IN FRANCE AND AT HOME.
The peace, or rather the truce, of Amiens had induced many travellers to
visit France. They all returned enraptured with what they had seen of
society in Paris, and with the masterpieces of art dragged thither, as
the spoils of military despotism. Letters from some of these tourists
awakened in Mr. Edgeworth a wish to revisit France. The desire took
shape as resolve after the visit to Edgeworthstown of M. Pictet, of
Geneva, who promised the family letters of introduction to, and a
cordial welcome among, the thinkers of the land. As translator of
_Practical Education_, and as the editor of the _Bibliotheque
Britannique_,[5] in which he had published most of Miss Edgeworth's
_Moral Tales_, and detailed criticisms of both father and daughter, he
had certainly prepared the way for their favorable reception. The tour
was therefore arranged for the autumn of 1802, a roomy coach was
purchased, and in September Mr., Mrs., Miss and Miss Charlotte Edgeworth
started for their continental trip.
The series of letters Miss Edgeworth wrote home during this time are
most entertaining, unaffected, sprightly and graphic. She often sketches
a character, a national peculiarity, with a touch, while on the other
hand she does not shirk detail if only she can succeed in presenting a
vivid picture of all she is beholding to those dear ones at home who are
debarred from the same enjoyment. Carnarvon, Bangor, Etruria and
Leicester were visited on the way out. At Leicester Miss Edgeworth had
an amusing adventure:--
Handsome town, good shops. Walked, whilst dinner was getting ready,
to a circulating library. My father asked for _Belinda_, _Bulls_,
etc.: found they were in good repute; _Castle Rackrent_ in
better--the others often borrowed, but _Castle Rackrent_ often
bought. The bookseller, an open-hearted man, begged us to look at a
book of poems just published by a Leicester lady, a Miss Watts. I
recollected to have seen some years ago a specimen of this lady's
proposed translation of Tasso, which my father had highly admired.
He told the bookseller that we would pay our respects to Miss Watts
if it would be agreeable to her. When we had dined we set out with
our enthusiastic bookseller. We were shown by the light of a
lantern along a very narrow passage between high walls, to the
door of a decent-looking house: a maid-servant, candle in hand,
received us. "Be pleased, ladies, to walk up stairs." A neatish
room, nothing extraordinary in it except the inhabitants: Mrs.
Watts, a tall, black-eyed, prim, dragon-looking woman, in the
background; Miss Watts, a tall young lady in white, fresh color,
fair, thin, oval face, rather pretty. The moment Mrs. Edgeworth
entered, Miss Watts, taking her for the authoress, darted forward
with arms, long thin arms, outstretched to their, utmost swing.
"Oh, what an honor this is!" each word and syllable rising in tone
till the last reached a scream. Instead of embracing my mother, as
her first action threatened, she started back to the farthest end
of the room, which was not light enough to show her attitude
distinctly, but it seemed to be intended to express the receding of
awestruck admiration--stopped by the wall. Charlotte and I passed
by unnoticed, and seated ourselves, by the old lady's desire; she,
after many twistings of her wrists, elbows and neck, all of which
appeared to be dislocated, fixed herself in her arm-chair, resting
her hands on the black mahogany splayed elbows. Her person was no
sooner at rest than her eyes and all her features began to move in
all directions. She looked like a nervous and suspicious person
electrified. She seemed to be the acting partner in this house, to
watch over her treasure of a daughter, to supply her with wordly
wisdom, to look upon her as a phoenix, and--scold her.
Miss Watts was all ecstasy and lifting up of hands and eyes,
speaking always in that loud, shrill, theatrical tone with which a
puppet-master supplies his puppets. I all the time sat like a
mouse. My father asked, "Which of those ladies, madam, do you think
is your sister-authoress?" "I am no physiognomist"--in a
screech--"but I do imagine that to be the lady," bowing, as she
sat, almost to the ground, and pointing to Mrs. Edgeworth. "No;
guess again." "Then that must be she," bowing to Charlotte. "No."
"Then this lady," looking forward to see what sort of an animal I
was, for she had never seen me till this instant. To make me some
amends, she now drew her chair close to me and began to pour forth
praises: "Lady Delacour, oh! _Letters for Literary Ladies_, oh!"
