent the goodness you have shown me!-that you still think me the same grateful Orville, whose heart you have deigned to accept!”
My heart was overwhelmed by this kindness, and I could only respond with my tears. “Good heavens,” he exclaimed, “you’re worrying me! My love, my dear Miss Anville, please don’t deny me the chance to share in your troubles! Just tell me that you haven’t taken back your affection! That you don’t regret the kindness you’ve shown me! That you still see me as the same grateful Orville whose heart you’ve chosen to accept!”
“Oh, my Lord,” cried I, “your generosity overpowers me!” And I wept like an infant. For now, that all my hopes of being acknowledged seemed finally crushed, I felt the nobleness of his disinterested regard so forcibly, that I could scarce breathe under the weight of gratitude which oppressed me.
“Oh my God,” I exclaimed, “your generosity is overwhelming!” And I cried like a baby. Now that all my hopes of being recognized seemed completely shattered, I felt the depth of his selfless kindness so intensely that I could barely breathe under the weight of gratitude that overwhelmed me.
He seemed greatly shocked; and, in terms the most flattering, the most respectfully tender, he at once soothed my distress, and urged me to tell him its cause.
He looked really shocked, and in the most flattering and respectful way, he quickly calmed my distress and encouraged me to share what was bothering me.
“My Lord,” said I, when I was able to speak, “you little know what an outcast you have honoured with your choice!-a child of bounty,-an orphan from infancy,-dependant, even for subsistence, dependent, upon the kindness of compassion!-Rejected by my natural friends,-disowned for ever by my nearest relation,-Oh, my Lord, so circumstanced, can I deserve the distinction with which you honour me? No, no, I feel the inequality too painfully;-you must leave me, my Lord; you must suffer me to return to obscurity; and there, in the bosom of my first, best, my only friend,-I will pour forth all the grief of my heart!-while you, my Lord, must seek elsewhere-”
“My Lord,” I said when I could finally speak, “you have no idea what an outcast you have honored with your choice! A child of fortune, an orphan since infancy, reliant for subsistence on the kindness of others! Rejected by my biological family, disowned forever by my closest relative—Oh, my Lord, given these circumstances, how can I deserve the honor you have given me? No, I feel the disparity too deeply; you must leave me, my Lord. You must allow me to return to obscurity; there, in the company of my first, best, and only friend, I will pour out all the sorrow in my heart—while you, my Lord, must seek your fulfillment elsewhere—”
I could not proceed; my whole soul recoiled against the charge I would have given, and my voice refused to utter it.
I couldn’t move forward; my entire being recoiled at the accusation I would have made, and my voice wouldn’t let me say it.
“Never,” cried he, warmly, “my heart is your’s, and I swear to you an attachment eternal!-You prepare me, indeed, for a tale of horror, and I am almost breathless with expectation;-but so firm is my conviction, that, whatever are your misfortunes, to have merited them is not of the number, that I feel myself more strongly, more invincibly devoted to you than ever!-Tell me but where I may find this noble friend, whose virtues you have already taught me to reverence,-and I will fly to obtain his consent and intercession, that henceforward our fates my be indissolubly united;-and then shall it be the sole study of my life to endeavor to soften your past,-and guard you from future misfortunes!”
“Never,” he exclaimed passionately, “my heart is yours, and I promise you my loyalty forever! You’re getting me ready for a horrifying story, and I’m almost breathless with anticipation—but I am so certain that no matter what your hardships are, you don’t deserve them, and I feel even more strongly devoted to you than ever! Just tell me where I can find this noble friend, whose virtues you’ve already made me respect, and I will hurry to get his approval and support so that from now on our fates can be inseparably linked; and then my only priority in life will be to help ease your past and protect you from future troubles!”
I had just raised my eyes to answer this most generous of men, when the first object they met was Mrs. Selwyn.
I had just looked up to respond to this incredibly generous man when the first person I saw was Mrs. Selwyn.
“So, my dear,” cried she, “what, still courting the rural shades!-I thought ere now you would have been satiated with this retired seat, and I have been seeking you all over the house. But I find the only way to meet with you,-is to enquire for Lord Orville. However, don’t let me disturb your meditation; you are possibly planning some pastoral dialogue.”
“So, my dear,” she exclaimed, “what, still hanging out in the countryside? I thought by now you would have gotten tired of this quiet spot, and I’ve been looking for you all over the house. But I find the only way to find you is to ask about Lord Orville. However, don’t let me interrupt your thoughts; you might be planning some pastoral conversation.”
And, with this provoking speech, she walked on.
And with that thought-provoking speech, she continued on her way.
In the greatest confusion I was quitting the arbour, when Lord Orville said, “Permit me to follow Mrs. Selwyn;-it is time to put an end to all impertinent conjectures; will you allow me to speak to her openly?”
In the midst of the chaos, I was leaving the arbor when Lord Orville said, “Let me catch up with Mrs. Selwyn; it's time to put an end to all the annoying speculation. Can I talk to her honestly?”
I assented in silence, and he left me.
I nodded quietly, and he walked away.
I then went to my own room, where I continued till I was summoned to dinner; after which, Mrs. Selwyn invited me to hers.
I then went to my room, where I stayed until I was called to dinner; after that, Mrs. Selwyn invited me to hers.
The moment she had shut the door, “Your Ladyship’” said she, “will, I hope, be seated.”
The moment she shut the door, “Your Ladyship,” she said, “I hope you will take a seat.”
“Ma’am!” cried I, staring.
"Ma'am!" I exclaimed, staring.
“O the sweet innocent! So you don’t know what I mean?-but, my dear, my sole view is to accustom you a little to your dignity elect, lest, when you are addressed by your title, you should look another way, from an apprehension of listening to a discourse not meant for you to hear.”
“Oh, the sweet innocent! So you don’t get what I mean? But, my dear, my only goal is to help you get used to your special status a bit, so that when someone calls you by your title, you won’t look away, worried you might hear a conversation not meant for you.”
Having, in this manner, diverted herself with my confusion, till her raillery was almost exhausted, she congratulated me very seriously upon the partiality of Lord Orville, and painted to me, in the strongest terms, his disinterested desire of being married to me immediately. She had told him, she said, my whole story, and yet he was willing, nay eager, that our union should take place of any further application to my family. “Now, my dear,” continued she, “I advise you by all means to marry him directly; nothing can be more precarious than our success with Sir John; and the young men of this age are not to be trusted with too much time for deliberation, where their interests are concerned.”
Having entertained herself with my confusion for a while, until her teasing was almost worn out, she seriously congratulated me on Lord Orville's affection and portrayed his genuine wish to marry me right away in the strongest terms. She said she had shared my entire story with him, and still, he was willing, even eager, for our marriage to happen without any more discussions with my family. “Now, my dear,” she continued, “I strongly advise you to marry him right away; nothing is more uncertain than our chances with Sir John, and young men today shouldn't be given too much time to think when their interests are involved.”
“Good God, Madam,” cried I, “do you think I would hurry Lord Orville?”
“Good God, Madam,” I exclaimed, “do you really think I would rush Lord Orville?”
“Well, do as you will,” said she, “luckily you have an excellent subject for Quixotism;-otherwise this delay might prove your ruin; but Lord Orville is almost as romantic as if he had been born and bred at Berry Hill.”
“Well, do whatever you want,” she said, “luckily you have a great topic for being Quixotic; otherwise, this delay could be your downfall. But Lord Orville is nearly as romantic as if he had grown up at Berry Hill.”
She then proposed, as no better expedient seemed likely to be suggested, that I should accompany her at once in her visit to the Hot-Wells to-morrow morning.
She then suggested, since no better option seemed likely to come up, that I should go with her on her trip to the Hot-Wells tomorrow morning.
The very idea made me tremble; yet she represented so strongly the necessity of pursuing this unhappy affair with spirit, or giving it totally up, that, wanting her force of argument, I was almost obliged to yield to her proposal.
The very idea made me nervous; yet she emphasized so strongly the need to tackle this unfortunate situation with energy, or to completely let it go, that, lacking her persuasive strength, I felt almost forced to agree to her suggestion.
In the evening we all walked in the garden; and Lord Orville, who never quitted my side, told me he had been listening to a tale, which though it had removed the perplexities that had so long tormented him, had penetrated him with sorrow and compassion. I acquainted him with Mrs. Selwyn’s plan for to-morrow, and confessed the extreme terror it gave me. He then, in a manner almost unanswerable, besought me to leave to him the conduct of the affair, by consenting to be his before an interview took place.
In the evening, we all took a walk in the garden, and Lord Orville, who never left my side, told me he had been listening to a story that, while it had cleared up the worries that had troubled him for so long, had also filled him with sadness and compassion. I shared with him Mrs. Selwyn’s plan for tomorrow and admitted how terrified it made me. He then, in a nearly irresistible way, asked me to let him handle the situation by agreeing to be his before the meeting took place.
I could not but acknowledge my sense of his generosity; but I told him I was wholly dependent upon you; and that I was certain your opinion would be the same as mine; which was, that it would be highly improper I should dispose of myself for ever, so very near the time which must finally decide by whose authority I ought to be guided. The subject of this dreaded meeting, with the thousand conjectures and apprehensions to which it gives birth, employed all our conversation then, as it has all my thoughts since.
I couldn’t help but recognize his generosity; however, I told him I was completely reliant on you and that I was sure your opinion would match mine, which was that it would be very inappropriate for me to make a permanent decision about my future just before the moment that would ultimately determine whose authority I should follow. The topic of this dreaded meeting, along with all the countless speculations and worries it brings, occupied our entire conversation then and has filled my thoughts ever since.
Heaven only knows how I shall support myself, when the long expected-the wished-yet terrible moment arrives, that will prostrate me at the feet of the nearest, the most reverenced of all relations, whom my heart yearns to know, and longs to love!
Heaven only knows how I'll manage to support myself when that long-anticipated, desired yet scary moment arrives, which will bring me to the feet of the nearest, most respected relative, whom my heart yearns to meet and longs to love!
LETTER LXXVIII - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. Oct. 9th.
I COULD not write yesterday, so violent was the agitation of my mind;-but I will not, now, lose a moment till I have hastened to my best friend an account of the transactions of a day I can never recollect without emotion.
I couldn't write yesterday because my mind was so troubled, but I won't waste any time now before I hurry and tell my best friend about the events of a day I can never remember without feeling emotional.
Mrs. Selwyn determined upon sending no message, “Lest,” said she, “Sir John, fatigued with the very idea of my reproaches, should endeavour to avoid a meeting. He cannot but see who you are, whether he will do you justice or not.”
Mrs. Selwyn decided not to send any message, “Because,” she said, “Sir John, weary just from the thought of my criticisms, might try to avoid seeing you. He can't help but recognize who you are, whether he chooses to treat you fairly or not.”
We went early, and in Mrs. Beaumont’s chariot; into which Lord Orville, uttering words of the kindest encouragement, handed us both.
We went early, and in Mrs. Beaumont’s carriage; into which Lord Orville, offering the kindest encouragement, helped us both in.
My uneasiness, during the ride, was excessive; but, when we stopped at the door, I was almost senseless with terror! the meeting, at last, was not so dreadful as that moment! I believe I was carried into the house; but I scarce recollect what was done with me: however, I know we remained some time in the parlour before Mrs. Selwyn could send any message up stairs.
My anxiety during the ride was overwhelming; but when we arrived at the door, I was nearly paralyzed with fear! The meeting, in the end, wasn't as terrifying as that moment! I think I was taken into the house; but I hardly remember what happened to me. Still, I know we stayed in the parlor for a while before Mrs. Selwyn could send any message upstairs.
When I was somewhat recovered, I intreated her to let me return home, assuring her I felt myself quite unequal to supporting the interview.
When I felt a bit better, I begged her to let me go home, assuring her I felt totally unprepared for the conversation.
“No,” said she; “you must stay now: your fears will but gain strength by delay; and we must not have such a shock as this repeated.” Then, turning to the servant, she sent up her name.
“No,” she said. “You have to stay now; your fears will only get stronger if you wait. We can't go through such a shock as this again.” Then, turning to the servant, she asked them to announce her name.
An answer was brought, that he was going out in great haste, but would attend her immediately. I turned so sick, that Mrs. Selwyn was apprehensive I should have fainted; and, opening a door which led to an inner apartment, she begged me to wait there till I was somewhat composed, and till she had prepared for my reception.
An answer was given that he was leaving in a hurry but would see her right away. I felt so nauseous that Mrs. Selwyn worried I might faint; she opened a door that led to another room and asked me to wait there until I felt a bit better and until she got things ready for me.
Glad of every moment’s reprieve, I willingly agreed to the proposal; and Mrs. Selwyn had but just time to shut me in, before her presence was necessary.
Happy for every moment of break, I readily accepted the proposal; and Mrs. Selwyn barely had time to close the door behind me before she needed to be present.
The voice of a father -Oh, dear and revered name!-which then, for the first time, struck my ears, affected me in a manner I cannot describe, though it was only employed in giving orders to a servant as he came down stairs.
The voice of a father - Oh, dear and respected name! - which then, for the first time, reached my ears, affected me in a way I can't describe, even though it was only used to give orders to a servant as he came down the stairs.
Then, entering the parlour, I heard him say, “I am sorry, Madam, I made you wait; but I have an engagement which now calls me away: however, if you have any commands for me, I shall be glad of the honour of your company some other time.”
Then, as I entered the living room, I heard him say, “I’m sorry, ma’am, for making you wait; but I have an engagement that requires my attention now. However, if you have any requests for me, I would be happy to have the honor of your company another time.”
“I am come, Sir,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “to introduce your daughter to you.”
“I've come, Sir,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “to introduce your daughter to you.”
“I am infinitely obliged to you,” answered he; “but I have just had the satisfaction of breakfasting with her. Ma’am, your most obedient.”
“I’m truly grateful to you,” he replied. “But I just had the pleasure of having breakfast with her. Ma’am, your most obedient.”
“You refuse, then, to see her?”
“You're not going to see her, then?"
“I am much indebted to you, Madam, for this desire of increasing my family; but you must excuse me if I decline taking advantage of it. I have already a daughter, to whom I owe everything; and it is not three days since that I had the pleasure of discovering a son: how many more sons and daughters may be brought to me, I am yet to learn; but I am already perfectly satisfied with the size of my family.”
“I really appreciate your desire to help me grow my family, but you’ll have to understand that I have to pass on that. I already have a daughter, to whom I owe everything; and just three days ago, I had the joy of finding out about a son. I don’t know how many more sons and daughters might come my way, but I’m already completely satisfied with how my family is.”
“Had you a thousand children, Sir John,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “this only one, of which Lady Belmont was the mother, ought to be most distinguished; and, far from avoiding her sight, you should thank your stars, in humble gratitude, that there yet remains in your power the smallest opportunity of doing the injured wife you have destroyed, the poor justice of acknowledging her child!”
“Even if you had a thousand children, Sir John,” Mrs. Selwyn said, “this one child, whose mother is Lady Belmont, should stand out the most; and instead of steering clear of her, you should be grateful that you still have the smallest chance to acknowledge the child of the wounded wife you’ve harmed!”
“I am very unwilling, Madam,” answered he, “to enter into any discussion of this point; but you are determined to compel me to speak. There lives not at this time the human being, who should talk to me of the regret due to the memory of that ill-fated woman; no one can feel it so severely as myself; but let me, nevertheless, assure you, I have already done all that remained in my power to prove the respect she merited from me: her child I have educated, and owned for my lawful heiress: if, madam, you can suggest to me any other means by which I may more fully do her justice, and more clearly manifest her innocence, name them to me; and, though they should wound my character still deeper, I will perform them readily.”
“I really don’t want to, Madam,” he replied, “to get into a discussion about this; but you’re determined to make me speak. There isn’t anyone alive right now who should talk to me about the regret I feel for that unfortunate woman; no one can feel it as deeply as I do. But let me assure you, I’ve already done everything I can to show the respect she deserved: I’ve raised her child and have acknowledged her as my lawful heir. If, madam, you can suggest any other way for me to fully honor her and clearly show her innocence, please let me know; and even if it damages my reputation further, I will gladly do it.”
“All this sounds vastly well,” returned Mrs. Selwyn; “but I must own it is rather too enigmatical for my faculties of comprehension. You can, however, have no objection to seeing this young lady.”
“All of this sounds really good,” Mrs. Selwyn replied; “but I have to admit it’s a bit too puzzling for me to understand. However, you surely don’t mind meeting this young lady.”
“None in the world.”
"None in the world."
“Come forth, then, my dear,” cried she, opening the door; “come forth and see your father!” Then, taking my trembling hand, she led me forward. I would have withdrawn it and retreated; but, as he advanced instantly towards me, I found myself already before him.
“Come out, my dear,” she said, opening the door; “come out and see your father!” Then, taking my shaking hand, she led me forward. I wanted to pull away and back off; but as he quickly approached me, I realized I was already standing in front of him.
What a moment for your Evelina-an involuntary scream escaped me, and, covering my face with my hands, I sunk on the floor.
What a moment for your Evelina—an involuntary scream broke out of me, and, covering my face with my hands, I sank to the floor.
He had, however, seen me first; for, in a voice scarce articulate, he exclaimed, “My God! does Caroline Evelyn still live!”
He had, however, seen me first; for, in a barely coherent voice, he exclaimed, “My God! does Caroline Evelyn still live!”
Mrs. Selwyn said something, but I could not listen to her; and in a few minutes he added, “Lift up thy head-if my sight has not blasted thee!-lift up thy head, thou image of my long lost Caroline!”
