It was not the custom of the day for the lady of the house to present
herself at dinner when the party consisted solely of men, so that
my mother's absence from table appeared nothing remarkable. To her,
however, it did seem somewhat singular that, although she descended
to the drawing-room in all the charming elegance of a most becoming
costume, not one of the guests presented himself to pay his respects,
or, as she would have said, his dutiful homage. It is possible that my
father had forgotten to apprise her that the company of a dinner-party
were not usually in that temperate and discreet frame of mind which
would make their appearance in a drawing-room desirable. In his various
lessons, it is more than likely that this escaped him; and I believe
I am not far wrong in wishing that many other of his instructions had
shared the same fate. The fact was, that in preparing my mother for the
duties and requirements of a novel state of society, he had given her
such false and exaggerated notions of the country and the people, she
had imbibed a hundred absurd prejudices about them which, had she been
left to her own unguided good sense and tact, she would have totally
escaped; and while, as he thought, he was storing her mind with a
thorough knowledge of Ireland, he was simply presenting her with
a terrifying picture of such inconsistency, incongruity, and
wrongheadedness that no cleverness on her part could ever succeed in
combating.
It is perfectly true that the courtly deference and polished reserve of
old French manners, its thousand observances, and its unfailing devotion
to ladies, were not the striking features of Irish country-house life;
but there was a great deal in common between them, and perhaps no
country of Europe in that day could so easily, and with such little
sacrifice, have conformed to the French standard of good-breeding as
Ireland; and I have little doubt that if left to herself, my mother
would have soon discovered the points of contact, without even troubling
her head or puzzling her ingenuity over their discrepancies. However
that may be, there she sat, in all the attractive beauty of full dress,
alone and in silence, save when the door of the distant dinner-room
opening bore to her ears the wild and vociferous merriment of a party
excited by wine and conviviality.
I know not, I can but fancy, what thoughts of her own dear land were
hers at that moment, what memory of delicious evenings spent amidst
alleys of orange and lime trees, the rippling fountain mingling its
sounds with the more entrancing music of flattery; what visions rose
before her of scenes endeared from infancy, of objects that recalled
that soft, luxurious dalliance which makes of life a dream. I can but
imagine that of this kind were her reveries, as she sat in solitude, or
slowly paced up and down the immense room which, but partially lighted
up, looked even larger than it was. To cut off every clew to her family,
my father had sent back from England the maid who accompanied her,
and taken in her place one who knew nothing of my mother's birth or
connections, so that she had not even the solace of so much confidential
intercourse, and was utterly, completely alone. While in Wales she had
been my father's companion for the entire day, accompanying him when
he walked or rode, and beside him on the river's bank as he fished;
scarcely had they arrived in Ireland, however, when the whole course of
life was changed. The various duties of his station took up much of his
time, he was frequently occupied all the day, and they met but rarely;
hence had she adopted those old habits of her native country,--that
self-indulgent system which surrounds itself with few cares, fewer
duties, and, alas! no resources.
So fearful was my father that she might take a dislike to the country
from the first impressions produced upon her by new acquaintances that
he actually avoided every one of his neighbors, hesitating where or with
whom to seek companionship for his wife: some were too old, some too
vulgar, some were linked with an objectionable “set,” some were of the
opposite side in politics. His fastidiousness increased with every day;
and while he was assuring her that there was a delightful circle into
which she would be received, he was gradually offending every one of his
old neighbors and associates. Of the great heap of cards which covered
her table, she had not yet seen one of the owners, and already a hundred
versions were circulated to account for the seclusion in which she
lived.
I have been obliged to burden my reader with these explanations, for
whose especial enlightenment they are intended, for I desire that he
should have as clear an idea of the circumstances which attended my
mother's position as I am able to convey, and without which he would
be probably unjust in his estimate of her character. In all likelihood
there is not any one less adapted to solitude than a young, very
handsome, and much-flattered Frenchwoman. Neither her education nor her
tastes fit her for it; and the very qualities which secure her success
in society are precisely those which most contribute to melancholy when
alone; wit and brilliancy when isolated from the world being like the
gold and silver money which the shipwrecked sailor would willingly have
bartered for the commonest and vilest articles of simple utility.