Now for the pathetic part. This poor girl sold a novel in four
volumes for ten guineas to Lane. My father is afraid, though she
has considerable talents, to recommend her to Johnson, lest she
should not answer! Poor girl! what a pity she had no friend to
direct her talents! How much she made me feel the value of mine!
After a trip through the Low Countries, the travellers entered France
and received many civilities in all the towns they passed through,
thanks to the fact that the _Bibliotheque Britannique_ was taken in
every public library. At Paris the Edgeworths were admitted into the
best society of the period, which consisted of the remains of the French
nobility, and of men of letters and science. The old Abbe Morellet,
"respected as one of the most _reasonable_ of all the wits of France,"
the _doyen_ of French literature, was a previous acquaintance. By his
introductions and those of M. Pictet, added to the prestige of their own
names and their relationship to the Abbe Edgeworth, the most exclusive
houses were opened to the family, and they thus became acquainted with
every one worth knowing, among whom were La Harpe, Madame de Genlis,
Kosciusko, Madame Recamier, the Comte de Segur, Dumont, Suard, Camille
Jordan. In all circles the subject of politics was carefully avoided;
the company held themselves aloof, and wilfully ignored the important
issues that were surging around them; their conversation turned chiefly
on new plays, novels and critical essays. As is usual in such small
circles with limited interests, a good deal of mutual admiration was
practiced, and the Edgeworths received their due share.
At the Abbe Morellet's Miss Edgeworth met Madame d'Oudinot, Rousseau's
"Julie." This is her impression:--
Julie is now seventy-two years of age, a thin woman in a little
black bonnet; she appeared to me shockingly ugly; she squints so
much that it is impossible to tell which way she is looking; but no
sooner did I hear her speak than I began to like her, and no sooner
was I seated beside her than I began to find in her countenance a
most benevolent and agreeable expression. She entered into
conversation immediately; her manner invited and could not fail to
obtain confidence. She seems as gay and open-hearted as a girl of
fifteen. It has been said of her that she not only never did any
harm, but never suspected any. She is possessed of that art which
Lord Kaimes said he would prefer to the finest gift from the queen
of the fairies: the art of seizing the best side of every object.
She has had great misfortunes, but she has still retained the power
of making herself and her friends happy. Even during the horrors
of the Revolution, if she met with a flower, a butterfly, an
agreeable smell, a pretty color, she would turn her attention to
these, and for a moment suspend the sense of misery--not from
frivolity, but from real philosophy. No one has exerted themselves
with more energy in the service of her friends. I felt in her
company the delightful influence of a cheerful temper and soft,
attractive manners--enthusiasm which age cannot extinguish, and
which spends, but does not waste itself on small but not trifling
objects. I wish I could at seventy-two be such a woman! She told me
that Rousseau, whilst he was writing so finely on education, and
leaving his own children in the Foundling Hospital, defended
himself with so much eloquence that even those who blamed him in
their hearts could not find tongues to answer him. Once at dinner
at Madame d'Oudinot's there was a fine pyramid of fruit. Rousseau
in helping himself took the peach which formed the base of the
pyramid, and the rest fell immediately. "Rousseau," said she, "that
is what you always do with all our systems; you pull down with a
single touch; but who will build up what you pull down?" I asked if
he was grateful for all the kindness shown to him. "No, he was
ungrateful; he had a thousand bad qualities, but I turned my
attention from them to his genius and the good he had done
mankind."
La Harpe was visited in his own home:--
He lives in a wretched house, and we went up dirty stairs, through
dirty passages, where I wondered how fine ladies' trains and noses
could go; and were received in a dark, small den by the
philosopher, or rather _devot_, for he spurns the name of
philosopher. He was in a dirty, reddish night-gown, and very dirty
night-cap bound round the forehead with a superlatively dirty,
chocolate-colored ribbon. Madame Recamier, the beautiful, the
elegant, robed in white satin, trimmed with white fur, seated
herself on the elbow of his arm-chair, and besought him to repeat
his verses. Charlotte has drawn a picture of this scene.
An interesting visit was also paid to Madame de Genlis:--
She had previously written to say she would be glad to be
personally acquainted with Mr. and Miss Edgeworth. She lives--where
do you think?--where Sully used to live, at the Arsenal. Bonaparte
has given her apartments there. Now, I do not know what you imagine
in reading Sully's memoirs, but I always imagined that the Arsenal
was one large building with a facade to it, like a very large hotel
or a palace, and I fancied it was somewhere in the middle of Paris.