Mrs. Selwyn said something, but I couldn’t pay attention to her; and a few minutes later he added, “Lift up your head—if my gaze hasn’t destroyed you!—lift up your head, you reflection of my long-lost Caroline!”
Affected beyond measure, I half arose, and embraced his knees, while yet on my own.
Affected beyond measure, I got up partially and embraced his knees, while still on my own.
“Yes, yes,” cried he, looking earnestly in my face, “I see, I see thou art her child! she lives-she breathes,-she is present to my view!-Oh, God, that she indeed lived!-Go, child, go,” added he, wildly starting, and pushing me from him: “take her away, Madam,-I cannot bear to look at her!” And then, breaking hastily from me, he rushed out of the room.
“Yes, yes,” he exclaimed, looking intently into my face, “I see, I see you are her child! She lives—she breathes—she is right in front of me! Oh, God, I wish she really lived! Go, child, go,” he continued, suddenly panicking and pushing me away from him. “Take her away, ma'am—I can’t stand to look at her!” And then, quickly breaking away from me, he rushed out of the room.
Speechless, motionless myself, I attempted not to stop him; but Mrs. Selwyn, hastening after him, caught hold of his arm: “Leave me, Madam,” cried he, with quickness, “and take care of the poor child:-bid her not think me unkind; tell her, I would at this moment plunge a dagger in my heart to serve her: but she has set my brain on fire; and I can see her no more!” Then, with a violence almost frantic, he ran up stairs.
Speechless and motionless, I tried not to stop him; but Mrs. Selwyn, rushing after him, grabbed his arm. “Leave me, Madam,” he shouted quickly, “and take care of the poor child—tell her not to think I’m unkind; tell her I would stab my own heart right now to help her. But she has driven me insane, and I can’t see her anymore!” Then, almost frantically, he ran upstairs.
Oh, Sir, had I not indeed cause to dread this interview?-an interview so unspeakably painful and afflicting to us both! Mrs. Selwyn would have immediately returned to Clifton; but I entreated her to wait some time, in the hope that my unhappy father, when his first emotion was over, would again bear me in his sight. However, he soon after sent his servant to enquire how I did; and to tell Mrs. Selwyn he was much indisposed, but would hope for the honour of seeing her to-morrow, at any time she would please to appoint.
Oh, Sir, didn’t I really have reason to fear this meeting? A meeting so incredibly painful and distressing for both of us! Mrs. Selwyn would have gone straight back to Clifton, but I begged her to stay a bit longer, hoping that my troubled father, once his initial emotions settled, would be able to tolerate my presence again. However, he soon sent his servant to check on me and to let Mrs. Selwyn know that he was feeling very unwell but hoped to have the honor of seeing her tomorrow, at whatever time she preferred.
She fixed upon ten o’clock in the morning; and then, with a heavy heart, I got into the chariot. Those afflicting words, I can see her no more! were never a moment absent from my mind.
She decided on ten o’clock in the morning; and then, with a heavy heart, I got into the carriage. Those painful words, I can see her no more! were never far from my mind.
Yet the sight of Lord Orville, who handed us from the carriage, gave some relief to the sadness of my thoughts. I could not, however, enter upon the painful subject; but, begging Mrs. Selwyn to satisfy him, I went to my own room.
Yet seeing Lord Orville, who helped us out of the carriage, eased some of the heaviness in my thoughts. I still couldn't bring myself to discuss the painful topic, so I asked Mrs. Selwyn to fill him in while I went to my own room.
As soon as I communicated to the good Mrs. Clinton the present situation of my affairs, an idea occurred to her which seemed to clear up all the mystery of my having been so long disowned.
As soon as I told the kind Mrs. Clinton about my current situation, an idea came to her that seemed to explain why I had been disowned for so long.
The woman, she says, who attended my ever-to-be-regretted mother in her last illness, and who nursed me the first four months of my life, soon after being discharged from your house, left Berry Hill entirely, with her baby, who was but six weeks older than myself. Mrs. Clinton remembers, that her quitting the place appeared, at the time, very extraordinary to the neighbours; but, as she was never heard of afterwards, she was by degrees quite forgotten.
The woman, she says, who cared for my deeply regretted mother during her final illness, and who took care of me for the first four months of my life, soon after leaving your house, completely left Berry Hill with her baby, who was only six weeks older than me. Mrs. Clinton remembers that her departure seemed very strange to the neighbors at the time; however, since she was never heard from again, she was gradually forgotten.
The moment this was mentioned, it struck Mrs. Selwyn, as well as Mrs. Clinton herself, that my father had been imposed upon; and that the nurse, who said she had brought his child to him, had, in fact, carried her own.
The moment this was mentioned, it hit Mrs. Selwyn, as well as Mrs. Clinton herself, that my father had been deceived; and that the nurse, who claimed she had brought his child to him, had actually brought her own.
The name by which I was known, the secrecy observed in regard to my family, and the retirement in which I lived, all conspired to render this scheme, however daring and fraudulent, by no means impracticable; and, in short, the idea was no sooner started, than conviction seemed to follow it.
The name I was known by, the secrecy surrounding my family, and the isolation in which I lived all came together to make this plan, no matter how bold and deceitful, entirely doable; in fact, as soon as the idea was brought up, it quickly seemed plausible.
Mrs. Selwyn determined immediately to discover the truth or mistake of this conjecture; therefore, the moment she had dined, she walked to the Hot Wells, attended by Mrs. Clinton.
Mrs. Selwyn decided right away to find out the truth or error of this guess; so, as soon as she finished dinner, she walked to the Hot Wells, accompanied by Mrs. Clinton.
I waited in my room till her return; and then heard the following account of her visit:
I waited in my room until she got back; and then I heard this account of her visit:
She found my poor father in great agitation. She immediately informed him of the occasion of her so speedy return, and of her suspicions of the woman who had pretended to convey to him his child. Interrupting her with quickness, he said he had just sent her from his presence; that the certainty I carried in my countenance of my real birth, made him, the moment he had recovered from a surprise which had almost deprived him of reason, suspect, himself, the imposition she mentioned. He had therefore sent for the woman, and questioned her with the utmost austerity; she turned pale, and was extremely embarrassed; but still she persisted in affirming, that she had really brought him the daughter of Lady Belmont. His perplexity, he said, almost distracted him: he had always observed, that his daughter bore no resemblance to either of her parents; but, as he had never doubted the veracity of the nurse, this circumstance did not give birth to any suspicion.
She found my poor father extremely agitated. She quickly told him why she had returned so fast and shared her suspicions about the woman who claimed to have brought him his child. Interrupting her hastily, he said he had just sent her away; the certainty I showed on my face about my true heritage made him, once he got over the shock that nearly drove him mad, suspect the deception she mentioned. He had therefore called the woman in and questioned her very sternly; she turned pale and was very flustered, but still insisted she had genuinely brought him the daughter of Lady Belmont. He said the confusion almost drove him crazy: he had always noticed that his daughter looked nothing like either parent; however, since he had never doubted the nurse's honesty, this fact hadn't raised any suspicions.
At Mrs. Selwyn’s desire, the woman was again called, and interrogated with equal art and severity; her confusion was evident, and her answers often contradictory; yet she still declared she was no impostor. “We will see that in a minute,” said Mrs. Selwyn; and then desired Mrs. Clinton might be called up stairs. The poor wretch, changing colour, would have escaped out of the room; but, being prevented, dropt on her knees, and implored forgiveness. A confession of the whole affair was then extorted from her.
At Mrs. Selwyn’s request, the woman was called back in and questioned with the same skill and strictness; her nervousness was clear, and her responses were often conflicting; still, she insisted she was not a fraud. “We’ll find out soon enough,” said Mrs. Selwyn, and then asked for Mrs. Clinton to be brought upstairs. The poor woman, pale and anxious, tried to flee the room but, unable to do so, fell to her knees and begged for forgiveness. A full confession of everything was then forced from her.
Doubtless, my dear Sir, you must remember Dame Green, who was my first nurse. The deceit she has practised was suggested, she says, by a conversation she overheard; in which my unhappy mother besought you, that, if her child survived her, you would take the sole care of its education; and, in particular, if it should be a female, you would by no means part with her in early life. You not only consented, she says, but assured her you would even retire abroad with me yourself, if my father should importunately demand me. Her own child, she said, was then in her arms; and she could not forbear wishing it were possible to give her the fortune which seemed so little valued for me. This wish once raised was not easily suppressed; on the contrary, what at first appeared a mere idle desire, in a short time seemed a feasible scheme. Her husband was dead, and she had little regard for any body but her child; and, in short, having saved money for the journey, she contrived to enquire a direction to my father; and, telling her neighbours she was going to settle in Devonshire, she set out on her expedition.
Doubtless, my dear Sir, you must remember Dame Green, who was my first nurse. The deception she has carried out was suggested, she claims, by a conversation she overheard, in which my unfortunate mother asked you that, if her child survived her, you would take complete responsibility for its education; and, in particular, if it turned out to be a girl, you would not let her go in her early years. You not only agreed, she says, but assured her that you would even move abroad with me yourself, if my father insisted on having me. Her own child, she said, was then in her arms, and she couldn't help wishing it were possible to give her the fortune that seemed so little valued for me. Once that wish was formed, it was not easily suppressed; instead, what initially appeared to be a mere idle desire soon seemed like a practical plan. Her husband was dead, and she cared little for anyone but her child; and, ultimately, having saved money for the journey, she figured out how to contact my father; and, telling her neighbors she was going to settle in Devonshire, she set off on her journey.
When Mrs. Selwyn asked her how she dared perpetrate such a fraud, she protested she had no ill designs; but that, as Miss would be never the worse for it, she thought it pity nobody should be the better.
When Mrs. Selwyn asked her how she dared to commit such a fraud, she insisted she had no bad intentions; rather, since Miss wouldn’t be harmed by it, she thought it was a shame that no one should benefit.
Her success we are already acquainted with. Indeed everything seemed to contribute towards it: my father had no correspondent at Berry Hill; the child was instantly sent to France; where, being brought up in as much retirement as myself, nothing but accident could discover the fraud.
Her success is already known to us. In fact, everything seemed to contribute to it: my father had no contacts at Berry Hill; the child was quickly sent to France, where, being raised in as much seclusion as I was, only an accident could reveal the deception.
And here let me indulge myself in observing, and rejoicing to observe, that the total neglect I thought I met with was not the effect of insensibility or unkindness, but of imposition and error; and that, at the very time we concluded I was unnaturally rejected, my deluded father meant to show me most favour and protection.
And here I want to take a moment to point out, and be happy to point out, that the complete neglect I thought I experienced wasn’t due to insensitivity or unkindness, but rather misunderstanding and mistakes; and that, at the very time we believed I was being unreasonably cast aside, my misguided father actually intended to show me the greatest support and care.
He acknowledges that Lady Howard’s letter flung him into some perplexity: he immediately communicated it to Dame Green, who confessed it was the greatest shock she had ever received in her life; yet she had the art and boldness to assert, that Lady Howard must herself have been deceived: and as she had, from the beginning of her enterprise, declared she had stolen away the child without your knowledge, he concluded that some deceit was then intended him; and this thought occasioned his abrupt answer.
He admits that Lady Howard's letter threw him into confusion. He quickly shared it with Dame Green, who said it was the biggest shock she had ever experienced. Still, she had the skill and confidence to argue that Lady Howard must have been misled herself. Since she had claimed from the start of her plan that she had taken the child without your knowledge, he figured that some trickery was aimed at him, and this idea led to his sudden response.
Dame Green owned, that, from the moment the journey to England was settled, she gave herself up for lost. All her hope was to have had her daughter married before it took place; for which reason she had so much promoted Mr. Macartney’s addresses; for though such a match was inadequate to the pretensions of Miss Belmont, she well knew it was far superior to those her daughter could form after the discovery of her birth.
Dame Green realized that once the trip to England was confirmed, she felt completely doomed. Her only hope was to see her daughter married before the departure; that’s why she encouraged Mr. Macartney’s proposal. Although that match was beneath what Miss Belmont deserved, she knew it was much better than any options her daughter would have once her true parentage was revealed.
My first enquiry was, if this innocent daughter was yet acquainted with the affair? “No,” Mrs. Selwyn said; nor was any plan settled how to divulge it to her. Poor unfortunate girl! how hard is her fate! She is entitled to my kindest offices, and I shall always consider her as my sister.
My first question was whether this innocent daughter knew about the situation yet. “No,” Mrs. Selwyn said; and no plan had been made about how to tell her. Poor unfortunate girl! Her fate is so harsh! She deserves my kindest support, and I will always think of her as my sister.
I then asked whether my father would again allow me to see him!
I then asked if my dad would let me see him again!
“Why, no, my dear, not yet,” answered she; “he declares the sight of you is too much for him: however, we are to settle everything concerning you to-morrow; for this woman took up all our time to-day.”
“Why, no, my dear, not yet,” she replied; “he says seeing you is too overwhelming for him: however, we’re supposed to finalize everything about you tomorrow; this woman took up all our time today.”
This morning, therefore, she is again gone to the Hot Wells. I am waiting in all impatience for her return; but, as I know you will be anxious for the account this letter contains, I will not delay sending it.
This morning, she's gone back to the Hot Wells again. I'm waiting eagerly for her to come back; but since I know you'll be eager to hear about what this letter contains, I won't wait to send it.
LETTER LXXIX - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. October 9th.
HOW agitated, my dear Sir, is the present life of your Evelina! every day seems important, and one event only a prelude to another.
HOW troubled, my dear Sir, is Evelina's life right now! Every day feels significant, and one event is just the lead-up to the next.
Mrs. Selwyn, upon her return this morning from the Hot Wells, entering my room very abruptly, said, “Oh, my dear, I have terrible news for you!”
Mrs. Selwyn, after coming back this morning from the Hot Wells, burst into my room and said, “Oh, my dear, I have terrible news for you!”
“For me, Ma’am!-Good God! what now?”
“For me, Ma’am! Good God! What now?”
“Arm yourself,” cried she, “with all your Berry Hill philosophy;-con over every lesson of fortitude or resignation you ever learnt in your life;-for know,-you are next week to be married to Lord Orville!”
“Get ready,” she exclaimed, “with all your Berry Hill wisdom—go over every lesson of strength or acceptance you’ve ever learned in your life—because, just so you know, you’re getting married to Lord Orville next week!”
Doubt, astonishment, and a kind of perturbation I cannot describe, made this abrupt communication alarm me extremely; and, almost breathless, I could only exclaim, “Good God, Madam, what do you tell me!”
Doubt, shock, and a kind of unsettling feeling I can't put into words made this sudden message really alarm me; and, almost breathless, I could only exclaim, “Good God, Madam, what are you telling me!”
“You may well be frightened, my dear,” said she, ironically; “for really there is something mighty terrific in becoming, at once, the wife of the man you adore,-and a Countess!”
“You might be scared, my dear,” she said, ironically; “because there’s really something pretty incredible about suddenly becoming the wife of the man you love—and a Countess!”
I entreated her to spare her raillery, and tell me her real meaning. She could not prevail with herself to grant the first request, though she readily complied with the second.
I begged her to ease up on the teasing and just tell me what she really meant. She couldn't bring herself to grant the first request, but she quickly agreed to the second.
My poor father, she said, was still in the utmost uneasiness: he entered upon his affairs with great openness, and told her, he was equally disturbed how to dispose either of the daughter he had discovered, or the daughter he was now to give up; the former he dreaded to trust himself with again beholding, and the latter he knew not how to shock with the intelligence of her disgrace. Mrs. Selwyn then acquainted him with my situation in regard to Lord Orville: this delighted him extremely; and, when he heard of his Lordship’s eagerness, he said he was himself of opinion, the sooner the union took place the better; and, in return, he informed her of the affair of Mr. Macartney. “And, after a very long conversation,” continued Mrs. Selwyn, “we agreed, that the most eligible scheme for all parties would be, to have both the real and the fictitious daughter married without delay. Therefore, if either of you have any inclination to pull caps for the title of Miss Belmont, you must do it with all speed, as next week will take from both of you all pretensions to it.”
"My poor father," she said, "was still extremely anxious. He approached his matters openly and told her he was equally troubled about what to do with either the daughter he had just found or the daughter he was now losing. He feared seeing the former again and had no idea how to break the news of her disgrace to the latter. Mrs. Selwyn then filled him in on my situation regarding Lord Orville: this thrilled him greatly. When he heard about his Lordship's eagerness, he said he believed the sooner the union happened, the better. In return, he shared news about Mr. Macartney. 'And after a very long conversation,' Mrs. Selwyn continued, 'we agreed that the best plan for everyone would be to have both the real and the pretend daughter married without delay. So, if either of you wants to compete for the title of Miss Belmont, you’d better do it quickly, as next week will eliminate both of you from any claims to it.'"
“Next week!-dear Madam, what a strange plan!-without my being consulted,-without applying to Mr. Villars,-without even the concurrence of Lord Orville!”
“Next week! - dear Madam, what a strange plan! - without consulting me, - without asking Mr. Villars, - without even getting Lord Orville’s approval!”
“As to consulting you, my dear, it was out of all question; because, you know, young ladies’ hearts and hands are always to be given with reluctance;-as to Mr. Villars, it is sufficient we know him for your friend;-and as for Lord Orville, he is a party concerned.”
“As for consulting you, my dear, that was out of the question; because, you know, young ladies’ hearts and hands are always given with hesitation; regarding Mr. Villars, it’s enough that we know him as your friend; and when it comes to Lord Orville, he has a stake in this.”
“A party concerned!-you amaze me!”
"Wow, you really surprise me!"
“Why, yes; for, as I found our consultation likely to redound to his advantage, I persuaded Sir John to send for him.”