Let the reader, then, bearing all this in his mind, picture to himself
my mother, who, as the night wore on, became more and more impatient,
starting at every noise, and watching the door, which she momentarily
expected to see open.
During all this time, the company of the dinner-room were in the fullest
enjoyment of their conviviality,--and let me add, too, of that species
of conviviality for which the Ireland of that day was celebrated. It
is unhappily too true: those habits of dissipation prevailed to such
an extent that a dinner-party meant an orgie; but it is only fair to
remember that it was not a mere festival of debauch, but that native
cleverness and wit, the able conversationalist, the brilliant talker,
and the lively narrator had no small share in the intoxication of
the hour. There was a kind of barbaric grandeur in the Irish country
gentleman of the time--with his splendid retinue, his observance of the
point of honor, his contempt of law, and his generous hospitality--that
made him a very picturesque, if not a very profitable, feature of his
native country. The exact period to which I refer was remarkable in this
respect: the divisions of politics had risen to all the dignity of a
great national question, and the rights of Ireland were then on trial.
It is not my object, perhaps as little would it be the reader's wish, to
enter on any description of the table-talk, where debates in the House,
duels, curious assize cases, hard runs with fox-hounds, adventures
with bailiffs, and affairs of gallantry all followed pell-mell, in
wild succession. None were above telling of their own defeats and
discomfitures. There was little of that overweening self-esteem which in
our time stifles many a good story, for fear of the racy ridicule that
is sure to follow it. Good fellowship and good temper were supreme, and
none felt that to be offence which was uttered in all the frank gayety
of the bottle. Even then the western Irishman had his distinctive
traits; and while the taste for courtly breeding and polished manners
was gradually extending, he took a kind of pride in maintaining his
primitive habits of dress and demeanor, and laughed at the newfangled
notions as a fashionable folly that would last its hour and disappear
again. Of this school was a certain Mr., or rather, as he was always
called, “Old Bob Ffrench,” the familiar epithet of Bitter Bob being his
cognomen among friends and intimates. I am unwilling to let my readers
suppose, even for a moment, that he really deserved the disparaging
prefix. He was, indeed, the very emblem of an easy-tempered,
generous-hearted old man, the utmost extent of whose bitterness was the
coarseness of a manner that, however common in his own country, formed
a strong contrast to the tone of the capital. Although a man of a
large fortune and ancient family, in his dress and appearance he looked
nothing above the class of a comfortable farmer. His large loose brown
coat was decorated with immense silver buttons, and his small clothes,
disdaining all aid from braces, displayed a liberal margin of linen over
his hips; but his stockings were most remarkable of all, being of lamb's
wool and of two colors, a light-brown and blue,--an invention of his own
to make them easy of detection if stolen, but which assuredly secured
their safety on better grounds. He was a member of Parliament for a
western borough; and despite many peculiarities of diction, and an
occasional lapse of grammar, was always listened to with attention in
the House, and respected for the undeviating honor and manly frankness
of his character. Bob had been, as usual, an able contributor to the
pleasures of the evening; he had sung, told stories, joked, and quizzed
every one around him, and even, in a burst of confidence, communicated
the heads of a speech he was about to make in the House on the question
of reform, when he suddenly discovered that his snuffbox was empty.
Now, amongst his many peculiarities, one was the belief that no man in
Ireland knew how to apportion the various kinds of tobacco like himself,
and Bob's mixture was a celebrated snuff of the time.