On the contrary, it is quite in the suburbs. We drove on and on,
and at last we came to a heavy archway, like what you see at the
entrance to a fortified town. We drove under it for the length of
three or four yards in total darkness, and then we found ourselves,
as well as we could see by the light of some dim lamps, in a large
square court surrounded by buildings: here we thought we were to
alight. No such thing: the coachman drove under another thick
archway, lighted at the entrance by a single lamp. We found
ourselves in another court, and still we went on, archway after
archway, court after court, in all which reigned desolate silence.
I thought the archways and the courts and the desolate silence
would never end. At last the coachman stopped, and asked for the
tenth time where the lady lived. It is excessively difficult to
find people in Paris; we thought the names of Madame de Genlis and
the Arsenal would have been sufficient; but the whole of this
congregation of courts and gateways and houses is called the
Arsenal; and hundreds and hundreds of people inhabit it who are
probably perfect strangers to Madame de Genlis. At the doors where
our coachman inquired, some answered that they knew nothing of her;
some that she lived in the Faubourg St. Germain; others believed
that she might be at Passy; others had heard that she had
apartments given to her by the Government somewhere in the Arsenal,
but could not tell where. While the coachman thus begged his way,
we, anxiously looking out at him from the middle of the great
square where we were left, listened for the answers that were
given, and which often from the distance escaped our ears. At last
a door pretty near to us opened, and our coachman's head and hat
were illuminated by the candle held by the person who opened the
door; and as the two figures parted from each other, we could
distinctly see the expression of the countenances and their lips
move. The result of this parley was successful; we were directed to
the house where Madame de Genlis lived, and thought all
difficulties ended. No such thing; her apartments were still to be
sought for. We saw before us a large, crooked, ruinous stone
staircase, lighted by a single bit of candle hanging in a vile tin
lantern, in an angle of the bare wall at the turn of the
staircase--only just light enough to see that the walls were bare
and old, and the stairs immoderately dirty. There were no signs of
the place being inhabited except this lamp, which could not have
been lighted without hands. I stood still in melancholy
astonishment, while my father groped his way into a kind of
porter's lodge or den at the foot of the stairs, where he found a
man who was porter to various people who inhabited this house. You
know the Parisian houses are inhabited by hordes of different
people, and the stairs are in fact streets, and dirty streets, to
their dwellings. The porter, who was neither obliging nor
intelligent, carelessly said that "_Madame de Genlis logeait au
seconde a gauche, qu'il faudrait tirer sa sonnette_"--he believed
she was at home if she was not gone out. Up we went by ourselves,
for this porter, though we were strangers and pleaded that we were
so, never offered to stir a step to guide or to light us. When we
got to the second stage, we finally saw, by the light from the one
candle at the first landing-place, two dirty, large folding doors,
one set on the right and one on the left, and having on each a bell
no larger than what you see in the small parlor of a small English
inn. My father pulled one bell and waited some minutes--no answer;
pulled the other bell and waited--no answer; thumped at the left
door--no answer; pushed and pulled at it--could not open it; pushed
open one of the right-hand folding doors--utter darkness; went in
as well as we could feel--there was no furniture. After we had been
there a few seconds we could discern the bare walls and some
strange lumber in one corner. The room was a prodigious height,
like an old play-house, and we went down again to the stupid or
surly porter. He came up stairs very unwillingly, and pointed to a
deep recess between the stairs and the folding doors: "_Allez!
voila la porte; tirez la sonnette._" He and his candle went down,
and my father had just time to seize the handle of the bell, when
we were again in darkness. After ringing this feeble bell, we
presently heard doors open and little footsteps approaching nigh.