“Sure, because I thought our meeting would benefit him, I convinced Sir John to call for him.”
“Send for him!-Good God!”
“Call him! Good God!”
“Yes; and Sir John agreed. I told the servant, that if he could not hear of his Lordship in the house, he might be pretty certain of encountering him in the arbour.-Why do you colour, my dear?-Well, he was with us in a moment: I introduced him to Sir John; and we proceeded to business.”
“Yeah; and Sir John agreed. I told the servant that if he couldn’t find his Lordship in the house, he could be pretty sure he’d run into him in the arbour. -Why are you blushing, my dear?- Anyway, he was with us in a moment: I introduced him to Sir John; and we got down to business.”
“I am very, very sorry for it!-Lord Orville must himself think this conduct strangely precipitate.”
“I am really, really sorry about this! Lord Orville must think my behavior is quite impulsive.”
“No, my dear, you are mistaken; Lord Orville has too much good sense. Everything was then discussed in a rational manner. You are to be married privately, though not secretly, and then go to one of his Lordship’s country seats: and poor little Miss Green and your brother, who have no house of their own, must go to one of Sir John’s.”
“No, my dear, you’re mistaken; Lord Orville is too sensible for that. Everything was then talked about in a logical way. You’re going to get married privately, but not secretly, and then head to one of his Lordship’s country estates. As for poor little Miss Green and your brother, who don’t have a place of their own, they’ll have to go to one of Sir John’s.”
“But why, my dear Madam, why all this haste? why may we not be allowed a little longer time?”
“But why, my dear Madam, why the rush? Why can’t we have a little more time?”
“I could give you a thousand reasons,” answered she, “but that I am tolerably certain two or three will be more than you can controvert, even with all the logic of genuine coquetry. In the first place, you doubtless wish to quit the house of Mrs. Beaumont: to whose, then, can you with such propriety remove as to Lord Orville’s?”
“I could give you a thousand reasons,” she replied, “but I'm pretty sure two or three will be more than you can argue against, even with all the cleverness of genuine flirtation. First of all, you probably want to leave Mrs. Beaumont’s house: to whose place, then, can you more appropriately go than to Lord Orville’s?”
“Surely, Madam,” cried I, “I am not more destitute now than when I thought myself an orphan.”
"Surely, Madam," I exclaimed, "I'm not more helpless now than when I believed I was an orphan."
“Your father, my dear,” answered she, “is willing to save the little impostor as much of the mortification of her disgrace as is in his power; now, if you immediately take her place, according to your right, as Miss Belmont, why, not all that either of you can do for her, will prevent her being eternally stigmatized as the bantling of Dame Green, wash-woman and wet nurse, of Berry Hill, Dorsetshire. Now such a genealogy will not be very flattering, even to Mr. Macartney, who, all-dismal as he is, you will find by no means wanting in pride and self-consequence.”
“Your father, my dear,” she replied, “is willing to save the little impostor from as much embarrassment as he can; now, if you immediately take her place, as is your right, as Miss Belmont, then nothing either of you does for her will stop her from being forever marked as the child of Dame Green, the washwoman and wet nurse from Berry Hill, Dorsetshire. Now, such a background won’t be very flattering, even to Mr. Macartney, who, despite being quite gloomy, is not lacking in pride and self-importance.”
“For the universe,” interrupted I, “I would not be accessary to the degradation you mention; but surely, Madam, I may return to Berry Hill?”
“For the universe,” I interrupted, “I wouldn’t be part of the degradation you’re talking about; but surely, Madam, I can go back to Berry Hill?”
“By no means,” said she; “for though compassion may make us wish to save the poor girl the confusion of an immediate and public fall, yet justice demands you should appear henceforward in no other light than that of Sir John Belmont’s daughter. Besides, between friends, I, who know the world, can see that half this prodigious delicacy for the little usurper is the mere result of self-interest; for, while her affairs are hushed up, Sir John’s, you know, are kept from being brought further to light. Now the double marriage we have projected obviates all rational objections. Sir John will give you immediately L.30,000; all settlements, and so forth, will be made for you in the name of Evelina Belmont:-Mr. Macartney will at the same time take poor Polly Green; and yet, at first, it will only be generally known that a daughter of Sir John Belmont is married.”
“Not at all,” she said; “because while we might feel sorry for the poor girl and want to spare her the embarrassment of an immediate and public downfall, justice requires that you should only be seen as Sir John Belmont’s daughter from now on. Also, between friends, I can tell you that much of this extreme care for the little usurper is really just self-interest; as long as her issues are kept quiet, Sir John’s, you know, remain out of the spotlight. Now, the double marriage we’ve planned resolves all reasonable objections. Sir John will immediately give you £30,000; all settlements and so on will be arranged for you in the name of Evelina Belmont: Mr. Macartney will simultaneously marry poor Polly Green; and for a while, it will only be known that a daughter of Sir John Belmont is getting married.”
In this manner, though she did not convince me, yet the quickness of her arguments silenced and perplexed me. I enquired, however, if I might not be permitted to again see my father, or whether I must regard myself as banished his presence for ever?
In this way, even though she didn’t convince me, the speed of her arguments left me speechless and confused. I asked, though, if I could see my father again, or if I had to consider myself permanently banished from his presence.
“My dear,” said she, “he does not know you: he concludes that you have been brought up to detest him; and therefore he is rather prepared to dread than to love you.”
"My dear," she said, "he doesn't know you. He assumes you were raised to hate him, and because of that, he's more likely to fear you than to love you."
This answer made me very unhappy: I wished, most impatiently, to remove his prejudice, and endeavour, by dutiful assiduity, to engage his kindness; yet knew not how to propose seeing him, while conscious he wished to avoid me.
This answer made me really unhappy: I wanted desperately to change his mind and, through my constant efforts, get him to be kind to me; yet I didn’t know how to suggest meeting him, knowing he wanted to stay away from me.
This evening, as soon as the company was engaged with cards, Lord Orville exerted his utmost eloquence to reconcile me to this hasty plan; but how was I startled when he told me that next Tuesday was the day appointed by my father to be the most important of my life!
This evening, as soon as the group started playing cards, Lord Orville did his best to persuade me to go along with this sudden plan; but I was so shocked when he told me that next Tuesday was the day my father had chosen to be the most significant of my life!
“Next Tuesday!” repeated I, quite out of breath, “Oh, my Lord!-”
“Next Tuesday!” I said again, breathless. “Oh my Lord!”
“My sweet Evelina,” said he, “the day which will make me the happiest of mortals, would probably appear awful to you, were it to be deferred a twelvemonth. Mrs. Selwyn has, doubtless, acquainted you with the many motives which, independent of my eagerness, require it to be speedy; suffer, therefore, its acceleration, and generously complete my felicity, by endeavouring to suffer it without repugnance.”
“My dear Evelina,” he said, “the day that will make me the happiest person alive would likely seem terrible to you if it were delayed for a year. Mrs. Selwyn has surely told you about the various reasons, apart from my desire, that make it important for this to happen soon; so please allow it to happen more quickly and kindly contribute to my happiness by trying to accept it without resistance.”
“Indeed, my Lord, I would not wilfully raise objections, nor do I desire to appear insensible of the honour of your good opinion;-but there is something in this plan-so very hasty-so unreasonably precipitate:-besides, I shall have no time to hear from Berry Hill;-and believe me, my Lord, I should be for ever miserable, were I, in an affair so important, to act without the sanction of Mr. Villars’s advice.”
“Honestly, my Lord, I wouldn’t purposely raise objections, nor do I want to seem unappreciative of your kind opinion; however, there’s something about this plan that feels too rushed—so unreasonably hasty. Besides, I won’t have time to hear from Berry Hill; and believe me, my Lord, I would be forever miserable if I acted in such an important matter without Mr. Villars’s advice.”
He offered to wait on you himself: but I told him I had rather write to you. And then he proposed, that, instead of my immediately accompanying him to Lincolnshire, we should first pass a month at my native Berry Hill.
He said he'd wait on you himself, but I told him I’d prefer to write to you. Then he suggested that instead of me immediately going with him to Lincolnshire, we should first spend a month at my hometown, Berry Hill.
This was, indeed, a grateful proposal to me, and I listened to it with undisguised pleasure. And, in short, I was obliged to consent to a compromise in merely deferring the day till Thursday! He readily undertook to engage my father’s concurrence in this little delay; and I besought him, at the same time, to make use of his influence to obtain me a second interview, and to represent the deep concern I felt in being thus banished his sight.
This was truly a generous offer to me, and I listened to it with obvious joy. In short, I had to agree to a compromise by just pushing the date to Thursday! He happily took on the task of getting my father's approval for this small delay; and I asked him, at the same time, to use his influence to arrange a second meeting for me and to express how much it upset me to be kept away from his presence.
He would then have spoken of settlements; but I assured him I was almost ignorant of the word.
He would have talked about settlements, but I assured him I was almost clueless about the term.
And now, my dearest Sir, what is your opinion of these hasty proceedings? Believe me, I half regret the simple facility with which I have suffered myself to be hurried into compliance; and, should you start but the smallest objection, I will yet insist upon being allowed more time.
And now, my dearest Sir, what do you think of these rushed actions? Honestly, I kind of regret how easily I let myself be pushed into agreeing; and if you raise even the tiniest concern, I will insist on being given more time.
I must now write a concise account of the state of my affairs to Howard Grove, and to Madame Duval.
I need to write a brief update about my situation to Howard Grove and Madame Duval.
Adieu, dearest and most honoured Sir! everything at present depends upon your single decision; to which, though I yield in trembling, I yield implicitly.
Adieu, dearest and most honored Sir! Everything right now relies on your single decision; to which, even though I submit with anxiety, I submit completely.
LETTER LXXX - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. Oct. 11th.
YESTERDAY morning, as soon as breakfast was over, Lord Orville went to the Hot Wells, to wait upon my father with my double petition.
YESTERDAY morning, right after breakfast, Lord Orville went to the Hot Wells to speak with my father about my two requests.
Mrs. Beaumont then, in general terms, proposed a walk in the garden. Mrs. Selwyn said she had letters to write; but Lady Louisa rose to accompany Mrs. Beaumont.
Mrs. Beaumont then suggested taking a walk in the garden. Mrs. Selwyn said she had letters to write, but Lady Louisa stood up to join Mrs. Beaumont.
I had had some reason to imagine, from the notice with which her Ladyship had honoured me during breakfast, that her brother had acquainted her with my present situation: and her behaviour now confirmed my conjectures: for, when I would have gone up stairs, instead of suffering me, as usual, to pass disregarded, she called after me with an affected surprise, “Miss Anville, don’t you walk with us?”
I had some reason to think, based on the way she treated me during breakfast, that her brother had told her about my current situation: and her behavior now confirmed my thoughts: when I tried to go upstairs, instead of letting me pass by unnoticed like usual, she called out to me with a feigned surprise, “Miss Anville, aren’t you coming with us?”
There seemed something so little-minded in this sudden change of conduct, that, from an involuntary motion of contempt, I thanked her with a coldness like her own, and declined her offer. Yet, observing that she blushed extremely at my refusal, and recollecting she was sister to Lord Orville, my indignation subsided; and, upon Mrs. Beaumont repeating the invitation, I accepted it.
There was something so petty about this sudden change in behavior that, out of an instinctive feeling of contempt, I responded to her with a chilliness that matched her own, and turned down her offer. However, noticing that she was visibly embarrassed by my refusal, and remembering that she was Lord Orville's sister, my anger faded away; and when Mrs. Beaumont extended the invitation again, I accepted it.
Our walk proved extremely dull: Mrs. Beaumont, who never says much, was more silent than usual; Lady Louisa strove in vain to lay aside the restraint and distance she has hitherto preserved; and, as to me, I was too conscious of the circumstances to which I owed their attention, to feel either pride or pleasure from receiving it.
Our walk was really boring: Mrs. Beaumont, who usually doesn’t say much, was even quieter than usual; Lady Louisa tried hard to drop the formality and distance she had kept up until now; and as for me, I was too aware of the reasons why they were paying attention to me to feel any pride or joy from it.
Lord Orville was not long absent: he joined us in the garden with a look of gaiety and good humour that revived us all. “You are just the party,” said he, “I wished to see together. Will you, Madam (taking my hand), allow me the honour of introducing you, by your real name, to two of my nearest relations? Mrs. Beaumont, give me leave to present to you the daughter of Sir John Belmont, a young lady who, I am sure, must long since have engaged your esteem and admiration, though you were a stranger to her birth.”
Lord Orville wasn’t gone for long; he joined us in the garden with a cheerful and lighthearted look that lifted our spirits. “You’re exactly the group I wanted to see together,” he said, “Madam” (taking my hand), “may I have the honor of introducing you, by your real name, to two of my closest relatives? Mrs. Beaumont, allow me to introduce you to the daughter of Sir John Belmont, a young lady who, I’m sure, must have already won your respect and admiration, even though you were unaware of her lineage.”
“My Lord,” said Mrs. Beaumont, graciously saluting me, “the young lady’s rank in life, your Lordship’s recommendation, or her own merit, would, any one of them, have been sufficient to have entitled her to my regard; and I hope she has always met with that respect in my house which is so much her due; though, had I been sooner made acquainted with her family, I should doubtless have better known how to have secured it.”
“My Lord,” Mrs. Beaumont said, graciously greeting me, “the young lady’s status, your Lordship’s recommendation, or her own qualities—any one of those should have earned my respect for her. I hope she has always received the respect in my home that she truly deserves; however, had I known about her family earlier, I would have certainly known better how to ensure it.”
“Miss Belmont,” said Lord Orville, “can receive no lustre from family, whatever she may give to it. Louisa, you will, I am sure, be happy to make yourself an interest in the friendship of Miss Belmont, whom I hope shortly (kissing my hand, and joining it with her Ladyship’s) to have the happiness of presenting to you by yet another name, and by the most endearing of all titles.”
“Miss Belmont,” said Lord Orville, “brings no shine from her family, whatever she may contribute to it. Louisa, I’m sure you’ll be happy to build a connection with Miss Belmont, whom I hope soon (kissing my hand and joining it with her Ladyship’s) to have the pleasure of introducing to you by yet another name and the sweetest of all titles.”
I believe it would be difficult to say whose cheeks were, at that moment, of the deepest dye, Lady Louisa’s or my own; for the conscious pride with which she has hitherto slighted me, gave to her an embarrassment which equalled the confusion that an introduction so unexpected gave to me. She saluted me, however; and, with a faint smile said, “I shall esteem myself very happy to profit by the honour of Miss Belmont’s acquaintance.”
I think it would be hard to say whose cheeks were reddest at that moment, Lady Louisa's or mine; because the smug pride she had shown in ignoring me now gave her an embarrassment that matched my own surprise at this unexpected introduction. Still, she greeted me and, with a weak smile, said, "I would be very glad to make the acquaintance of Miss Belmont."
I only courtsied, and we walked on; but it was evident, from the little surprise they expressed, that they had been already informed of the state of the affair.
I just curtsied, and we continued walking; but it was clear, from the slight surprise they showed, that they had already been told about the situation.
We were soon after joined by more company: and Lord Orville then, in a low voice, took an opportunity to tell me the success of his visit. In the first place, Thursday was agreed to; and, in the second, my father, he said, was much concerned to hear of my uneasiness; sent me his blessing; and complied with my request of seeing him, with the same readiness he should agree to any other I could make. Lord Orville, therefore, settled that I should wait upon him in the evening, and, at his particular request, unaccompanied by Mrs. Selwyn.
We were soon joined by more people, and Lord Orville then, in a quiet voice, took the chance to tell me how his visit went. First, we agreed on Thursday; and second, he mentioned that my father was very worried about my distress, sent me his blessing, and was happy to meet with me, just as easily as he would agree to any other request I could make. So, Lord Orville arranged for me to see him in the evening, and at his specific request, I would go alone without Mrs. Selwyn.
This kind message, and the prospect of so soon seeing him, gave me sensations of mixed pleasure and pain, which wholly occupied my mind till the time of my going to the Hot Wells.
This kind message and the thought of seeing him so soon filled me with mixed feelings of pleasure and pain, which completely occupied my mind until it was time for me to go to the Hot Wells.
Mrs. Beaumont lent me her chariot, and Lord Orville absolutely insisted upon attending me. “If you go alone,” said he, “Mrs. Selwyn will certainly be offended; but if you allow me to conduct you, though she may give the freer scope to her raillery, she cannot possibly be affronted: and we had much better suffer her laughter, than provoke her satire.”
Mrs. Beaumont lent me her carriage, and Lord Orville absolutely insisted on coming with me. “If you go alone,” he said, “Mrs. Selwyn will definitely be offended; but if you let me accompany you, even though she might joke around more freely, she can't possibly be upset. It's much better to deal with her laughter than to provoke her sarcasm.”
Indeed, I must own, I had no reason to regret being so accompanied; for his conversation supported my spirits from drooping, and made the ride seem so short, that we actually stopped at my father’s door, before I knew we had proceeded ten yards.
Indeed, I have to admit, I had no reason to regret having such company; his conversation lifted my spirits and made the ride feel so short that we actually arrived at my father's door before I realized we had gone ten yards.
He handed me from the carriage, and conducted me to the parlour, at the door of which I was met by Mr. Macartney. “Ah, my dear brother,” cried I, “how happy am I to see you here!”
He helped me out of the carriage and led me to the living room, where I was greeted by Mr. Macartney. “Ah, my dear brother,” I exclaimed, “how happy I am to see you here!”
He bowed, and thanked me. Lord Orville, then, holding out his hand, said, “Mr. Macartney, I hope we shall be better acquainted; I promise myself much pleasure from cultivating your friendship.”
