Mrs. Gaskell spent a winter in Edinburgh in 1830-31, and she
has woven some of her recollections in _Round the Sofa_. The
Mr. Sperano mentioned was probably Agostino Ruffini, a friend
of Mazzini’s, though he went as an exile to Edinburgh at a
later period.
After we had been about a fortnight in Edinburgh Mr. Dawson said, in a
sort of half-doubtful manner to Miss Duncan:
“My sister bids me say, that every Monday evening a few friends come
in to sit round her sofa for an hour or so—some before going to gayer
parties—and that if you and Miss Greatorex would like a little change,
she would only be too glad to see you. Any time from seven to eight
to-night; and I must add my injunctions, both for her sake and for that
of my little patient’s, here, that you leave at nine o’clock. After all,
I do not know if you will care to come; but Margaret bade me ask you,”
and he glanced up suspiciously and sharply at us. If either of us had
felt the slightest reluctance, however well disguised by manner, to
accept this invitation, I am sure he would have at once detected our
feelings, and withdrawn it, so jealous and chary was he of anything
pertaining to the appreciation of this beloved sister.
But, if it had been to spend an evening at the dentist’s, I believe I
should have welcomed the invitation, so weary was I of the monotony of
the nights in our lodgings; and as for Miss Duncan, an invitation to tea
was of itself a pure and unmixed honour, and one to be accepted with
all becoming form and gratitude; so Mr. Dawson’s sharp glances over his
spectacles failed to detect anything but the truest pleasure, and he went
on:
“You’ll find it very dull, I dare say. Only a few old fogies like
myself, and one or two good, sweet young women; I never know who’ll
come. Margaret is obliged to lie in a darkened room—only half lighted, I
mean—because her eyes are weak—oh, it will be very stupid, I dare say;
don’t thank me till you’ve been once and tried it, and then if you like
it, your best thanks will be, to come again every Monday, from half-past
seven to nine, you know. Good-bye, good-bye.”
Hitherto I had never been out to a party of grown-up people; and no
court-ball to a London young lady could seem more redolent of honour and
pleasure than this Monday evening to me.
Dressed out in new stiff book-muslin, made up to my throat—a frock which
had seemed to me and my sisters the height of earthly grandeur and
finery—Alice, our old nurse, had been making it at home, in contemplation
of the possibility of such an event during my stay in Edinburgh, but
which had then appeared to me a robe too lovely and angelic to be ever
worn short of heaven—I went with Miss Duncan to Mr. Dawson’s at the
appointed time. We entered through one small lofty room—perhaps I ought
to call it an ante-chamber, for the house was old-fashioned, and stately
and grand—the large square drawing-room, into the centre of which Mrs.
Dawson’s sofa was drawn. Behind her a little was placed a table with a
great cluster candlestick upon it, bearing seven or eight wax-lights;
and that was all the light in the room, which looked to me very vast and
indistinct after our pinched-up apartment at the Mackenzies’. Mrs. Dawson
must have been sixty; and yet her face looked very soft and smooth and
childlike. Her hair was quite grey; it would have looked white but for
the snowiness of her cap, and satin ribbon. She was wrapped in a kind of
dressing-gown of French grey merino. The furniture of the room was deep
rose-colour, and white and gold; the paper which covered the walls was
Indian, beginning low down with a profusion of tropical leaves and birds
and insects, and gradually diminishing in richness of detail, till at the
top it ended in the most delicate tendrils and most filmy insects.
Mr. Dawson had acquired much riches in his profession, and his house
gave one this impression. In the corners of the rooms were great jars
of Eastern china, filled with flower leaves and spices; and in the
middle of all this was placed the sofa, on which poor Margaret Dawson
passed whole days, and months, and years, without the power of moving by
herself. By-and-by Mrs. Dawson’s maid brought in tea and macaroons for
us, and a little cup of milk and water and a biscuit for her. Then the
door opened. We had come very early, and in came Edinburgh professors,
Edinburgh beauties, and celebrities, all on their way to some other gayer
and later party, but coming first to see Mrs. Dawson, and tell her their
_bons-mots_, or their interests, or their plans. By each learned man, by
each lovely girl, she was treated as a dear friend, who knew something
more about their own individual selves, independent of their reputation
and general society-character, than anyone else.
It was very brilliant and very dazzling, and gave enough to think about
and wonder about for many days.
Monday after Monday we went, stationary, silent; what could we find to
say to anyone but Mrs. Margaret herself? Winter passed, summer was coming.
* * * * *
People began to drop off from Edinburgh, only a few were left, and I am
not sure if our Monday evenings were not all the pleasanter.
There was Mr. Sperano, the Italian exile, banished even from France,
where he had long resided, and now teaching Italian with meek diligence
in the northern city; there was Mr. Preston, the Westmorland squire, or,
as he preferred to be called, statesman, whose wife had come to Edinburgh
for the education of their numerous family, and who, whenever her
husband had come over on one of his occasional visits, was only too glad
to accompany him to Mrs. Dawson’s Monday evenings, he and the invalid
lady having been friends from long ago. These and ourselves kept steady
visitors, and enjoyed ourselves all the more from having the more of Mrs.
Dawson’s society.