The door was opened by a girl of about Honora's size, holding an
ill-set-up, wavering candle in her hand, the light of which fell
full upon her face and figure. Her face was remarkably
intelligent, dark, sparkling eyes, dark hair, curled in the most
fashionable long corkscrew ringlets over her eyes and cheeks. She
parted the ringlets to take a full view of us, and we were equally
impatient to take a full view of her. The dress of her figure by no
means suited the head and the elegance of her attitude. What her
"nether weeds" might be we could not distinctly see, but they
seemed to be a coarse, short petticoat, like what Molly Bristow's
children would wear, not on Sundays; a woolen gray spencer above,
pinned with a single pin by the lapels tight across the neck under
the chin, and open all below. After surveying us and hearing that
our name was Edgeworth, she smiled graciously and bid us follow
her, saying, "_Maman est chez elle._" She led the way with the
grace of a young lady who has been taught to dance, across two
ante-chambers, miserable-looking, but miserable or not, no house in
Paris can be without them. The girl or young lady, for we were
still in doubt which to think her, led us into a small room, in
which the candles were so well screened by a green tin screen that
we could scarcely distinguish the tall form of a lady in black who
rose from her arm-chair by the fireside as the door opened; a great
puff of smoke came from the huge fireplace at the same moment. She
came forward, and we made our way towards her as well as we could
through a confusion of tables, chairs and work-baskets, china,
writing-desks and inkstands, and bird-cages and a harp. She did not
speak, and as her back was now turned to both fire and candle I
could not see her face, nor anything but the outline of her form
and her attitude. Her form was the remains of a fine form, and her
attitude that of a woman used to a better drawing-room. I, being
foremost, and she silent, was compelled to speak to the figure in
darkness: "_Madame de Genlis nous a fait l'honneur de nous mander
qu'elle voulait bien nous permettre de lui rendre visite, et de lui
offrir nos respects_," said I, or words to that effect; to which
she replied by taking my hand, and saying something in which
"_charmee_" was the most intelligible word. Whilst she spoke she
looked over my shoulder at my father, whose bow, I presume, told
her he was a gentleman, for she spoke to him immediately as if she
wished to please, and seated us in fauteuils near the fire. I then
had a full view of her face and figure. She looked like the
full-length picture of my great-grandmother Edgeworth you may have
seen in the garret, very thin and melancholy, but her face not so
handsome as my grandmother's; dark eyes, long sallow cheeks,
compressed thin lips, two or three black ringlets on a high
forehead, a cap that Mrs. Grier might wear--altogether an
appearance of fallen fortunes, worn-out health, and excessive but
guarded irritability. To me there was nothing of that engaging,
captivating manner which I had been taught to expect by many even
of her enemies. She seemed to me to be alive only to literary
quarrels and jealousies; the muscles of her face as she spoke, or
my father spoke to her, quickly and too easily expressed hatred and
anger whenever any not of her own party were mentioned. She is now,
you know, _devote acharnee_. When I mentioned with some enthusiasm
the good Abbe Morellet, who has written so courageously in favor of
the French exiled nobility and their children, she answered in a
sharp voice: "_Oui, c'est un homme de beaucoup d'esprit, a ce qu'on
je crois meme, mais il faut apprendre qu'il n'est pas des Notres._"
My father spoke of Pamela, Lady Edward Fitzgerald, and explained
how he had defended her in the Irish House of Commons. Instead of
being pleased and touched, her mind instantly diverged into an
elaborate and artificial exculpation of Lady Edward and herself,
proving, or attempting to prove, that she never knew any of her
husband's plans; that she utterly disapproved of them, at least of
all she suspected of them.
This defense was quite lost upon us, who never thought of
attacking; but Madame de Genlis seems to have been so much used to
be attacked that she has defenses and apologies ready prepared,
suited to all possible occasions. She spoke of Madame de Stael's
_Delphine_ with detestation; of another new and fashionable novel,
_Amelie_, with abhorrence, and kissed my forehead twice because I
had not read it; "_Vous autres Anglaises, vous etes modestes!_"
Where was Madame de Genlis' sense of delicacy when she penned and
published _Les Chevaliers du Cigne?_ Forgive, my dear Aunt Mary.