He bowed and thanked me. Lord Orville, then, extending his hand, said, “Mr. Macartney, I hope we’ll get to know each other better; I look forward to enjoying your friendship.”
“Your Lordship does me but too much honour,” answered Mr. Macartney.
“Your Honor is too kind,” Mr. Macartney replied.
“But where,” cried I, “is my sister? for so I must already call, and always consider her:-I am afraid she avoids me;-you must endeavour, my dear brother, to prepossess her in my favour, and reconcile her to owning me.”
“But where,” I exclaimed, “is my sister? For that’s what I need to call her now and always consider her as such. I’m worried she’s avoiding me; you have to help, my dear brother, to win her over for me and get her to accept me as her brother.”
“Oh, Madam,” cried he, “you are all goodness and benevolence! but at present I hope you will excuse her, for I fear she has hardly fortitude sufficient to see you: in a short time perhaps-”
“Oh, Madam,” he exclaimed, “you’re so kind and generous! But right now, I hope you’ll understand if I ask you to excuse her, as I’m afraid she doesn’t have the strength to see you: maybe in a little while—”
“In a very short time, then,” said Lord Orville, “I hope you will yourself introduce her, and that we shall have the pleasure of wishing you both joy:-allow me, my Evelina, to say we, and permit me, in your name, as well as my own, to entreat that the first guests we shall have the happiness of receiving may be Mr. and Mrs. Macartney.”
“In just a little while,” Lord Orville said, “I hope you will introduce her, and that we’ll have the pleasure of wishing you both joy—let me, my Evelina, say ‘we,’ and allow me, in your name and my own, to ask that the first guests we have the happiness of welcoming may be Mr. and Mrs. Macartney.”
A servant then came to beg I would walk up stairs.
A servant then came to ask if I would go upstairs.
I besought Lord Orville to accompany me; but he feared the displeasure of Sir John, who had desired to see me alone. He led me, however, to the foot of the stairs, and made the kindest efforts to give me courage: but indeed he did not succeed; for the interview appeared to me in all its terrors, and left me no feeling but apprehension.
I asked Lord Orville to come with me, but he was worried about upsetting Sir John, who wanted to see me alone. He did walk me to the bottom of the stairs and tried his best to encourage me, but it didn’t work at all; the meeting felt terrifying to me and filled me with nothing but dread.
The moment I reached the landing-place, the drawing-room door was opened: and my father, with a voice of kindness, called out, “My child, is it you?”
The moment I got to the landing, the living room door swung open, and my dad, with a warm voice, called out, “Is that you, my child?”
“Yes, Sir,” cried I, springing forward, and kneeling at his feet, “it is your child, if you will own her!”
“Yeah, Sir,” I exclaimed, rushing forward and kneeling at his feet, “she's your child, if you’ll acknowledge her!”
He knelt by my side, and, folding me in his arms, “Own thee,” repeated he, “yes, my poor girl, and Heaven knows with what bitter contrition!” Then, raising both himself and me, he brought me into the drawing-room, shut the door, and took me to the window; where, looking at me with great earnestness, “Poor unhappy Caroline!” cried he; and, to my inexpressible concern, he burst into tears. Need I tell you, my dear Sir, how mine flowed at the sight?
He knelt beside me and, wrapping his arms around me, said, “I admit it,” he repeated, “yes, my poor girl, and God knows with how much deep regret!” Then, lifting both of us, he took me into the living room, closed the door, and led me to the window. Looking at me with great intensity, he exclaimed, “Poor unhappy Caroline!” To my utter shock, he started crying. Do I need to mention, my dear Sir, how my own tears fell at the sight?
I would again have embraced his knees; but, hurrying from me, he flung himself upon a sofa, and, leaning his face on his arms, seemed for some time absorbed in bitterness of grief.
I would have hugged his knees again, but rushing away from me, he threw himself onto a sofa and, resting his face on his arms, appeared to be lost in deep sorrow for a while.
I ventured not to interrupt a sorrow I so much respected; but waited in silence, and at a distance, till he recovered from its violence. But then it seemed in a moment to give way to a kind of frantic fury; for starting suddenly, with a sternness which at once surprised and frightened me, “Child,” cried he, “hast thou yet sufficiently humbled thy father?-if thou hast, be contented with this proof of my weakness, and no longer force thyself into my presence!”
I didn’t want to interrupt a grief I respected so much, so I waited in silence and at a distance until he recovered from its intensity. But then, in an instant, it seemed to shift into a kind of frantic rage; for suddenly, with a sternness that both surprised and scared me, he exclaimed, “Child, have you humbled your father enough? If you have, be satisfied with this proof of my weakness, and don’t force yourself into my presence anymore!”
Thunderstruck by a command so unexpected, I stood still and speechless, and doubted whether my own ears did not deceive me.
Thunderstruck by a command so unexpected, I stood still and speechless, and doubted whether my own ears were deceiving me.
“Oh go, go!” cried he, passionately; “in pity-in compassion,-if thou valuest my senses, leave me,-and for ever!”
“Oh go, go!” he shouted, passionately; “out of pity—out of compassion—if you care about my sanity, leave me—and do it for good!”
“I will, I will,” cried I, greatly terrified; and I moved hastily towards the door: yet, stopping when I reached it, and, almost involuntarily, dropping on my knees, “Vouchsafe,” cried I, “Oh, Sir, vouchsafe but once to bless your daughter, and her sight shall never more offend you!”
“I will, I will,” I exclaimed, feeling really scared; and I rushed towards the door. But when I got there, I paused and, almost without thinking, dropped to my knees. “Please,” I cried, “Oh, Sir, just bless your daughter once, and you’ll never have to see her again!”
“Alas,” cried he, in a softened voice, “I am not worthy to bless thee!-I am not worthy to call thee daughter!-I am not worthy that the fair light of Heaven should visit my eyes!-Oh God! that I could but call back the time ere thou wast born,-or else bury its remembrance in eternal oblivion!”
“Alas,” he cried in a gentle voice, “I am not worthy to bless you! I am not worthy to call you daughter! I am not worthy for the beautiful light of Heaven to touch my eyes! Oh God! If only I could turn back time before you were born—or erase its memory forever!”
“Would to Heaven,” cried I, “that the sight of me were less terrible to you! that, instead of irritating, I could soothe your sorrows!-Oh Sir, how thankfully would I then prove my duty, even at the hazard of my life!”
“Would to Heaven,” I exclaimed, “that my presence were less terrifying to you! That instead of causing you distress, I could ease your pain! Oh Sir, how gladly I would show my loyalty, even at the risk of my life!”
“Are you so kind?” cried he, gently; “come hither, child;-rise, Evelina:-Alas, it is for me to kneel,-not you;-and I would kneel,-I would crawl upon the earth,-I would kiss the dust,-could I, by such submission, obtain the forgiveness of the representative of the most injured of women!”
“Are you really that kind?” he exclaimed softly; “come here, child—get up, Evelina—Alas, it’s me who should be kneeling, not you—and I would kneel—I would crawl on the ground—I would kiss the dirt—if by such submission I could earn the forgiveness of the one who represents the most wronged of women!”
“Oh, Sir,” exclaimed I, “that you could but read my heart!-that you could but see the filial tenderness and concern with which it overflows!-you would not then talk thus,-you would not then banish me your presence, and exclude me from your affection!”
“Oh, Sir,” I exclaimed, “if only you could read my heart! If only you could see the love and concern it’s filled with! You wouldn’t speak this way, and you wouldn’t push me away or cut me off from your affection!”
“Good God,” cried he, “is it then possible that you do not hate me?-Can the child of the wronged Caroline look at,-and not execrate me? Wast thou not born to abhor, and bred to curse me? Did not thy mother bequeath thee her blessing on condition that thou should’st detest and avoid me ?”
“Good God,” he exclaimed, “is it really possible that you don’t hate me? Can the child of the wronged Caroline look at me and not curse me? Weren’t you born to loathe me and raised to despise me? Didn’t your mother give you her blessing on the condition that you should detest and steer clear of me?”
“Oh no, no, no!” cried I; “think not so unkindly of her, nor so hardly of me.” I then took from my pocketbook her last letter; and, pressing it to my lips, with a trembling hand, and still upon my knees, I held it out to him.
“Oh no, no, no!” I cried; “don’t think so unkindly of her, or so harshly of me.” I then took her last letter from my wallet; pressing it to my lips with a trembling hand, still on my knees, I held it out to him.
Hastily snatching it from me, “Great Heaven!” cried he, “’tis her writing-Whence comes this?-who gave it you-why had I it not sooner?”
Hastily grabbing it from me, “Great Heaven!” he exclaimed, “It’s her writing—Where did this come from?—Who gave it to you—Why didn’t I get it sooner?”
I made no answer; his vehemence intimidated me, and I ventured not to move from the suppliant posture in which I had put myself.
I didn’t respond; his intensity scared me, and I didn’t dare move from the position of submission I had put myself in.
He went from me to the window, where his eyes were for some time rivetted upon the direction of the letter, though his hand shook so violently he could hardly hold it. Then, bringing it to me, “Open it,"-cried he,-“for I cannot!”
He moved from me to the window, where he stared for a while at the direction of the letter, even though his hand was shaking so much that he could barely hold it. Then, bringing it to me, he shouted, “Open it, because I can’t!”
I had myself hardly strength to obey him: but when I had, he took it back, and walked hastily up and down the room, as if dreading to read it. At length, turning to me, “Do you know,” cried he, “its contents?”
I barely had the strength to follow his order, but when I did, he took it back and began pacing the room quickly, as if he was afraid to read it. Finally, he turned to me and said, “Do you know what it says?”
“No, Sir,” answered I, “it has never been unsealed.”
"No, Sir," I replied, "it has never been opened."
He then again went to the window, and began reading. Having hastily run it over, he cast up his eyes with a look of desperation; the letter fell from his hand, and he exclaimed, “Yes! thou art sainted!-thou art blessed!-and I am cursed for ever!” He continued some time fixed in this melancholy position; after which, casting himself with violence upon the ground, “Oh wretch,” cried he, “unworthy life and light, in what dungeon canst thou hide thy head?”
He went to the window again and started reading. After quickly skimming through it, he looked up with a look of despair; the letter slipped from his hand, and he shouted, “Yes! You’re a saint! You’re blessed! And I’m cursed forever!” He stayed in this sorrowful position for a while, then threw himself down onto the ground violently, crying out, “Oh wretch, unworthy of life and light, where can you hide from this?”
I could restrain myself no longer; I rose and went to him; I did not dare speak; but, with pity and concern unutterable, I wept and hung over him.
I couldn’t hold back anymore; I stood up and went to him; I didn’t dare to say anything; but, filled with deep pity and concern, I cried and leaned over him.
Soon after, starting up, he again seized the letter, exclaiming, “Acknowledge thee, Caroline!-yes, with my heart’s best blood would I acknowledge thee!-Oh that thou could’st witness the agony of my soul!-Ten thousand daggers could not have wounded me like this letter!”
Soon after, as he got up, he grabbed the letter again, exclaiming, “I acknowledge you, Caroline! Yes, I would acknowledge you with all my heart’s blood! Oh, if only you could see the agony of my soul! Ten thousand daggers couldn’t have hurt me as much as this letter!”
Then, after again reading it, “Evelina,” he cried, “she charges me to receive thee;-wilt thou, in obedience to her will, own for thy father the destroyer of thy mother?”
Then, after reading it again, “Evelina,” he exclaimed, “she asks me to accept you—will you, in obedience to her wishes, acknowledge as your father the one who destroyed your mother?”
What a dreadful question!-I shuddered, but could not speak.
What a terrible question! I shuddered but couldn't say a word.
“To clear her fame, and receive her child,” continued he, looking stedfastly at the letter, “are the conditions upon which she leaves me her forgiveness: her fame I have already cleared;-and Oh, how willingly would I take her child to my bosom, fold her to my heart,-call upon her to mitigate my anguish, and pour the balm of comfort on my wounds, were I not conscious I deserve not to receive it, and that all my affliction is the result of my own guilt!”
“To restore her reputation and receive her child,” he continued, staring intently at the letter, “are the conditions under which she grants me her forgiveness: I have already restored her reputation; and oh, how gladly I would take her child into my arms, hold her close to my heart—ask her to ease my pain and soothe my wounds—if I didn’t know I don’t deserve it, and that all my suffering is due to my own guilt!”
It was in vain I attempted to speak; horror and grief took from me all power of utterance.
It was useless for me to try to speak; shock and sadness robbed me of all ability to express myself.
He then read aloud from the letter, “Look not like thy unfortunate mother!” “Sweet soul, with what bitterness of spirit hast thou written!-Come hither, Evelina: Gracious Heaven! (looking earnestly at me) never was likeness more striking!-the eyes-the face-the form-Oh, my child, my child!” Imagine, Sir,-for I can never describe my feelings, when I saw him sink upon his knees before me! “Oh, dear resemblance of thy murdered mother!-Oh, all that remains of the most injured of women! behold thy father at thy feet!-bending thus lowly to implore you would not hate him.-Oh, then, thou representative of my departed wife, speak to me in her name, and say that the remorse which tears my soul tortures me not in vain!”
He then read aloud from the letter, “Don’t look like your unfortunate mother!” “Sweet soul, with what bitterness of spirit have you written! Come here, Evelina: Gracious Heaven! (looking earnestly at me) never was a resemblance more striking! The eyes—the face—the shape—Oh, my child, my child!” Imagine, Sir—I can never express how I felt when I saw him sink to his knees before me! “Oh, dear image of your murdered mother! Oh, all that remains of the most wronged of women! Look at your father at your feet! Bowing this low to ask you not to hate him. Oh, then, you who represent my departed wife, speak to me in her name, and say that the remorse tearing at my soul is not torturing me in vain!”
“Oh, rise, rise, my beloved father,” cried I, attempting to assist him; “I cannot bear to see you thus; reverse not the law of nature; rise yourself, and bless your kneeling daughter!”
“Oh, please get up, my dear father,” I said, trying to help him. “I can’t stand to see you like this; don’t go against the natural order of things; get up on your own and bless your kneeling daughter!”
“May Heaven bless thee, my child!-“cried he, “for I dare not.” He then rose; and, embracing me most affectionately, added, “I see, I see that thou art all kindness, softness, and tenderness; I need not have feared thee, thou art all the fondest father could wish, and I will try to frame my mind to less painful sensations at thy sight. Perhaps the time may come, when I may know the comfort of such a daughter;-at present I am only fit to be alone: dreadful as are my reflections, they ought merely to torment myself.-Adieu, my child;-be not angry,-I cannot stay with thee;-Oh, Evelina! thy countenance is a dagger to my heart!-just so thy mother looked,-just so-”
“May Heaven bless you, my child!” he cried, “for I dare not.” He then stood up, and embracing me warmly, added, “I see, I see that you’re all kindness, softness, and tenderness; I need not have feared you, you’re everything the fondest father could wish for, and I will try to adjust my mind to feel less pain at your sight. Perhaps the time will come when I can experience the comfort of having such a daughter; for now, I am only meant to be alone: as dreadful as my thoughts are, they should only torment me. Goodbye, my child; don’t be angry, I can’t stay with you—Oh, Evelina! your face feels like a dagger to my heart! Just like your mother looked—just like her—”
Tears and sighs seemed to choak him;-and, waving his hand, he would have left me;-but, clinging to him, “Oh, Sir,” cried I, “will you so soon abandon me?-am I again an orphan!-Oh, my dear, my long-lost father, leave me not, I beseech you! take pity on your child, and rob her not of the parent she so fondly hoped would cherish her!”
Tears and sighs seemed to choke him, and as he waved his hand, he looked like he was about to leave me. But holding onto him, I cried, “Oh, Sir, will you really abandon me so soon? Am I an orphan again? Oh, my dear, long-lost father, please don’t leave me! Have pity on your child and don’t take away the parent she hoped would care for her!”
“You know not what you ask,” cried he; “the emotions which now rend my soul are more than my reason can endure; suffer me then, to leave you;-impute it not to unkindness, but think of me as well as thou canst. Lord Orville has behaved nobly;-I believe he will make thee happy.” Then, again embracing me, “God bless thee, my dear child,” cried he, “God bless thee, my Evelina!-endeavour to love,-at least not to hate me,-and to make me an interest in thy filial bosom, by thinking of me as thy father.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking,” he cried; “the emotions that are tearing my soul apart are more than my mind can handle; so please, let me go. Don’t think of it as unkindness, but remember me as best as you can. Lord Orville has acted nobly; I truly believe he will make you happy.” Then, embracing me again, he said, “God bless you, my dear child,” he cried, “God bless you, my Evelina! Try to love me—at least don’t hate me—and remember to think of me as your father.”
I could not speak; I kissed his hands on my knees: and then, with yet more emotion, he again blessed me, and hurried out of the room,-leaving me almost drowned in tears.
I couldn't speak; I kissed his hands while I was kneeling, and then, with even more emotion, he blessed me again and quickly left the room, leaving me almost overwhelmed with tears.
Oh, Sir, all goodness as you are, how much will you feel for your Evelina, during a scene of such agitation! I pray Heaven to accept the tribute of his remorse, and restore him to tranquillity!
Oh, Sir, how kind you are! Just think about how much you’ll care for your Evelina during such a chaotic time! I pray that Heaven accepts his remorse and brings him peace again!
When I was sufficiently composed to return to the parlour, I found Lord Orville waiting for me with the utmost anxiety:-and then a new scene of emotion, though of a far different nature, awaited me; for I learned by Mr. Macartney, that this noblest of men had insisted the so-long supposed Miss Belmont should be considered, indeed, as my sister, and as the co-heiress of my father; though not in law, in justice, he says, she ought ever to be treated as the daughter of Sir John Belmont.