To replenish his box he always carried a little canister in his
great-coat pocket, but never would intrust the care of this important
casket to a servant; so that when he saw that he was “empty,” he quietly
stole from the room and went in search of his great-coat. It was not
without some difficulty that he found his way through the maze of rooms
and corridors to the antechamber where he had deposited his hat and
coat. Having found it at last, however, he set out to retrace his steps;
but whether it was that the fresh air of the cool galleries, or the
walking, or that the wine was only then producing its effects, certain
is it Mr. Ffrench's faculties became wonderfully confused. He thought
he remembered a certain door; but, to his misery, there were at least
half-a-dozen exactly like it; he knew that he turned off into a passage,
but passages and corridors opened on all sides of him. How heartily did
he curse the architect that could not build a house like all the world,
with a big hall, having the drawing-room to the left and the dinner-room
to the right,--an easy geography that any one could recollect after
dinner as well as before. With many a malediction on all newfangled
notions, he plodded on, occasionally coming to the end of an impassable
gallery, or now straying into rooms in total darkness. “A blessed way
to be spending the evening,” muttered he to himself; “and maybe these
rascals are quizzing me all this time.” Though he frequently stopped to
listen, he never could catch the sounds of a conviviality that he well
knew was little measured, and hence he opined that he must have wandered
far away from the right track. In the semi-desperation of the moment, he
would gladly have made his escape by a window, and trusted to his chance
of discovering the hall door; but unfortunately the artifices of
a modern window-bolt so completely defied his skill that even this
resource was denied him. “'I'll take one 'cast' more,” muttered he, “and
if that fails, I 'll lie down on the first snug place I can find till
morning.” It became soon evident to him that he had, at least, entered
new precincts; for he now found himself in a large corridor, splendidly
lighted, and with a rich carpeting on the floor. There were several
doors on either side, but although he tried them each in turn, they were
all locked. At last he came to a door at the extreme end of the
gallery, which opened to his hand, and admitted him into a spacious
and magnificently furnished apartment, partially lit up, and by this
deceptive light admitting glimpses of the most rare and costly objects
of china, glass, and marble. It needed not the poetizing effects of
claret to make Bob fancy that this was a fairy palace; but perhaps the
last bottle contributed to this effect, for he certainly stood amazed
and confounded at a degree of magnificence and splendor with which he
had never seen anything to compare. Vainly endeavoring to peer through
the dubious half light, and see into the remote distance of the chamber,
Ffrench reached the middle of the room, when he heard, or thought he
heard, the rustling sounds of silk. It was in the days of hoops and
ample petticoats. He turned abruptly, and there stood directly in front
of what, in his own description, he characterized as “the elegantest
crayture ye ever set eyes upon.” Young, beautiful, and most becomingly
dressed, it is no wonder if my mother did produce a most entrancing
effect on his astounded senses. Never for a moment suspecting that his
presence was the result of an accident, my mother courtesied very low,
and, with a voice and a smile of ineffable sweetness, addressed him.
Alas! poor Bob's mystifications were not to end here, for she spoke in
French, and however distinguished the City of the Tribes might be in
many respects, that language was but little cultivated there. He could,
therefore, only bow, and lay his hand on his heart, and look as much
devotion, respect, and admiration as it was in his power to express at
that late hour of the evening.
“Perhaps you'll accept of a cup of tea?” said she at length, leading the
way towards the table; and as Ffrench said, afterwards, that he never
declined drink, no matter what the liquor, he readily consented, and
took his place beside her on the sofa. Full of all my father's lessons
and precepts about the civilities she was to bestow on the Irish
gentlemen and their wives, the importance of creating the most favorable
impression on them, and ingratiating herself into their esteem, my
mother addressed herself to the task in right earnest. Her first care
was to become intelligible, and she accordingly spoke in the slowest
and most measured manner, so as to give the foreigner every possible
facility to follow her. Her second was to impose as little necessity on
her companion for reply as it was possible. She accordingly talked on
of Ireland, of the capital, the country, the scenery about them, the
peasantry,--everything, in short, that she could think of, and always in
a tone of praise and admiration. The single monosyllable “oui” was the
whole stock of old Bob's French, but, as he often remarked, “we hear
of a man walking from Ballinasloe to Dublin with only tu'pence in his
pocket; and I don't see why he should not be able to economize his parts
of speech like his pence, and travel through the French dictionary with
only one word of it!” Bob's “oui” was uttered, it is true, with every
possible variety of tone and expression. It was assent, conviction,
surprise, astonishment, doubt, and satisfaction, just as he uttered
it. So long debarred from all intercourse with strangers, it is not
improbable that my mother was perfectly satisfied with one who gave her
the lion's share of the conversation. She certainly seemed to ask for
no higher efforts at agreeability than the attention he bestowed, and
he often confessed that he could have sat for a twelvemonth listening to
her, and fancying to himself all the sweet things that he hoped she was
saying to him. Doubtless not ignorant of her success, she was determined
to achieve a complete victory, for after upwards of an hour speaking in
this manner, she asked him if he liked music. Should she sing for him?
