THE LADIES OF THE IDYLL
THE LADIES OF THE IDYLL
Little Primrose dames of the English classic, the wife and daughters of the Vicar of Wakefield have no claim whatever to this name of lady. It is given to them in this page because Goldsmith himself gave it to them in the yet undepreciated state of the word, and for the better reason that he obviously intended them to be the equals of the men to whom he marries them, those men being, with all their faults, gentlemen. Goldsmith, in a word, meant them to be ladies, of country breeding, but certainly fit for membership of that large class of various fortune within which the name makes a sufficient equality.
He, their author, thought them sufficient. Having amused himself ingeniously throughout the story with their nameless vulgarities, he finally hurries them into so much sentiment as may excuse the convention of heroes in love. He plays with their coarseness like a perfectly pleased and clever showman, and then piously and happily shuts up his couples-the gentle Dr. Primrose with his abominable Deborah； the excellent Mr. Burchell with the paltry Sophia； Olivia―― but no, Olivia is not so certainly happy ever after； she has a captured husband ready for her in a state of ignominy, but she has also a forgotten farmer somewhere in the background――the unhappy man whom, with her father's permission, this sorry heroine had promised to marry in order that his wooing might pluck forward the lagging suit of the squire.
Olivia, then, plays her common trick upon the harmless Williams, her father conniving, with a provision that he urges with some demonstration of virtue： she shall consent to make the farmer happy if the proposal of the squire be not after all forthcoming. But it is so evident her author knew no better, that this matter may pass. It involves a point of honour, of which no one――neither the maker of the book nor anyone he made――is aware. What is better worth considering is the fact that Goldsmith was completely aware of the unredeemed vulgarity of the ladies of the Idyll, and cheerfully took it for granted as the thing to be expected from the mother-in-law of a country gentleman and the daughters of a scholar. The education of women had sunk into a degradation never reached before, inasmuch as it was degraded in relation to that of men. It would matter little indeed that Mrs. Primrose "could read any English book without much spelling" if her husband and son were as definitely limited to journeyman's field-labour as she was to the pickling and the gooseberry wine. Any of those industries is a better and more liberal business than unselect reading, for instance, or than unselect writing. Therefore let me not be misunderstood to complain too indiscriminately of that century or of an unlettered state. What is really unhandsome is the new, slovenly, and corrupt inequality whereinto the century had fallen.
That the mother of daughters and sons should be fatuous, a village worldling, suspicious, ambitious, ill-bred, ignorant, gross, insolent, foulmouthed, pushing, importunate, and a fool, seems natural, almost innocently natural, in Goldsmith's story； the squalid Mrs. Primrose is all this. He is still able, through his Vicar, in the most charmingly humorous passage in the book, to praise her for her "prudence, economy, and obedience." Her other, more disgusting, characteristics give her husband an occasion for rebuking her as "Woman！" This is done, for example, when, despite her obedience, she refuses to receive that unlucky schemer, her own daughter, returned in ruins, without insulting her by the sallies of a kitchen sarcasm.
She plots with her daughters the most disastrous fortune hunt. She has given them a teaching so effectual that the Vicar has no fear lest the paltry Sophia should lose her heart to the good, the sensible Burchell, who had saved her life； for he has no fortune. Mrs. Primrose begins grotesquely, with her tedious histories of the dishes at dinner, and she ends upon the last page, anxious, amid the general happiness, in regard to securing the head of the table. Upon these feminine humours the author sheds his Vicar's indulgent smile. What a smile for a self-respecting husband to be pricked to smile！ A householder would wince, one would think, at having opportunity to bestow its tolerance upon his cook.
Between these two housewifely appearances, Mrs. Primrose potters through the book； plots――always squalidly； talks the worst kinds of folly； takes the lead, with a loud laugh, in insulting a former friend； crushes her repentant daughter with reproaches that show envy rather than indignation, and kisses that daughter with congratulation upon hearing that she had, unconsciously and unintentionally, contracted a valid marriage （with a rogue）； spoils and makes common and unclean everything she touches； has but two really gentle and tender moments all through the story； and sets, once for all, the example in literature of the woman we find thenceforth, in Thackeray, in Douglas Jerrold, in Dickens, and un peu partout.
Hardly less unspiritual, in spite of their conventional romance of youth and beauty, are the daughters of the squalid one. The author, in making them simple, has not abstained from making them cunning. Their vanities are well enough, but these women are not only vain, they are so envious as to refuse admiration to a sister-in-law――one who is their rival in no way except in so much as she is a contemporary beauty. "Miss Arabella Wilmot," says the pious father and vicar, "was allowed by all （except my two daughters） to be completely pretty."
They have been left by their father in such brutal ignorance as to be instantly deceived into laughing at bad manners in error for humour. They have no pretty or sensitive instincts. "The jests of the rich," says the Vicar, referring to his own young daughters as audience, "are ever successful." Olivia, when the squire played off a dullish joke, "mistook it for humour. She thought him, therefore, a very fine gentleman." The powders and patches for the country church, the ride thither on Blackberry, in so strange a procession, the face-wash, the dreams and omens, are all good gentle comedy； we are completely convinced of the tedium of Mrs. Primrose's dreams, which she told every morning. But there are other points of comedy that ought not to precede an author's appeal to the kind of sentiment about to be touched by the tragic scenes of The Vicar of Wakefield.
In odd sidling ways Goldsmith bethinks himself to give his principal heroine a shadow of the virtues he has not bestowed upon her. When the unhappy Williams, above-mentioned, has been used in vain by Olivia, and the squire has not declared himself, and she is on the point of keeping her word to Williams by marrying him, the Vicar creates a situation out of it all that takes the reader roundly by surprise： "I frequently applauded her resolution in preferring happiness to ostentation." The good Goldsmith！ Here is Olivia perfectly frank with her father as to her exceedingly sincere preference for ostentation, and as to her stratagem to try to obtain it at the expense of honour and of neighbour Williams； her mind is as well known to her father as her father's mind is known to Oliver Goldsmith, and as Oliver Goldsmith's, Dr. Primrose's, and Olivia's minds are known to the reader. And in spite of all, your Goldsmith and your Vicar turn you this phrase to your very face. You hardly know which way to look； it is so disconcerting.
Seeing that Olivia （with her chance-recovered virtue） and Sophia may both be expected to grow into the kind of matronhood represented by their mother, it needs all the conditions of fiction to surround the close of their love-affairs with the least semblance of dignity. Nor, in fact, can it be said that the final winning of Sophia is an incident that errs by too much dignity. The scene is that in which Burchell, revealed as Sir William Thornhill, feigns to offer her in marriage to the good-natured rogue, Jenkinson, fellow prisoner with her father, in order that, on her indignant and distressed refusal, he may surprise her agreeably by crying, "What？ Not have him？ If that be the case, I think I must have you myself."
Even for an avowedly eccentric master of whims, this is playing with forbidden ironies. True, he catches her to his breast with ardour, and calls her "sensible." "Such sense and such heavenly beauty," finally exclaims the happy man. Let us make him a present of the heavenly beauty. It is the only thing not disproved, not dispraised, not disgraced, by a candid study of the Ladies of the Idyll.
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