When I finally felt calm enough to go back to the living room, I found Lord Orville waiting for me, clearly very anxious. A new wave of emotion hit me, but it was completely different this time. Mr. Macartney informed me that this incredible man had insisted that the woman we had thought was Miss Belmont should actually be recognized as my sister and a co-heiress to my father. He argues that, while not legally, she should always be treated as the daughter of Sir John Belmont out of fairness.
Oh! Lord Orville!-it shall be the sole study of my happy life, to express, better than by words, the sense I have of your exalted benevolence and greatness of mind!
Oh! Lord Orville! It will be my life's work to express, better than words can, how much I appreciate your incredible kindness and greatness of spirit!
LETTER LXXXI - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. Clifton, Oct. 12th.
THIS morning, early, I received the following letter from Sir Clement Willoughby:
THIS morning, early, I got this letter from Sir Clement Willoughby:
“To Miss Anville.
"To Miss Anville."
“I HAVE this moment received intelligence that preparations
are actually making for your marriage with Lord Orville.
“I just found out that plans are actually being made for your marriage to Lord Orville.
“Imagine not that I write with the imbecile idea of
rendering those
preparations abortive. No, I am not so mad. My sole view is
to explain the motive of my conduct in a particular instance,
and to obviate the accusation of treachery which may be laid
to my charge.
“Don’t think that I’m writing this with the foolish idea of ruining those preparations. No, I’m not that crazy. My only goal is to explain the reason behind my actions in a specific situation and to counter any accusations of betrayal that might be directed at me.
“My unguarded behaviour, when I last saw you, has, probably,
already
acquainted you, that the letter I then saw you reading was
written by myself. For your further satisfaction, let me have
the honour of informing you, that the letter you had designed
for Lord Orville, had fallen into my hands.
“My careless behavior the last time I saw you has probably already made you aware that the letter you were reading was written by me. To further clarify, I am honored to inform you that the letter you intended for Lord Orville has come into my possession.
“However I may have been urged on by a passion the most
violent that
ever warmed the heart of man, I can by no means calmly submit
to be stigmatized for an action seemingly so dishonourable;
and it is for this reason that I trouble you with this
justification.
“No matter how strong the passion that drove me, I can't just sit back and accept being labeled for an act that appears so dishonorable; and that's why I'm bothering you with this explanation.
“Lord Orville,-the happy Orville, whom you are so ready to
bless,-had made me believe he loved you not;-nay, that he
held you in contempt.
“Lord Orville—the lucky Orville, whom you’re so eager to praise—made me think he didn’t love you; in fact, that he looked down on you.”
“Such were my thoughts of his sentiments of you, when I got
possession of the letter you meant to send him. I pretend
not to vindicate either the means I used to obtain it, or
the action of breaking the seal; but I was impelled, by an
impetuous curiosity, to discover the terms upon which you
wrote to him.
“Those were my thoughts about his feelings for you when I got hold of the letter you intended to send him. I'm not trying to justify the way I got it or the act of breaking the seal, but I was driven by a strong curiosity to find out what you wrote to him.
“The letter, however, was wholly unintelligible to me,
and the
perusal of it only added to my perplexity.
“The letter, however, was completely incomprehensible to me, and reading it only made my confusion worse.
“A tame suspense I was not born to endure, and I determined
to clear
my doubts at all hazards and events.
“A tame suspense I was not born to endure, and I decided
to clear
my doubts at all costs and in any situation.
“I answered it, therefore, in Orville’s name.
“I answered it, therefore, in Orville’s name.
“The views which I am now going to acknowledge, must,
infallibly,
incur your displeasure;-yet I scorn all palliation.
“The opinions I’m about to express are sure to upset you, but I won’t make any excuses.
“Briefly, then, I concealed your letter to prevent a
discovery of
your capacity; and I wrote you an answer, which I hoped would
prevent your wishing for any other.
“In short, I hid your letter to avoid revealing your abilities; and I wrote you a response, which I hoped would stop you from wanting anything else.
“I am well aware of every thing which can be said upon
this subject.
Lord Orville will, possibly, think himself ill-used; but I am
extremely indifferent as to his opinion; nor do I now write
by way of offering any apology to him, but merely to make
known to yourself the reasons by which I have been governed.
“I fully understand everything that can be said about this topic.
Lord Orville might think he's been treated unfairly, but I really don't care about his opinion; and I'm not writing this to apologize to him, but just to let you know the reasons behind my actions.
“I intend to set off next week for the Continent. Should his
Lordship have any commands for me in the mean time, I shall
be glad to receive them. I say not this by way of defiance,-I
should blush to be suspected of so doing through an indirect
channel; but simply that, if you show him this letter, he
may know I dare defend, as well as excuse, my conduct.
“CLEMENT WILLOUGHBY.”
“I plan to leave for the Continent next week. If his Lordship has any orders for me in the meantime, I would be happy to hear them. I’m not saying this to be defiant—I would be embarrassed to be seen as doing that through a roundabout way; I’m just mentioning it so that if you show him this letter, he’ll see I’m willing to defend as well as justify my actions.
“CLEMENT WILLOUGHBY.”What a strange letter! how proud and how piqued does its writer appear! To what alternate meanness and rashness do the passions lead, when reason and self-denial do not oppose them! Sir Clement is conscious he has acted dishonourably; yet the same unbridled vehemence, which urged him to gratify a blameable curiosity, will sooner prompt him to risk his life, than, confess his misconduct. The rudeness of his manner of writing to me, springs, from the same cause: the proof which he has received of my indifference to him, has stung him to the soul, and he has neither the delicacy nor forbearance to disguise his displeasure.
What a weird letter! The writer seems so proud and so annoyed! Look at how emotions can lead to such pettiness and impulsiveness when there's no reason or self-control to hold them back! Sir Clement knows he acted dishonorably; yet that same uncontrolled intensity that pushed him to satisfy his questionable curiosity will likely drive him to risk his life rather than admit his mistakes. The harshness in how he writes to me comes from the same place: the proof he has received of my indifference to him has cut him deeply, and he lacks the sensitivity or patience to hide his anger.
I determined not to show this letter to Lord Orville, and thought it most prudent to let Sir Clement know I should not. I therefore wrote the following note:
I decided not to show this letter to Lord Orville and thought it best to let Sir Clement know I wouldn't. So, I wrote the following note:
“To Sir Clement Willoughby.
“To Sir Clement Willoughby.”
“SIR,
“Sir,
“The letter you have been pleased to address to me, is
so little
calculated to afford Lord Orville any satisfaction, that you
may depend upon my carefully keeping it from his sight. I will
bear you no resentment for what is past; but I most earnestly
intreat, nay implore, that you will not write again, while in
your present frame of mind, by any channel, direct or indirect.
“The letter you sent me is so unlikely to please Lord Orville that you can be sure I'll keep it out of his view. I won’t hold any grudges for what’s happened before, but I strongly urge, even beg you, not to write again through any means, whether directly or indirectly, while you’re in your current state of mind.
“I hope you will have much pleasure in your promised
expedition; and
I beg leave to assure you of my good wishes.”
“I hope you enjoy your upcoming trip; and I just want to express my best wishes to you.”
Not knowing by what name to sign, I was obliged to send it without any.
Not knowing what name to sign, I had to send it without one.
The preparations which Sir Clement mentions, go on just as if your consent were arrived: it is in vain that I expostulate; Lord Orville says, should any objections be raised, all shall be given up; but that, as his hopes forbid him to expect any, he must proceed as if already assured of your concurrence.
The preparations that Sir Clement talks about continue as if you've already agreed: it's useless for me to protest; Lord Orville says that if any objections come up, everything will be dropped. But since he doesn’t expect any, he has to move forward as if he already has your approval.
We have had, this afternoon, a most interesting conversation, in which we have traced our sentiments of each other from our first acquaintance. I have made him confess how ill he thought of me upon my foolish giddiness at Mrs. Stanley’s ball; but he flatters me with assurances, that every succeeding time he saw me, I appeared to something less and less disadvantage.
We had a really interesting conversation this afternoon, where we talked about how our feelings for each other have changed since we first met. I got him to admit how poorly he thought of me during my silly behavior at Mrs. Stanley’s ball; but he reassured me that each time he saw me after that, I seemed to look a little better.
When I expressed my amazement that he could honour with his choice a girl who seemed so infinitely, in every respect, beneath his alliance, he frankly owned, that he had fully intended making more minute inquiries into my family and connections; particularly concerning those people he saw me with at Marybone, before he acknowledged his prepossession in my favour: but seeing me again, put him quite off his guard; and, “divesting him of prudence, left him nothing but love.” These were his words; and yet, he has repeatedly assured me, that his partiality has known no bounds from the time of my residing at Clifton. * * * * * *
When I told him I was amazed that he would choose a girl who seemed so far beneath him in every way, he honestly admitted that he had planned to look into my family and connections more closely, especially regarding the people he saw me with at Marybone, before he confessed his feelings for me. But seeing me again caught him off guard; and he said it “took away his caution and left him with nothing but love.” Those were his words; and yet, he has repeatedly assured me that his affection for me has known no limits since I lived in Clifton. * * * * * *
Mr. Macartney has just been with me, on an embassy from my father. He has sent me his kindest love and assurances of favour; and desired to know if I am happy in the prospect of changing my situation, and if there is any thing I can name which he can do for me. And, at the same time, Mr. Macartney delivered to me a draught on my father’s banker for a thousand pounds, which he insisted that I should receive entirely for my own use, and expend in equipping myself properly for the new rank of life to which I seem destined.
Mr. Macartney just came by on a mission from my dad. He sent me his warmest love and assurances of support; and he wanted to know if I’m happy about the idea of changing my situation, and if there’s anything I can think of that he can help me with. At the same time, Mr. Macartney handed me a check from my dad’s banker for a thousand pounds, which he insisted I should keep entirely for myself and use to properly prepare for the new status in life that I seem meant for.
I am sure I need not say how much I was penetrated by this goodness: I wrote my thanks, and acknowledged, frankly, that if I could see him restored to tranquillity, my heart would be without a wish.
I’m sure I don’t need to say how deeply I was moved by this kindness: I wrote my thanks and honestly admitted that if I could see him at peace again, I wouldn’t have any other wishes.
LETTER LXXXII - EVELINA IN CONTINUATION. Clifton, Oct. 13th.
THE time approaches now when I hope we shall meet;-yet I cannot sleep;-great joy is a restless as sorrow,-and therefore I will continue my journal.
THE time is getting close when I hope we’ll meet; yet I can’t sleep; great joy is just as restless as sorrow, so I will keep writing in my journal.
As I had never had an opportunity of seeing Bath, a party was formed last night for showing me that celebrated city; and this morning, after breakfast, we set out in three phaetons. Lady Louisa and Mrs. Beaumont with Lord Merton; Mr. Coverley, Mr. Lovel, and Mrs. Selwyn; and myself with Lord Orville.
As I had never had the chance to visit Bath, a group was put together last night to show me that famous city; and this morning, after breakfast, we headed out in three carriages. Lady Louisa and Mrs. Beaumont with Lord Merton; Mr. Coverley, Mr. Lovel, and Mrs. Selwyn; and I with Lord Orville.
We had hardly proceeded half a mile, when a gentleman from the post-chaise which came gallopping after us, called out to the servants, “Holla, my lads!-pray, is one Miss Anville in any of them thing-em-bobs?”
We had barely gone half a mile when a guy from the carriage that was racing after us shouted to the servants, “Hey, guys! Is there a Miss Anville in any of those things?”
I immediately recollected the voice of Captain Mirvan; and Lord Orville stopped the phaeton. He was out of the chaise, and with us in a moment. “So, Miss Anville,” cried he, “how do you do? So I hear you’re Miss Belmont now;-pray, how does old Madame French do?”
I quickly remembered Captain Mirvan's voice, and Lord Orville brought the carriage to a stop. He was out of the carriage and with us in no time. “So, Miss Anville,” he exclaimed, “how are you? I hear you’re Miss Belmont now—by the way, how is old Madame French doing?”
“Madame Duval,” said I, “is, I believe, very well.”
“Madame Duval,” I said, “is doing quite well, I believe.”
“I hope she is in good case,” said he, winking significantly, “and won’t flinch at seeing service: she has laid by long enough to refit and be made tight. And pray how does poor Monseer Doleful do? Is he as lank-jawed as ever?”
“I hope she’s doing well,” he said, giving a knowing wink, “and won’t hesitate to get to work: she has rested long enough to be repaired and made ready. And by the way, how’s poor Monseer Doleful doing? Is he as thin-faced as always?”
“They are neither of them,” said I, “in Bristol.”
“They're both not in Bristol,” I said.
“No!” cried he, with a look of disappointment; “but surely the old dowager intends coming to the wedding! ’twill be a most excellent opportunity to show off her best Lyons silk. Besides, I purpose to dance a new fashioned jig with her. Don’t you know when she’ll come?”
“No!” he exclaimed, looking disappointed. “But surely the old dowager plans to come to the wedding! It’s a perfect chance for her to show off her best Lyons silk. Plus, I intend to dance a new-style jig with her. Don’t you know when she’ll arrive?”
“I have no reason to expect her at all.”
"I really don't have any reason to expect her at all."
“No!-’Fore George, this here’s the worst news I’d wish to hear!-why I’ve thought of nothing all the way, but what trick I should serve her.”
“No! Honestly, this is the worst news I could imagine! I've been thinking the whole time about what trick I should pull on her.”
“You have been very obliging!” said I, laughing.
"You've been really helpful!" I said, laughing.
“O, I promise you,” cried he, “our Moll would never have wheedled me into this jaunt, if I’d known she was not here; for, to let you into the secret, I fully intended to have treated the old buck with another frolic.”
“O, I promise you,” he exclaimed, “Moll would never have convinced me to go on this trip if I’d known she wasn’t here; because, to be honest, I had completely planned to pull another prank on the old guy.”
“Did Miss Mirvan, then, persuade you to this journey?”
“Did Miss Mirvan convince you to take this trip?”
“Yes, and we’ve been travelling all night.”
“Yes, and we’ve been traveling all night.”
“We!” cried I: “Is Miss Mirvan, then, with you?”
"We!" I exclaimed. "Is Miss Mirvan with you, then?"
“What, Molly?-yes, she’s in that there chaise.”
“What, Molly? - Yeah, she’s in that carriage.”
“Good God, Sir, why did you not tell me sooner?” cried I; and immediately, with Lord Orville’s assistance, I jumped out of the phaeton, and ran to the dear girl. Lord Orville opened the chaise door; and I am sure I need not tell you what unfeigned joy accompanied our meeting.
“Good God, Sir, why didn’t you tell me sooner?” I exclaimed; and right away, with Lord Orville’s help, I leaped out of the carriage and ran to the dear girl. Lord Orville opened the car door; and I’m sure I don’t need to tell you what genuine joy came with our reunion.
We both begged we might not be parted during the ride; and Lord Orville was so good as to invite Captain Mirvan into his phaeton.
We both pleaded that we shouldn’t be separated during the ride, and Lord Orville kindly invited Captain Mirvan to join him in his carriage.
I think I was hardly ever more rejoiced than at this so seasonable visit from my dear Maria; who had no sooner heard the situation of my affairs, than with the assistance of Lady Howard, and her kind mother, she besought her father with such earnestness to consent to the journey, that he had not been able to withstand their united intreaties; though she owned that, had he not expected to have met with Madame Duval, she believes he would not so readily have yielded. They arrived at Mrs. Beaumont’s but a few minutes after we were out of sight, and overtook us without much difficulty.
I think I was hardly ever happier than during this timely visit from my dear Maria. As soon as she learned about my situation, she, with the help of Lady Howard and her kind mother, urged her father so earnestly to agree to the trip that he couldn't resist their combined pleas. She admitted that if he hadn't expected to meet Madame Duval, he probably wouldn't have given in so easily. They arrived at Mrs. Beaumont's just a few minutes after we were out of sight and caught up with us without much trouble.
I say nothing of our conversation, because you may so well suppose both the subjects we chose, and our manner of discussing them.
I won't say anything about our conversation, because you can easily guess both the topics we picked and how we talked about them.
We all stopped at a great hotel, where we were obliged to enquire for a room, as Lady Louisa, fatigued to death, desired to take something before we began our rambles.
We all stopped at a nice hotel, where we had to ask for a room, since Lady Louisa, completely exhausted, wanted to have something to eat before we started our adventures.
As soon as the party was assembled, the Captain, abruptly saluting me, said, “So, Miss Belmont, I wish you joy; so I hear you’ve quarrelled with your new name already?”
As soon as the group gathered, the Captain, giving me a quick salute, said, “So, Miss Belmont, congratulations! I hear you’ve already had a disagreement about your new name?”
“Me!-no, indeed, Sir.”
"Not me, Sir."
“Then please for to tell me the reason you’re in such a hurry to change it?”
“Then please tell me why you’re in such a hurry to change it?”
“Miss Belmont!” cried Mr. Lovel. Looking around him with the utmost astonishment: “I beg pardon;-but, if it is not impertinent,-I must beg leave to say I always understood that lady’s name was Anville.”
“Miss Belmont!” exclaimed Mr. Lovel, looking around him in complete astonishment. “I apologize, but if it’s not too forward, I have to say I always thought that lady’s name was Anville.”
“‘Fore George,” cried the Captain, “it runs in my head, I’ve seen you somewhere before! And now I think on’t, pray a’n’t you the person I saw at the play one night, and who didn’t know, all the time, whether it was a tragedy or a comedy, or a concert of fiddlers?”