The “oui” was of course ready, and without further preface she arose
and walked over to the pianoforte. The fascination which was but begun
before was now completed, for, however weak his appreciation of her
conversational ability, he could, like nearly all his countrymen, feel
the most intense delight in music. It was fortunate, too, that the
tastes of that day did not rise beyond those light “chansonettes,” those
simple melodies which are so easy to execute that they are within the
appreciation of the least-educated ears.
Had the incident occurred in our own day, the chances are that some
passionate scene from Verdi, or some energetic outburst of despised love
or betrayed affection from Donizetti or Meyerbeer, had been the choice,
and poor Bob had gone away with a lamentable opinion of musical science,
and regret for the days when “singing was preferred to screeching.”
Happily the ballad was more in vogue then than the bravura, and instead
of holding his ears with his hands, Bob felt them tremble with ecstasy
as he listened. Enjoying thoroughly a praise so heartily accorded, my
mother sung on, song after song: now some bold “romance” of chivalry,
now some graceful little air of pastoral simplicity. No matter what the
theme, the charm of the singer was over him, and he listened in perfect
rapture! There is no saying to what pitch of enthusiasm he might have
soared, had he felt the fascination of the words as he appreciated the
flood of melody. As it was, so completely was he carried away by his
emotions that in a rapture of admiration and delight he threw himself on
his knees, and, seizing her hand, covered it with kisses.
“You're an angel; you're the loveliest, sweetest, and most enchanting
crayture--” He had got thus far in his rhapsody when my father entered
the room, and, throwing himself into a chair, laughed till the tears ran
down his cheeks.
“Bob! Bob!” cried he, “is this quite fair, I say?” And the old man, at
once alive to the bantering and ridicule to which his adventure would
expose him, got slowly up and resumed his seat, with a most ludicrous
expression of shame on his features.
“There is no necessity of introducing one of my oldest friends to
you, Josephine,” said my father. “He has already done so without my
intervention, and, I must say, he seems to have lost no time in pushing
the acquaintance.”
“He is quite charming,” said my mother. “We had an old Marquis de
Villebois so like him, and he was the delight of our neighborhood in
Provence.”
“I see what it is now,” muttered Ffrench, “you are cutting me up,
between you; but I deserve it well. I was an old fool,--I am ashamed of
myself.”
“Are you going away?” cried my mother.
“What is she saying?” asked he.
“She asks if you have really the heart to leave her,” rejoined my
father, laughing.
“Begad, you may laugh now, Watty,” replied he, in a half-angry tone;
“but I tell you what it is, you'd neither be so ready with your fun,
nor so willing to play interpreter, if old Bob was the same man he
was five-and-thirty years ago!--No, ma'am, he would not,” added he,
addressing my mother. “But maybe, after all, it's a greater triumph for
you to turn an old head than a young one.”
He hurried away after this; and although my father followed him, and
did all in his power to make him join his companions at table, it was
in vain; he insisted on going to his room, probably too full of the
pleasant vision he had witnessed to destroy the illusion by the noisy
merriment of a drinking-party.
Trivial as the event was in itself, it was not without its
consequences. Bob Ffrench had spread the fame of my mother's beauty
and accomplishments over Dublin before the following week closed, and
nothing else was talked of in the society of the capital. My father,
seeing that all further reserve on his part was out of the question,
and being satisfied besides that my mother had acquitted herself most
successfully in a case of more than ordinary difficulty, resolved on
leaving the rest to fortune.
From all that I have ever heard of the society of the time, and from
what has reached me by description of my mother's manner and deportment,
I am fully convinced that she was exactly the person to attain an
immense popularity with all classes. The natural freshness and gayety
of her character, aided by beauty and the graceful duties of a
hostess,--which she seemed to fill as by an instinct,--made her the
object of universal admiration,--a homage which, I believe, it was not
difficult to see was even more pleasing to my father than to herself.
Castle Carew was from this time crowded with visitors, who, strangely
enough, represented the most opposite sections of politics and party.
My father's absence during some of the most exciting sessions of
parliamentary life had invested him with a species of neutrality that
made his house an open territory for men of all shades of opinion;
and he was but too glad to avail himself of the privilege to form
acquaintance with the most distinguished leaders of opposite sections
of the House; and here were now met the Castle officials, the chiefs of
Opposition, the violent antagonists of debate, not sorry, perhaps,
for even this momentary truce in the strife and conflict of a great
political campaign.