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    The Modern Griselda
    The Modern Griselda
    The Modern Griselda
    Ebook96 pages1 hour

    The Modern Griselda

    By Maria Edgeworth

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    About this ebook

    Maria Edgeworth was a prolific Irish writer and is considered to be a significant figure in the evolution of modern novels.  Edgeworth’s works are known for moral and social themes.  This edition of The Modern Griselda includes a table of contents.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCharles River Editors
    Release dateMar 22, 2018
    ISBN9781531263928
    The Modern Griselda
    Author

    Maria Edgeworth

    Although born in England in 1768, Maria Edgeworth was raised in Ireland from a young age after the death of her mother. After nearly losing her sight at age fourteen, Edgeworth was tutored at home by her father, helping to run their estate and taking charge of her younger siblings. Over the course of her life she collaborated and published books with her father, and produced many more of her own adult and children’s works, including such classics as Castle Rackrent, Patronage, Belinda, Ormond and The Absentee. Edgeworth spent her entire life on the family estate, but kept up friendships and correspondences with her contemporaries Sir Walter Scott and Lord Byron, and her writing had a profound influence upon Jane Austen and William Makepeace Thackeray. Edgeworth was outspoken on the issues of poverty, women’s rights, and racial inequalities. During the beginnings of famine in Ireland, Edgeworth worked in relief and support of the sick and destitute. She died in 1849 at the age of 81.

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      Book preview

      The Modern Griselda - Maria Edgeworth

      THE MODERN GRISELDA

      ..................

      Maria Edgeworth

      KYPROS PRESS

      Thank you for reading. In the event that you appreciate this book, please consider sharing the good word(s) by leaving a review, or connect with the author.

      This book is a work of fiction; its contents are wholly imagined.

      All rights reserved. Aside from brief quotations for media coverage and reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced or distributed in any form without the author’s permission. Thank you for supporting authors and a diverse, creative culture by purchasing this book and complying with copyright laws.

      Copyright © 2016 by Maria Edgeworth

      Interior design by Pronoun

      Distribution by Pronoun

      TABLE OF CONTENTS

      The Modern Griselda

      CHAPTER I.

      CHAPTER II.

      CHAPTER III.

      CHAPTER IV.

      CHAPTER V.

      CHAPTER VI.

      CHAPTER VII.

      CHAPTER VIII.

      CHAPTER IX.

      CHAPTER X.

      CHAPTER XI.

      CHAPTER XII.

      CHAPTER XIII.

      CHAPTER XIV.

      CHAPTER XV.

      CHAPTER XVI.

      CHAPTER XVII.

      CHAPTER XVIII.

      CHAPTER XIX.

      FOOTNOTES:

      THE MODERN GRISELDA

      ..................

      CHAPTER I.

      "Blest as th’ immortal gods is he,

      The youth who fondly sits by thee,

      Who sees, and hears thee all the while,

      Softly speak and sweetly smile."

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

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

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

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

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

      The complaisant bride repeated the strain.

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

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

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

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

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

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

      Is it? I did not perceive it.

      Did not you indeed? I am sorry for that.

      Why so, my dear?

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

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

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

      The tears came into Griselda’s beautiful eyes.

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

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

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

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

      A few weeks afterwards her husband unexpectedly met with Mr. Granby, a friend, of whose company he was particularly fond; he invited him home to dinner, and was talking over past times in all the gaiety and innocence of his heart, when suddenly his wife rose and left the room.—As her absence appeared to him long, and as he had begged his friend to postpone an excellent story till her return, he went to her apartment and called Griselda!——Griselda, my love!——No Griselda answered—He searched for her in vain in every room in the house—at last in an alcove in the garden, he found the fair dissolved in tears——

      Good Heavens! my dear Griselda, what can be the matter?

      A melancholy—not to say sullen silence was maintained by his dear Griselda, till this question had been reiterated in all the possible tones of fond solicitude and alarm: at last in broken sentences she replied——

      That she saw he did not love her—never had loved her—that she had now but too much reason to be convinced that all her fears were real, not imaginary. That her presentiments, alas! never deceived her! That she was the most miserable woman on earth.

      Her husband’s unfeigned astonishment she seemed to consider as an aggravation of her woes, and it was an additional insult to plead ignorance of his offence.

      If he did not understand her feelings, it was impossible, it was needless to explain them. He must have lost all sympathy with her—all tenderness for her, if he did not know what had passed in her mind.

      The man stood in stupid innocence. Provoked to speak more plainly, the lady exclaimed,

      Unfeeling! cruel! barbarous man!—Have not you this whole day been trying your utmost skill to torment me to death! And proud of your success, now you come to enjoy your triumph.

      Success!—Triumph!

      Yes triumph!—I see it in your eyes—it is in vain to deny it—All this I owe to your friend Mr. Granby: Why he should be my enemy, I! who never injured him, or any body living, in thought, word, or deed—why he should be my enemy!—

      Enemy! my love,

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