“‘By George,” shouted the Captain, “it’s in my head, I’ve seen you somewhere before! Now that I think about it, weren’t you the person I saw at the theater one night who couldn't figure out if it was a tragedy, a comedy, or a concert with fiddlers?”
“I believe, Sir,” said Mr. Lovel, stammering, “I, had once,-I think-the pleasure of seeing you last spring.”
“I believe, sir,” Mr. Lovel said, stammering, “I think I once had the pleasure of seeing you last spring.”
“Aye, and if I live an hundred springs,” answered he, “I shall never forget it; by Jingo, it has served me for a most excellent good joke ever since. Well, howsomever, I’m glad to see you still in the land of the living,” (shaking him roughly by the hand.) “Pray, if a body may be so bold, how much a night may you give at present to keep the undertakers aloof?”
“Yeah, and even if I live a hundred years,” he replied, “I’ll never forget it; honestly, it’s been a fantastic joke for me ever since. Anyway, I’m really glad to see you still alive,” (shaking his hand firmly.) “So, if it’s not too forward to ask, how much are you charging for a night these days to keep the undertakers away?”
“Me, Sir!” said Mr. Lovel, very much discomposed; “I protest I never thought myself in such imminent danger as to-really, Sir, I don’t understand you.”
“Me, Sir!” Mr. Lovel said, clearly flustered; “I swear I never thought I was in such serious danger—honestly, Sir, I don’t understand you.”
“O, you don’t! why then I’ll make free for to explain myself. Gentlemen and Ladies, I’ll tell you what; do you know this here gentleman, simple as he sits there, pays five shillings a-night to let his friends know he’s alive!”
“Oh, you don’t! Well then, let me explain myself. Ladies and gentlemen, let me tell you something; do you know that this man, as plain as he seems sitting there, spends five shillings a night just to let his friends know he’s still alive!”
“And very cheap too,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “if we consider the value of the intelligence.”
“And really inexpensive too,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “if we think about the value of the information.”
Lady Louisa being now refreshed, we proceeded upon our expedition.
Lady Louisa, feeling refreshed now, we continued on our adventure.
The charming city of Bath answered all my expectations. The Crescent, the prospect from it, and the elegant symmetry of the Circus, delighted me. The Parades, I own, rather disappointed me; one of them is scarce preferable to some of the best paved streets in London; and the other, though it affords a beautiful prospect, a charming view of Prior Park and of the Avon, yet wanted something in itself of more striking elegance than a mere broad pavement, to satisfy the ideas I had formed of it.
The charming city of Bath met all my expectations. The Crescent, the view from it, and the elegant symmetry of the Circus thrilled me. I must admit, the Parades were somewhat disappointing; one of them is hardly better than some of the best-paved streets in London, and the other, while it offers a beautiful view of Prior Park and the Avon, lacked something more strikingly elegant than just a wide sidewalk to meet the ideas I had in mind.
At the pump-room, I was amazed at the public exhibition of the ladies in the bath; it is true, their heads are covered with bonnets; but the very idea of being seen, in such a situation, by whoever pleases to look, is indelicate.
At the pump-room, I was struck by the public display of the women in the bath; it’s true their heads are covered with bonnets, but the very thought of being seen in such a state by anyone who wants to look is inappropriate.
“‘Fore George,” said the Captain, looking into the bath, “this would be a most excellent place for old Madame French to dance a fandango in! By Jingo, I wou’dn’t wish for better sport than to swing her round this here pond!”
“‘For George’s sake,” said the Captain, looking into the bath, “this would be a perfect spot for old Madame French to dance a fandango! Honestly, I wouldn’t want better fun than to spin her around this pond!”
“She would be very much obliged to you,” said Lord Orville, “for so extraordinary a mark of your favour.”
“She would really appreciate that,” said Lord Orville, “for such an extraordinary sign of your kindness.”
“Why, to let you know,” answered the Captain, “she hit my fancy mightily; I never took so much to an old tabby before.”
“Let me tell you,” replied the Captain, “she really caught my attention; I’ve never been so drawn to an old cat before.”
“Really now,” cried Mr. Lovel, looking also into the bath, “I must confess it is, to me, very incomprehensible why the ladies choose that frightful unbecoming dress to bathe in! I have often pondered very seriously upon the subject, but could never hit upon the reason.”
“Honestly,” exclaimed Mr. Lovel, peering into the bath, “I have to admit it’s completely baffling to me why the women choose that hideous, unflattering outfit to bathe in! I’ve often thought hard about it, but I’ve never been able to figure out why.”
“Well, I declare,” said Lady Louisa, “I should like of all things to set something new a-going; I always hated bathing, because one can get no pretty dress for it! now do, there’s a good creature, try to help me to something.”
“Well, I declare,” said Lady Louisa, “I’d really like to start something new; I’ve always hated bathing because you can’t wear a pretty dress for it! So please, do me a favor and help me come up with something.”
“Who, me!-O, dear Ma’am,” said he, simpering, “I can’t pretend to assist a person of your Ladyship’s tastes; besides, I have not the least head for fashions.-I really don’t think I ever invented above three in my life! But I never had the least turn for dress,-never any notion of fancy or elegance.”
“Who, me? Oh, dear Ma’am,” he said with a grin, “I can’t possibly help someone with your sense of style; besides, I have no knack for fashion at all. Honestly, I don’t think I’ve ever come up with more than three styles in my life! But I’ve never had any talent for dressing up—never had a clue about flair or elegance.”
“O fie, Mr. Lovel! how can you talk so?-don’t we all know that you lead the ton in the beau monde? I declare, I think you dress better than any body.”
“O come on, Mr. Lovel! How can you say that? Don’t we all know that you set the standard in high society? Honestly, I think you dress better than anyone.”
“O, dear Ma’am, you confuse me to the last degree! I dress well!-I protest I don’t think I’m ever fit to be seen! I’m often shocked to death to think what a figure I go. If your Ladyship will believe me, I was full half an hour this morning thinking what I should put on!”
“Oh, dear Ma’am, you completely confuse me! I dress well! I really don’t think I ever look good enough to be seen! I’m often horrified to realize how I look. If you’ll believe me, I spent half an hour this morning deciding what to wear!”
“Odds my life,” cried the Captain, “I wish I’d been near you! I warrant I’d have quickened your motions a little; Half an hour thinking what you’d put on; and who the deuce do you think cares the snuff of a candle whether you’ve any thing on or not?”
“Good grief,” shouted the Captain, “I wish I’d been there with you! I bet I would’ve sped you up a bit; Half an hour worrying about what you’d wear; and who the heck cares a bit whether you have anything on or not?”
“O pray, Captain,” cried Mrs. Selwyn, “don’t be angry with the gentleman for thinking, whatever be the cause, for I assure you he makes no common practice of offending in that way.”
“O please, Captain,” Mrs. Selwyn exclaimed, “don’t be upset with the gentleman for thinking that way, whatever the reason may be, because I assure you he doesn’t usually offend like that.”
“Really, Ma’am, you’re prodigiously kind,” said Mr. Lovel, angrily.
“Honestly, Ma’am, you’re incredibly kind,” said Mr. Lovel, angrily.
“Pray now,” said the Captain, “did you ever get a ducking in that there place yourself?”
“Come on now,” said the Captain, “have you ever been plunged into that place yourself?”
“A ducking, Sir!” repeated Mr. Lovel: “I protest I think that’s rather an odd term!-but if you mean a bathing, it is an honour I have had many times.”
“A ducking, Sir!” Mr. Lovel repeated. “I must say I find that term quite unusual! But if you’re referring to a bath, that’s something I’ve experienced many times.”
“And pray, if a body may be so bold, what do you do with that frizle-frize top of your own? Why, I’ll lay you what you will, there is fat and grease enough on your crown to buoy you up, if you were to go in head downwards.”
“And I must ask, if I may be so bold, what do you do with that frizzy hair of yours? Honestly, I bet there’s enough oil and grease on your head to keep you afloat if you were to dive in headfirst.”
“And I don’t know,” cried Mrs. Selwyn, “but that might be the easiest way; for I’m sure it would be the lightest.”
“And I don’t know,” cried Mrs. Selwyn, “but that might be the easiest way; because I’m sure it would be the lightest.”
“For the matter of that there,” said the Captain, “you must make him a soldier, before you can tell which is lightest, head or heels. Howsomever, I’d lay ten pounds to a shilling, I could whisk him so dexterously over into the pool, that he should light plump upon his foretop and turn round like a tetotum.”
“For that matter,” said the Captain, “you need to make him a soldier before you can figure out whether his head or his heels is lighter. Anyway, I’d bet ten pounds to a shilling that I could toss him so skillfully into the pool that he would land right on his forehead and spin around like a top.”
“Done!” cried Lord Merton; “I take your odds.”
“Done!” shouted Lord Merton; “I accept your bet.”
“Will you?” returned he; “why, then, ‘fore George, I’d do it as soon as say Jack Robinson.”
“Will you?” he replied; “well then, I’d do it just as quickly as I’d say Jack Robinson.”
“He, he!” faintly laughed Mr. Lovel, as he moved abruptly from the window; “‘pon honour, this is pleasant enough; but I don’t see what right any body has to lay wagers about one without one’s consent.”
“He, he!” Mr. Lovel chuckled quietly as he suddenly moved away from the window; “I swear, this is nice enough, but I don’t see what right anyone has to place bets about me without my consent.”
“There, Lovel, you are out,” cried Mr. Coverley, “any man may lay what wager about you he will; your consent is nothing to the purpose: he may lay that your nose is a sky-blue, if he pleases.”
“There, Lovel, you’re out,” shouted Mr. Coverley, “anyone can place whatever bet they want on you; your agreement doesn’t matter: they could even bet that your nose is sky-blue if they wanted.”
“Ay,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “or that your mind is more adorned than your person;-or any absurdity whatsoever.”
“Ay,” said Mrs. Selwyn, “or that your mind is more decorated than your appearance; or any ridiculous notion at all.”
“I protest,” said Mr. Lovel, “I think it’s a very disagreeable privilege, and I must beg that nobody may take such a liberty with me.”
“I protest,” said Mr. Lovel, “I think it’s a really unpleasant privilege, and I must ask that no one take such a liberty with me.”
“Like enough you may,” cried the Captain;” but what’s that to the purpose? Suppose I’ve a mind to lay that you’ve never a tooth in your head-pray, how will you hinder me?”
“Maybe you could,” shouted the Captain; “but what does that matter? Suppose I decide to bet that you don’t have a single tooth in your mouth—how are you going to stop me?”
“You’ll allow me, at least, Sir, to take the liberty of asking how you’ll prove it?”
“You’ll let me, at least, Sir, take the liberty of asking how you’ll prove it?”
“How?-why, by knocking them all down your throat.”
“How? Why, by shoving them all down your throat.”
“Knocking them all down my throat, Sir!” repeated Mr. Lovel, with a look of horror; “I protest I never heard any thing so shocking in my life! And I must beg leave to observe, that no wager, in my opinion, could justify such a barbarous action.”
“Swallowing them all, Sir!” Mr. Lovel repeated, looking horrified. “I must say I’ve never heard anything so shocking in my life! And I have to say that no bet, in my opinion, could justify such a cruel act.”
Here Lord Orville interfered, and hurried us to our carriages.
Here, Lord Orville stepped in and rushed us to our carriages.
We returned in the same order we came. Mrs. Beaumont invited all the party to dinner, and has been so obliging as to beg Miss Mirvan may continue at her house during her stay. The Captain will lodge at the Wells.
We returned in the same order we came. Mrs. Beaumont invited everyone from the party to dinner and has been nice enough to ask if Miss Mirvan can stay at her house during her visit. The Captain will stay at the Wells.
The first half-hour after our return was devoted to hearing Mr. Lovel’s apologies for dining in his riding-dress.
The first half-hour after we got back was spent listening to Mr. Lovel apologize for having dinner in his riding outfit.
Mrs. Beaumont then, addressing herself to Miss Mirvan and me, inquired how we liked Bath?
Mrs. Beaumont then turned to Miss Mirvan and me and asked how we liked Bath.
“I hope,” said Mr. Lovel, “the ladies do not call this seeing Bath.”
“I hope,” said Mr. Lovel, “the ladies don’t consider this seeing Bath.”
“No!-what should ail ‘em?” cried the Captain, “do you suppose they put their eyes in their pockets?”
“No! What’s wrong with them?” cried the Captain. “Do you think they put their eyes in their pockets?”
“No, Sir; but I fancy you will find no person-that is-no person of any condition-call going about a few places in a morning seeing Bath.”
“No, Sir; but I think you won’t find anyone—that is, no one of any status—walking around a few places in the morning checking out Bath.”
“Mayhap, then,” said the literal Captain, “you think we should see it better by going about at midnight?”
“Maybe, then,” said the literal Captain, “you think we should see it better by going around at midnight?”
“No, Sir, no,” said Mr. Lovel, with a supercilious smile, “I perceive you don’t understand me;-we should never call it seeing Bath, without going at the right season.”
“No, Sir, no,” said Mr. Lovel, with a smug smile, “I can see you don’t get what I’m saying — we could never call it seeing Bath without going at the right time.”
“Why, what a plague, then,” demanded he, “can you only see at one season of the year?”
“Why, what a nuisance, then,” he asked, “can you only see at one time of the year?”
Mr. Lovel again smiled; but seemed superior to making any answer.
Mr. Lovel smiled again but appeared above giving any response.
“The Bath amusements,” said Lord Orville, “have a sameness in them, which, after a short time, renders them rather insipid; but the greatest objection that can be made to the place, is the encouragement it gives to gamesters.”
“The Bath amusements,” said Lord Orville, “all have a similar feel, which, after a little while, makes them pretty dull; but the biggest downside to the place is the way it promotes gambling.”
“Why, I hope, my Lord, you would not think of abolishing gaming,” cried Lord Merton, “’tis the very zest of life! Devil take me if I could live without it.”
“Why, I hope you wouldn't consider getting rid of gaming, my Lord,” cried Lord Merton, “it's the very spice of life! I swear I couldn't live without it.”
“I am sorry for it,” said Lord Orville, gravely, and looking at Lady Louisa.
“I’m sorry about that,” said Lord Orville seriously, looking at Lady Louisa.
“Your Lordship is no judge of this subject,” continued the other; “but if once we could get you to a gaming-table, you’d never be happy away from it!”
“Your Lordship doesn’t really understand this topic,” the other person continued, “but if we could just get you to a gaming table, you’d never be happy being away from it!”
“I hope, my Lord,” cried Lady Louisa, “that nobody here ever occasions your quitting it.”
“I hope, my Lord,” Lady Louisa exclaimed, “that nobody here ever causes you to leave.”
“Your Ladyship,” said Lord Merton, recollecting himself, “has power to make me quit any thing.”
“Your Ladyship,” Lord Merton said, pulling himself together, “has the ability to make me give up anything.”
“Except herself,” said Mr. Coverley. “Egad, my Lord, I think I’ve helpt you out there!”
“Except for her,” said Mr. Coverley. “Wow, my Lord, I think I’ve helped you out there!”
“You men of wit, Jack,” answered his Lordship, “are always ready;-for my part, I don’t pretend to any talents that way.”
“You clever guys, Jack,” his Lordship replied, “are always quick on the draw; as for me, I don’t claim to have any skills in that area.”
“Really, my Lord?” asked the sarcastic Mrs. Selwyn; “well, that is wonderful, considering success would be so much in your power.”
“Really, my Lord?” asked the sarcastic Mrs. Selwyn. “Well, that’s great, since success would be so much in your hands.”
“Pray, Ma’am,” said Mr. Lovel to Lady Louisa, “has your Ladyship heard the news?”
"Excuse me, Ma'am," Mr. Lovel said to Lady Louisa, "have you heard the news?"
“News!-what news?”
“What's the news?”
“Why, the report circulating at the Wells concerning a certain person.”
“Why, the rumor going around at the Wells about a certain person.”
“O Lord, no: pray tell me what it is?”
“O Lord, no: please tell me what it is?”
“O no, Ma’am, I beg your La’ship will excuse me; ’tis a profound secret, and I would not have mentioned it, if I had not thought you knew it.”
“Oh no, Ma’am, I really hope you’ll forgive me; it’s a deep secret, and I wouldn’t have brought it up if I didn’t think you already knew.”
“Lord, now, how can you be so monstrous? I declare, now, you’re a provoking creature! But come, I know you’ll tell me;-won’t you now?”
"Lord, how can you be so unbelievable? I swear, you really are a frustrating person! But come on, I know you’ll share with me—won’t you?"
“Your La’ship knows I am but too happy to obey you; but, ‘pon honour, I can’t speak a word, if you won’t all promise me the most inviolable secrecy.”
“Your Lordship knows I’m more than happy to obey you; but, honestly, I can’t say a word unless you all promise me the utmost secrecy.”
“I wish you’d wait for that from me,” said the Captain, “and I’ll give you my word you’d be dumb for one while. Secrecy, quoth-a!-’Fore George, I wonder you an’t ashamed to mention such a word, when you talk of telling it to a woman. Though, for the matter of that, I’d as lieve blab it to the whole sex at once, as to go for to tell it to such a thing as you.”
“I wish you’d wait for that from me,” said the Captain, “and I promise you’d be speechless for a while. Secrecy, seriously! I can’t believe you aren’t embarrassed to mention that word when you’re talking about telling it to a woman. Honestly, I’d rather spill the beans to all women at once than share it with someone like you.”
“Such a thing as me, Sir!” said Mr. Lovel, letting fall his knife and fork, and looking very important; “I really have not the honour to understand your expression.”
“Such a thing as me, Sir!” said Mr. Lovel, dropping his knife and fork and looking very important; “I honestly don’t have the privilege of understanding your expression.”
“It’s all one for that,” said the Captain; “you may have it explained whenever you like it.”
“It’s all the same for that,” said the Captain; “you can have it explained whenever you want.”
“‘Pon honour, Sir,” returned Mr. Lovel, “I must take the liberty to tell you, that I should be extremely offended, but that I suppose it to be some sea-phrase; and therefore I’ll let it pass without further notice.”
"Honestly, Sir," Mr. Lovel replied, "I have to say that I'd be really offended, but I assume it's some kind of nautical term; so I'll let it go without any further comment."
Lord Orville, then, to change the discourse, asked Miss Mirvan if she should spend the ensuing winter in London?
Lord Orville then, to change the subject, asked Miss Mirvan if she would be spending the upcoming winter in London?
“No, to be sure,” said the Captain, “what should she for? She saw all that was to be seen before.”
“No, for sure,” said the Captain, “why should she? She saw everything there was to see already.”
“Is London, then,” said Mr. Lovel, smiling at Lady Louisa, “only to be regarded as a sight?”
“Is London, then,” said Mr. Lovel, smiling at Lady Louisa, “just something to look at?”
“Why, pray, Mr. Wiseacre, how are you pleased for to regard it yourself?-Answer me to that.”
“Why, Mr. Wiseacre, how do you see it yourself? Answer me that.”
“O Sir, my opinion, I fancy, you would hardly find intelligible. I don’t understand sea-phrases enough to define it to your comprehension. Does not your La’ship think the task would be rather difficult?”
“O Sir, I think my opinion might be hard for you to understand. I don’t know enough about nautical terms to explain it clearly to you. Don’t you think it would be quite a challenging task?”
“O Lard, yes,” cried Lady Louisa; “I declare I’d as soon teach my parrot to talk Welsh.”
“O Lord, yes,” cried Lady Louisa; “I swear I’d just as soon teach my parrot to talk Welsh.”
“Ha! ha! ha! Admirable;-’Pon honour, your La’ship’s quite in luck to-day; but that, indeed, your La’ship is every day. Though, to be sure, it is but candid to acknowledge, that the gentlemen of the ocean have a set of ideas, as well as a dialect, so opposite to our’s, that it is by no means surprising they should regard London as a mere show, that may be seen by being looked at. Ha! ha! ha!”
"Ha! Ha! Ha! That's great! Honestly, you're really lucky today; but then again, you're lucky every day. Although, I have to admit, it's fair to say that the guys from the sea have a completely different set of ideas and way of speaking than we do. It's no wonder they see London as just a spectacle to be looked at. Ha! Ha! Ha!"
“Ha! ha!” echoed Lady Louisa; “Well, I declare you are the drollest creature.”
“Ha! ha!” echoed Lady Louisa; “Well, I must say you are the funniest person.”
“He! he! ‘Pon honour, I can’t help laughing at the conceit of seeing London in a few weeks!”
“He! he! Honestly, I can’t help laughing at the idea of seeing London in just a few weeks!”
“And what a plague should hinder you?” cried the Captain; “do you want to spend a day in every street?”
“And what’s stopping you?” shouted the Captain; “do you want to waste a whole day in every street?”
Here again Lady Louisa and Mr. Lovel interchanged smiles.
Here again, Lady Louisa and Mr. Lovel exchanged smiles.
“Why, I warrant you, if I had the showing it, I’d haul you from St. James’s to Wapping the very first morning.”
“Honestly, I swear, if I had the chance to prove it, I’d drag you from St. James's to Wapping the very first morning.”
The smiles were now, with added contempt, repeated; which the Captain observing, looked very fiercely at Mr. Lovel, and said, “Hark’ee my spark, none of your grinning!-’tis a lingo I don’t understand; and if you give me any more of it, I shall go near to lend you a box o’ the ear.”
The smiles were now repeated with extra contempt; noticing this, the Captain glared fiercely at Mr. Lovel and said, “Listen up, my friend, cut out the grinning! It's a language I don't get; and if you keep it up, I might just give you a slap.”
“I protest, Sir,” said Mr. Lovel, turning extremely pale, “I think it’s taking a very particular liberty with a person, to talk to one in such a style as this!”
“I protest, Sir,” said Mr. Lovel, turning very pale, “I think it’s quite a bold move to speak to someone in such a manner!”
“It’s like you may,” returned the Captain: “but give a good gulp, and I’ll warrant you’ll swallow it.” Then, calling for a glass of ale, with a very provoking and significant nod, he drank to his easy digestion.
“It’s up to you,” replied the Captain, “but take a big gulp, and I guarantee you’ll finish it.” Then, ordering a glass of ale, he took a very teasing and meaningful nod as he toasted to his good digestion.
Mr. Lovel made no answer, but looked extremely sullen; and, soon after, we left the gentlemen to themselves.
Mr. Lovel didn’t respond but looked very gloomy; and shortly after, we left the guys to themselves.
I had then two letters delivered to me; one from Lady Howard and Mrs. Mirvan, which contained the kindest congratulations; and the other from Madame Duval;-but not a word from you,-to my no small surprise and concern.
I then received two letters; one from Lady Howard and Mrs. Mirvan, which had the nicest congratulations; and the other from Madame Duval—but not a word from you, which surprised and worried me quite a bit.
Madame Duval seems greatly rejoiced at my late intelligence: a violent cold, she says, prevents her coming to Bristol. The Branghtons, she tells me, are all well; Miss Polly is soon to be married to Mr. Brown; but Mr. Smith has changed his lodgings, “which,” she adds, “has made the house extremely dull. However, that’s not the worst news; pardi, I wish it was! but I’ve been used like nobody,-for Monsieur Du Bois has had the baseness to go back to France without me.” In conclusion, she assures me, as you prognosticated she would, that I shall be sole heiress of all she is worth, when Lady Orville.
Madame Duval seems really happy about my recent news: she says a bad cold is keeping her from coming to Bristol. She tells me that the Branghtons are all doing well; Miss Polly is about to marry Mr. Brown; but Mr. Smith has moved out, “which,” she adds, “has made the house feel really dull. But that’s not the worst news; honestly, I wish it were! I’ve been treated poorly—Monsieur Du Bois has had the nerve to return to France without me.” Finally, she assures me, just like you predicted she would, that I will be the sole heir to all her wealth when Lady Orville.
At tea-time, we were joined by all the gentlemen but Captain Mirvan, who went to the hotel where he was to sleep, and made his daughter accompany him, to separate her trumpery, as he called it, from his clothes.
At tea time, all the gentlemen joined us except for Captain Mirvan, who went to the hotel where he was staying and made his daughter come with him to sort out her things, as he referred to them, from his clothes.
As soon as they were gone, Mr. Lovel, who still appeared extremely sulky, said, “I protest, I never saw such a vulgar, abusive fellow in my life, as that Captain: ‘pon honour, I believe he came here for no purpose in the world but to pick a quarrel; however, for my part, I vow I wo’n’t humour him.”
As soon as they left, Mr. Lovel, who still looked really grumpy, said, “I swear, I’ve never met such a rude, nasty guy in my life as that Captain: honestly, I think he came here just to start a fight; but as far as I’m concerned, I refuse to play along with him.”
“I declare,” cried Lady Louisa, “he put me in a monstrous fright;-I never heard any body talk so shocking in my life!”
“I swear,” exclaimed Lady Louisa, “he gave me a huge scare; I’ve never heard anyone talk so horribly in my life!”
“I think,” said Mrs. Selwyn, with great solemnity, “he threatened to box your ears, Mr. Lovel;-did not he?”
“I think,” said Mrs. Selwyn, with great seriousness, “he threatened to hit you, Mr. Lovel—didn’t he?”
“Really, Ma’am,” said Mr. Lovel, colouring, “if one was to mind every thing those low kind of people say, one should never be at rest for one impertinence or other; so I think the best way is to be above taking any notice of them.”
“Honestly, Ma’am,” said Mr. Lovel, blushing, “if you let every little thing those rude people say get to you, you’d never find peace because of their constant disrespect. So I believe the best approach is to rise above it and not pay them any mind.”
“What,” said Mrs. Selwyn, with the same gravity, “and so receive the blow in silence!”
“What,” Mrs. Selwyn said, keeping the same serious tone, “so we just take the hit without saying anything?”
During this discourse, I heard the Captain’s chaise stop at the door, and ran downstairs to meet Maria. She was alone, and told me that her father, who, she was sure, had some scheme in agitation against Mr. Lovel, had sent her on before him. We continued in the parlour till his return, and were joined by Lord Orville, who begged me not to insist on a patience so unnatural, as submitting to be excluded our society. And let me, my dear Sir, with a grateful heart let me own, I never before passed half an hour in such perfect felicity.
During our conversation, I heard the Captain's carriage stop at the door, so I rushed downstairs to meet Maria. She was by herself and told me that her father, who she believed was plotting something against Mr. Lovel, had sent her ahead of him. We stayed in the parlor until he returned, and Lord Orville joined us. He urged me not to force myself to endure the unnatural situation of being excluded from our group. And let me say, my dear Sir, with a grateful heart, I have never spent half an hour in such complete happiness.
I believe we were all sorry when the Captain returned; yet his inward satisfaction, from however different a cause, did not seem inferior to what our’s had been. He chucked Maria under the chin, rubbed his hands, and was scarce able to contain the fullness of his glee. We all attended him to the drawing room; where, having composed his countenance, without any previous attention to Mrs. Beaumont, he marched up to Mr. Lovel, and abruptly said, “Pray, have you e’er a brother in these here parts?”
I think we were all sorry when the Captain came back; still, his inner happiness, for whatever reason, didn't seem any less than ours had been. He playfully touched Maria under the chin, rubbed his hands, and could hardly hold back his excitement. We all followed him to the drawing room, where, after he composed himself, he approached Mr. Lovel without acknowledging Mrs. Beaumont and suddenly asked, "Do you happen to have a brother around here?"
“Me, Sir?-no, thank Heaven, I’m free from all encumbrances of that sort.”
“Me, Sir? No, thank goodness, I'm free from all that stuff.”
“Well,” cried the Captain, “I met a person just now so like you, I could have sworn he had been your twin brother.”
"Well," exclaimed the Captain, "I just met someone so much like you that I could have sworn he was your twin brother."
“It would have been a most singular pleasure to me,” said Mr. Lovel, “if I also could have seen him; for, really, I have not the least notion what sort of a person I am, and I have a prodigious curiosity to know.”
“It would have been a unique pleasure for me,” Mr. Lovel said, “if I could have seen him too; because, honestly, I have no idea what kind of person I am, and I'm incredibly curious to find out.”
Just then the Captain’s servant, opening the door, said, “A little gentleman below desires to see one Mr. Lovel.”
Just then, the Captain's servant opened the door and said, “A little guy downstairs wants to see Mr. Lovel.”
“Beg him to walk up stairs,” said Mrs. Beaumont. “But, pray what is the reason William is out of the way?”
“Ask him to come upstairs,” said Mrs. Beaumont. “But, may I ask why William is not around?”
The man shut the door without any answer.
The man closed the door without saying anything.
“I can’t imagine who it is,” said Mr. Lovel: “I recollect no little gentleman of my acquaintance now at Bristol,-except, indeed the Marquis of Charlton;-but I don’t much fancy it can be him. Let me see, who else is there so very little?”
“I can’t imagine who it is,” said Mr. Lovel. “I don’t recall any young gentlemen I know right now in Bristol—except for the Marquis of Charlton—but I really doubt it can be him. Let me think, who else is there that’s so small?”
A confused noise among the servants now drew all eyes towards the door: the impatient Captain hastened to open it; and then, clapping his hands, called out, “‘Fore George, ’tis the same person I took for your relation!”
A loud commotion among the servants caught everyone's attention at the door: the eager Captain quickly opened it; then, clapping his hands, shouted, "'I swear, it's the same person I thought was your relative!"
And then, to the utter astonishment of every body but himself, he hauled into the room a monkey, full-dressed, and extravagantly -e; la mode!
And then, to everyone's complete surprise except his own, he brought into the room a monkey, fully dressed and extravagantly in style!
The dismay of the company was almost general. Poor Mr. Lovel seemed thunderstruck with indignation and surprise: Lady Louisa began a scream, which for some time was incessant; Miss Mirvan and I jumped involuntarily upon the seats of our chairs; Mrs. Beaumont herself followed our example; Lord Orville placed himself before me as a guard; and Mrs. Selwyn, Lord Merton, and Mr. Coverley, burst into a loud, immoderate, ungovernable fit of laughter, in which they were joined by the Captain, till, unable to support himself, he rolled on the floor.
The shock in the company was almost universal. Poor Mr. Lovel looked completely taken aback with anger and surprise: Lady Louisa started screaming, and it went on for quite a while; Miss Mirvan and I instinctively jumped up in our chairs; Mrs. Beaumont followed our lead; Lord Orville positioned himself in front of me as a shield; and Mrs. Selwyn, Lord Merton, and Mr. Coverley erupted into loud, uncontrollable laughter, joined by the Captain, who eventually collapsed onto the floor.
The first voice which made its way through this general noise was that of Lady Louisa, which her fright and screaming rendered extremely shrill. “Take it away!” cried she, “take the monster away;-I shall faint, I shall faint if you don’t!”
The first voice that broke through the chaos was Lady Louisa’s, made even more piercing by her panic and screams. “Get it away!” she shouted. “Get the monster away—I’m going to faint, I’m going to faint if you don’t!”
Mr. Lovel, irritated beyond endurance, angrily demanded of the Captain what he meant?
Mr. Lovel, extremely irritated, angrily asked the Captain what he meant.
“Mean?” cried the Captain, as soon as he was able to speak; “why only to shew you in your proper colours.” Then rising, and pointing to the monkey, “Why now, ladies and gentlemen, I’ll be judged by you all!-Did you ever see any thing more like?-Odds my life, if it wasn’t for this here tail, you wouldn’t know one from t’other.”
“Mean?” exclaimed the Captain, as soon as he could speak; “I just want to show you your true colors.” Then he stood up and pointed to the monkey, “Now, ladies and gentlemen, you can judge for yourselves! Have you ever seen anything more similar? I swear, if it weren't for that tail, you wouldn't be able to tell them apart.”
“Sir,” cried Mr. Lovel, stamping, “I shall take a time to make you feel my wrath.”
“Sir,” shouted Mr. Lovel, stamping his feet, “I will take a moment to make you feel my anger.”
“Come now,” continued the regardless Captain, “just for the fun’s sake, doff your coat and waistcoat, and swop with Monseer Grinagain here; and I’ll warrant you’ll not know yourself which is which.”
“Come on,” the unconcerned Captain continued, “just for fun, take off your coat and vest, and swap with Monseer Grinagain here; I guarantee you won’t be able to tell who’s who.”
“Not know myself from a monkey!-I assure you, Sir, I’m not to be used in this manner, and I won’t bear it-curse me if I will!”
“Not know myself from a monkey! I swear to you, Sir, I won't be treated this way, and I won't put up with it—do your worst!”
“Why, hey-day!” cried the Captain, “what, is master in a passion?-well, don’t be angry:-come, he shan’t hurt you;-here, shake a paw with him:-why, he’ll do you no harm, man!-come, kiss and be friends!”
“Wow, really!” shouted the Captain, “What, is the boss upset? - well, don't be mad: - come on, he won't hurt you; - here, shake hands with him: - seriously, he won't do anything to you, man! - come on, kiss and make up!”
“Who, I?” cried Mr. Lovel, almost mad with vexation; “as I’m a living creature, I would not touch him for a thousand worlds!”
“Who, me?” yelled Mr. Lovel, nearly losing his mind with frustration; “as I’m a living being, I wouldn't touch him for a thousand worlds!”
“Send him a challenge,” cried Mr. Coverley, “and I’ll be your second.”
“Send him a challenge,” shouted Mr. Coverley, “and I’ll be your second.”
“Ay, do,” said the Captain; “and I’ll be second to my friend, Monseer Clapperclaw here. Come to it at once!-tooth and nail!”
“Yeah, do it,” said the Captain; “and I’ll back up my friend, Monseer Clapperclaw here. Let’s get to it right away!-tooth and nail!”
“God forbid!” cried Mr. Lovel, retreating, “I would sooner trust my person with a mad bull!”
“God forbid!” Mr. Lovel exclaimed, stepping back, “I’d rather trust myself with a crazy bull!”
“I don’t like the look of him myself,” said Lord Merton, “for he grins most horribly.”
"I don't like the way he looks," said Lord Merton, "because he has a really creepy grin."
“Oh, I’m frightened out of my senses!” cried Lady Louisa, “take him away, or I shall die!”
“Oh, I’m so scared!” cried Lady Louisa, “get him out of here, or I’m going to die!”
“Captain,” said Lord Orville, “the ladies are alarmed; and I must beg you would send the monkey away.”
“Captain,” said Lord Orville, “the ladies are worried; and I need to ask you to send the monkey away.”
“Why, where can be the mighty harm of one monkey more than another?” answered the Captain: “howsomever, if its agreeable to the ladies, suppose we turn them out together?”
“Why, what’s the big deal about one monkey being more harmful than another?” responded the Captain. “Anyway, if the ladies are fine with it, how about we release them both at the same time?”
“What do you mean by that, Sir?” cried Mr. Lovel, lifting up his cane.
“What do you mean by that, Sir?” shouted Mr. Lovel, raising his cane.
“What do you mean?” cried the Captain, fiercely, “be so good as to down with your cane.”
“What do you mean?” shouted the Captain angrily. “Please put your cane down.”
Poor Mr. Lovel, too much intimidated to stand his ground, yet too much enraged to submit, turned hastily round, and, forgetful of consequences, vented his passion by giving a furious blow to the monkey.
Poor Mr. Lovel, too intimidated to stand his ground but too angry to back down, turned around quickly and, forgetting the consequences, let out his frustration by hitting the monkey with a furious blow.
The creature darting forwards, sprung instantly upon him; and, clinging round his neck, fastened his teeth to one of his ears.
The creature lunged forward, quickly reaching him; and, clinging to his neck, sank its teeth into one of his ears.
I was really sorry for the poor man; who, though an egregious fop, had committed no offence that merited such chastisement.
I really felt for the poor guy; he might have been a total show-off, but he hadn't done anything to deserve such punishment.
It was impossible now to distinguish whose screams were loudest, those of Mr. Lovel, or of the terrified Lady Louisa, who I believe, thought her own turn was approaching: but the unrelenting Captain roared with joy.
It was now impossible to tell whose screams were the loudest—Mr. Lovel's or the terrified Lady Louisa's, who I believe thought her own turn was coming up. Meanwhile, the unyielding Captain shouted with joy.
Not so Lord Orville: ever humane, generous, and benevolent he quitted his charge, who he saw was wholly out of danger, and seizing the monkey by the collar, made him loosen the ear; and then with a sudden swing, flung him out of the room, and shut the door.
Not so with Lord Orville: always kind, generous, and caring, he left his charge, who he saw was completely out of danger, and grabbed the monkey by the collar, making it let go of the ear; then with a quick swing, he tossed it out of the room and shut the door.
Poor Mr. Lovel, almost fainting with terror, sunk upon the floor, crying out, “Oh, I shall die, I shall die!-Oh, I’m bit to death!”
Poor Mr. Lovel, nearly fainting from fear, collapsed on the floor, crying out, “Oh, I’m going to die, I’m going to die! Oh, I’m bitten to death!”
“Captain Mirvan,” said Mrs. Beaumont, with no little indignation, “I must own I don’t perceive the wit of this action; and I am sorry to have such cruelty practised in my house.”
“Captain Mirvan,” Mrs. Beaumont said, clearly upset, “I have to admit I don’t see the humor in this action; and I’m sorry to witness such cruelty in my house.”
“Why Lord, Ma’am,” said the Captain, when his rapture abated sufficiently for speech, “how could I tell they’d fall out so?-By jingo, I brought him to be a messmate for t’other.”
“Why, my Lord, Ma'am,” said the Captain, when his excitement calmed enough for him to speak, “how could I know they’d clash like that? By jingo, I brought him to be a buddy for the other.”
“Egad,” said Mr. Coverley, “I would not have been served so for a thousand pounds.”
“Wow,” said Mr. Coverley, “I wouldn't have let that happen for a thousand dollars.”
“Why, then, there’s the odds of it,” said the Captain; “for you see he is served so for nothing. But come,” turning to Mr. Lovel, “be of good heart, all may end well yet, and you and Monseer Longtail be as good friends as ever.”
“Why, then, what are the chances of that,” said the Captain; “because you see he’s doing it all for nothing. But come,” turning to Mr. Lovel, “stay hopeful, everything might still turn out alright, and you and Monseer Longtail can be as good friends as ever.”
“I’m surprised, Mrs. Beaumont,” cried Mr. Lovel, starting up, “that you can suffer a person under your roof to be treated so inhumanly.”
“I’m surprised, Mrs. Beaumont,” exclaimed Mr. Lovel, getting up, “that you can allow someone in your home to be treated so cruelly.”
“What argufies so many words?” said the unfeeling Captain; “it is but a slit of the ear; it only looks as if you had been in the pillory.”
“What’s the point of so many words?” said the unfeeling Captain; “it’s just a cut on your ear; it only looks like you’ve been in the stocks.”
“Very true,” added Mrs. Selwyn; “and who knows but it may acquire you the credit of being an anti-ministerial writer?”
“Very true,” added Mrs. Selwyn; “and who knows, it might earn you a reputation as an anti-government writer?”
“I protest,” cried Mr. Lovel, looking ruefully at his dress, “my new riding suit’s all over blood!”
“I protest,” shouted Mr. Lovel, looking sadly at his outfit, “my new riding suit is covered in blood!”
“Ha, ha, ha,” cried the Captain, “see what comes of studying for an hour what you shall put on!”
“Ha, ha, ha,” laughed the Captain, “look at what happens when you spend an hour deciding what to wear!”
Mr. Lovel then walked to the glass; and, looking at the place, exclaimed, “Oh heaven, what a monstrous wound! my ear will never be fit to be seen again!”
Mr. Lovel then walked to the mirror; and, looking at the spot, exclaimed, “Oh my god, what a huge injury! My ear will never look normal again!”
“Why then,” said the Captain, “you must hide it;-’tis but wearing a wig.”
“Why then,” said the Captain, “you just have to hide it; it’s just wearing a wig.”
“A wig!” repeated the affrighted Mr. Lovel; “I wear a wig?-no, not if you would give me a thousand pounds an hour!”
“A wig!” repeated the frightened Mr. Lovel; “I wear a wig?—no, not even if you offered me a thousand pounds an hour!”
“I declare,” said Lady Louisa, “I never heard such a shocking proposal in my life!”
“I can’t believe it,” said Lady Louisa, “I’ve never heard such a ridiculous proposal in my life!”
Lord Orville, then, seeing no prospect that the altercation would cease, proposed to the Captain to walk. He assented; and having given Mr. Lovel a nod of exultation, accompanied his Lordship down stairs.
Lord Orville, seeing no chance that the argument would stop, suggested to the Captain that they take a walk. He agreed, and after giving Mr. Lovel a triumphant nod, he followed his Lordship downstairs.
“‘Pon honour,” said Mr. Lovel, the moment the door was shut, “that fellow is the greatest brute in nature! he ought not to be admitted into a civilized society.”
“Honestly,” said Mr. Lovel, the moment the door was shut, “that guy is the biggest jerk in existence! He shouldn’t be allowed in civilized society.”
“Lovel,” said Mr. Coverley, affecting to whisper, “you must certainly pink him: you must not put up with such an affront.”
“Lovel,” Mr. Coverley said, pretending to whisper, “you definitely need to confront him: you can’t just put up with such an insult.”
“Sir,” said Mr. Lovel, “with any common person I should not deliberate an instant; but really with a fellow who has done nothing but fight all his life, ‘pon honour, Sir, I can’t think of it!”
“Sir,” said Mr. Lovel, “with anyone else, I wouldn’t think twice; but honestly, with a guy who has only fought his entire life, I really can’t consider it!”
“Lovel,” said Lord Merton, in the same voice, “you must call him to account.”
“Lovel,” Lord Merton said in the same tone, “you need to hold him accountable.”
“Every man,” said he, pettishly, “is the best judge of his own affairs; and I don’t ask the honour of any person’s advice.”
“Every man,” he said irritably, “is the best judge of his own matters; and I don’t want the privilege of anyone’s advice.”
“Egad, Lovel,” said Mr. Coverley, “you’re in for it!-you can’t possibly be off!”
“Wow, Lovel,” said Mr. Coverley, “you’re in trouble! You can’t possibly leave!”
“Sir,” cried he, very impatiently, “upon any proper occasion I should be as ready to show my courage as any body; but as to fighting for such a trifle as this-I protest I should blush to think of it!”
“Sir,” he exclaimed, quite impatiently, “on any appropriate occasion I’d be just as willing to show my courage as anyone else; but fighting over something as trivial as this—I honestly would be embarrassed to even think about it!”
“A trifle!” cried Mrs. Selwyn, “good Heaven! and have you made this astonishing riot about a trifle?”
“A small thing!” cried Mrs. Selwyn, “good heavens! and you’ve caused this unbelievable commotion over a small thing?”
“Ma’am,” answered the poor wretch, in great confusion, “I did not know at first but that my cheek might have been bit; but as ’tis no worse, why, it does not a great deal signify. Mrs. Beaumont, I have the honour to wish you a good evening; I’m sure my carriage must be waiting.” And then, very abruptly, he left the room.
“Ma’am,” replied the poor guy, feeling really embarrassed, “I didn’t realize at first that my cheek might have been bitten; but since it’s not any worse, it doesn’t matter much. Mrs. Beaumont, I want to wish you a good evening; I’m sure my ride is waiting.” And then, quite suddenly, he left the room.
What a commotion has this mischief-loving Captain raised! Were I to remain here long, even the society of my dear Maria could scarce compensate for the disturbances which he excites.
What a fuss this troublemaking Captain has caused! If I stay here much longer, even the company of my dear Maria won't be enough to make up for the chaos he creates.
When he returned, and heard of the quiet exit of Mr. Lovel, his triumph was intolerable. “I think, I think,” he cried, “I have peppered him well! I’ll warrant he won’t give an hour tomorrow morning to settling what he shall put on; why, his coat,” turning to me, “would be a most excellent match for old Madame Furbelow’s best Lyons silk! ‘Fore George, I’d desire no better sport than to have that there old cat here to go her snacks!”
When he came back and heard about Mr. Lovel's quiet departure, he couldn't contain his triumph. “I think, I think,” he exclaimed, “I really got to him! I bet he won’t spend even an hour tomorrow morning deciding what to wear; after all, his coat,” he said, turning to me, “would go perfectly with old Madame Furbelow’s best Lyons silk! Honestly, I wouldn’t want anything more entertaining than to have that old cat here to watch her freak out!”
All the company the, Lord Orville, Miss Mirvan, and myself excepted, played at cards; and we -oh, how much better did we pass our time!
All the company except for Lord Orville, Miss Mirvan, and me played cards; and we—oh, how much better did we spend our time!
While we were engaged in a most delightful conversation, a servant brought me a letter, which he told me had by some accident been mislaid. Judge of my feelings when I saw, my dearest Sir, your revered hand-writing! My emotions soon betrayed to Lord Orville whom the letter was from; the importance of the contents he well knew; and, assuring me I should not be seen by the card-players, he besought me to open it without delay.
While we were having a lovely conversation, a servant brought me a letter that he said had been misplaced by accident. Imagine my feelings when I saw, my dearest Sir, your familiar handwriting! My emotions quickly revealed to Lord Orville who the letter was from; he knew the importance of its contents, and, assuring me I wouldn’t be seen by the card players, he urged me to open it right away.
Open it, indeed, I did-but read it I could not;-the willing, yet awful consent you have granted-the tenderness of your expressions-the certainty that no obstacle remained to my eternal union with the loved owner of my heart, gave me sensations too various, and, though joyful, too little placid for observation. Finding myself unable to proceed, and blinded by the tears of gratitude and delight, which started into my eyes, I gave over the attempt of reading till I retired to my own room; and, having no voice to answer the enquiries of Lord Orville, I put the letter into his hands, and left it to speak both for me and itself.
I opened it, I really did—but I couldn’t read it; the willing yet overwhelming agreement you’ve given me—the tenderness in your words—the certainty that nothing stood in the way of my eternal union with the one I love filled me with so many emotions, and even though I was happy, it was too much to process. Unable to continue, and overwhelmed by tears of gratitude and joy, I stopped trying to read until I got back to my own room. With no words to respond to Lord Orville’s questions, I handed him the letter and let it speak for both of us.
Lord Orville was himself affected by your kindness: he kissed the letter as he returned it; and, pressing my hand affectionately to his heart, “Your are now,” said he, in a low voice, “all my own! Oh, my Evelina, how will my soul find room for its happiness?-it seems already bursting!” I could make no reply, indeed I hardly spoke another word the rest of the evening; so little talkative is the fulness of contentment.
Lord Orville was really touched by your kindness: he kissed the letter as he handed it back to me, and, pressing my hand warmly to his heart, he said in a soft voice, "You are now all mine! Oh, my Evelina, how will my soul find space for its happiness? It feels like it's already overflowing!" I couldn't respond; in fact, I barely said another word for the rest of the evening; such is the silence that comes with deep contentment.
O, my dearest Sir, the thankfulness of my heart I must pour forth at our meeting, when, at your feet, my happiness receives its confirmation from your blessing; and when my noble-minded, my beloved Lord Orville, presents to you the highly-honoured, and thrice-happy Evelina.
O, my dearest Sir, I must express the gratitude in my heart at our meeting, when, at your feet, my happiness is confirmed by your blessing; and when my noble-minded, beloved Lord Orville presents to you the highly honored and thrice-happy Evelina.
A few lines I will endeavour to write on Thursday, which shall be sent off express, to give you, should nothing intervene, yet more certain assurance of our meeting.
A few lines I will try to write on Thursday, which will be sent off quickly, to give you, if nothing comes up, even more certain assurance of our meeting.
Now then, therefore, for the first-and probably the last time I shall ever own the name, permit me to sign myself, Most dear Sir, your gratefully affectionate, EVELINA BELMONT.
Now then, for the first—and probably the last—time I will ever own this name, please allow me to sign myself, Most dear Sir, your gratefully affectionate, EVELINA BELMONT.
Lady Louisa, at her own particular desire, will be present at the ceremony, as well as Miss Mirvan and Mrs. Selwyn: Mr. Macartney will, the same morning, be united to my foster-sister; and my father himself will give us both away.
Lady Louisa, at her own request, will be there for the ceremony, along with Miss Mirvan and Mrs. Selwyn: Mr. Macartney will be marrying my foster-sister that same morning; and my father will personally give us both away.
LETTER LXXXIII - MR. VILLARS TO EVELINA.
EVERY wish of my soul is now fulfilled-for the felicity of my Evelina is equal to her worthiness!
Every wish of my soul is now fulfilled—Evelina's happiness matches her worth!
Yes, my child, thy happiness is engraved in golden characters upon the tablets of my heart; and their impression is indelible: for, should the rude and deep-searching hand of Misfortune attempt to pluck them from their repository, the fleeting fabric of life would give way; and in tearing from my vitals the nourishment by which they are supported, she would but grasp at a shadow insensible to her touch.
Yes, my child, your happiness is written in gold on the tablets of my heart; and that impression is permanent. For if the harsh and probing hand of Misfortune tries to take them away, the fragile fabric of life would break; and in ripping away from my core the source that supports them, she would only grasp at something intangible and beyond her reach.
Give thee my consent?-Oh thou joy, comfort, and pride of my life, how cold is that word to express the fervency of my approbation! Yes, I do indeed give thee my consent; and so thankfully, that, with the humblest gratitude to Providence, I would seal it with the remnant of my days.
Give you my consent? Oh, you joy, comfort, and pride of my life, how cold that word is to express how much I approve! Yes, I truly give you my consent; and I'm so grateful for it that, with the deepest thanks to fate, I would seal it with the rest of my days.
Hasten then, my love, to bless me with thy presence, and to receive the blessings with which my fond heart overflows!-And oh, my Evelina, hear and assist in one only, humble, but ardent prayer, which yet animates my devotions: That the height of bliss to which thou art rising may not render thee giddy, but that the purity of thy mind may form the brightest splendour of thy prosperity!-and that the weak and aged frame of thy almost idolizing parent, nearly worn out by time, past afflictions, and infirmities, may yet be able to sustain a meeting with all its better part holds dear; and then, that all the wounds which the former severity of fortune inflicted, may be healed and purified by the ultimate consolation of pouring forth my dying words in blessings on my child!-closing these joy-streaming eyes in her presence, and breathing my last faint sighs in her loved arms!
Hurry then, my love, to bless me with your presence, and to receive the blessings that my loving heart is overflowing with! And oh, my Evelina, hear and assist in one simple, yet passionate prayer that fuels my devotion: That the height of happiness you are reaching may not make you dizzy, but that the purity of your mind may shine as the brightest light of your success! And that the frail and aging body of your almost idolizing parent, nearly worn out by time, past hardships, and illnesses, may still be able to endure a meeting with everything it holds dear; and then, that all the wounds inflicted by fortune’s previous harshness may be healed and purified by the ultimate comfort of sharing my final words in blessings on my child!—closing these joy-filled eyes in her presence, and breathing my last faint sighs in her beloved arms!
Grieve not, oh child of my care! Grieve not at the inevitable moment! but may thy own end be equally propitious! Oh, may’st thou, when full of days, and full of honour, sink down as gently to rest!-be loved as kindly, watched as tenderly, as thy happy father! And mayest thou, when thy glass is run, be sweetly, but not bitterly, mourned by some remaining darling of thy affections-some yet surviving Evelina! ARTHUR VILLARS.
Don't be sad, oh child of my care! Don't mourn the inevitable moment! But may your own end be just as favorable! Oh, may you, when you have lived a full life and earned honor, peacefully rest—be loved as dearly, watched over as kindly, as your happy father! And may you, when your time comes, be sweetly, but not bitterly, mourned by some remaining beloved of your affections—some still-surviving Evelina! ARTHUR VILLARS.
LETTER LXXXIV - EVELINA TO THE REV. MR. VILLARS.
ALL is over, my dearest Sir; and the fate of your Evelina is decided! This morning, with fearful joy and trembling gratitude, she united herself for ever with the object of her dearest, her eternal affection.
ALL is over, my dearest Sir; and the fate of your Evelina is decided! This morning, with mixed emotions and heartfelt gratitude, she committed herself forever to the one she loves most deeply, her eternal affection.
I have time for no more; the chaise now waits which is to conduct me to dear Berry Hill, and to the arms of the best of men.
I have no time for anything else; the carriage is waiting to take me to dear Berry Hill and into the arms of the best man.
EVELINA. THE END.
EVELINA. FIN.
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