You begged me to see her with favorable eyes, and I went to see her
after seeing her _Rosiere de Salency_, with the most favorable
disposition, but I could not like her. There was something of
malignity in her countenance and conversation that repelled love,
and of hypocrisy which annihilated esteem; and from time to time I
saw, or thought I saw, through the gloom of her countenance, a
gleam of coquetry.[6] But my father judges much more favorably of
her than I do. She evidently took pains to please him, and he says
he is sure she is a person over whose mind he could gain great
ascendancy. He thinks her a woman of violent passions, unbridled
imagination and ill-tempered, but not malevolent; one who has been
so torn to pieces that she now turns upon her enemies, and longs to
tear in her turn. He says she has certainly great powers of
pleasing, though I certainly neither saw nor felt them. But you
know, my dear aunt, that I am not famous for judging sanely of
strangers on a first visit, and I might be prejudiced or mortified
by Madame de Genlis assuring me that she had never read anything of
mine except _Belinda_, had heard of _Practical Education_, and
heard it much praised, but had never seen it. She has just
published an additional volume of her _Petits Romans_, in which
there are some beautiful stories; but you must not expect another
_Mademoiselle de Clermont_--one such story in an age is as much as
one can reasonably expect.
I had almost forgotten to tell you that the little girl who showed
us in is a girl whom she is educating. "_Elle m'appelle Maman, mais
elle n'est pas ma fille._" The manner in which this little girl
spoke to Madame de Genlis, and looked at her, appeared to me more
in her favor than anything else. She certainly spoke to her with
freedom and fondness, and without any affectation. I went to look
at what the child was writing. She was translating Darwin's
_Zoonomia_. I read some of the translation; it was excellent. She
was, I think she said, ten years old. It is certain that Madame de
Genlis made the present Duke of Orleans[7] such an excellent
mathematician, that when he was, during his emigration, in distress
for bread, he taught mathematics as a professor in one of the
German universities. If we could see or converse with one of her
pupils, and hear what they think of her, we should be able to form
a better judgment than from all that her books and her enemies say
for or against her. I say her books, not her friends and enemies,
for I fear she has no friends to plead for her except her books. I
never met any one of any party who was her friend. This strikes me
with real melancholy, to see a woman of the first talents in
Europe, who had lived and shone in the gay court of the gayest
nation in the world, now deserted and forlorn, living in wretched
lodgings, with some of the pictures and finery--the wreck of her
fortunes--before her eyes; without society, without a single
friend, admired--and despised. She lived literally in spite, not in
pity. Her cruelty in drawing a profligate character of the queen,
after her execution, in _Les Chevaliers du Cigne_; her taking her
pupils at the beginning of the Revolution to the revolutionary
clubs; her connection with the late Duke of Orleans, and her
hypocrisy about it; her insisting on being governess to his
children when the duchess did not wish it, and its being supposed
that it was she who instigated the duke in all his horrible
conduct; and, more than all the rest, her own attacks and
apologies, have brought her into all this isolated state of
reprobation. And now, my dear aunt, I have told you all I know, or
have heard or think about her; and perhaps I have tired you, but I
fancied that it was a subject particularly interesting to you; and
if I have been mistaken you will, with your usual good nature,
forgive me and say, "I am sure Maria meant it kindly."
While at Paris, at the mature age of thirty-six, there happened to Miss
Edgeworth what is said to be the most important episode in a woman's
life--she fell in love. The object of her affections was a M.
Edelcrantz, a Swede, private secretary to the King, whose strong,
spirited character and able conversation attracted her greatly. She had
not, however, reasoned concerning her feelings, and never realized
either how strong they were, or dreamed that they would be reciprocated.
Knowing herself to be plain and, as she deemed, unattractive, and being
no longer young, it did not occur to her that any man would wish to
marry her. While writing a long, chatty letter to her aunt one day in
December, she was suddenly interrupted by his visit and proposal:--
Here, my dear aunt, I was interrupted in a manner that will
surprise you as much as it surprised me, by the coming in of
Monsieur Edelcrantz, a Swedish gentleman, whom we have mentioned to
you, of superior understanding and mild manners; he came to offer
me his hand and heart!!
My heart, you may suppose, cannot return his attachment, for I have
seen very little of him, and have not had time to form any
judgment, except that I think nothing could tempt me to leave my
own dear friends and my own country to live in Sweden. My dearest
aunt, I write to you the first moment, as, next to my father and
mother, no person in the world feels so much interest in all that
concerns me. I need not tell you that my father,
"Such in this moment as in all the past,"
is kindness itself--kindness far superior to what I deserve, but I
am grateful for it.
A few days later she writes to her cousin:--
I take it for granted, my dear friend, that you have by this time
seen a letter I wrote a few days ago to my aunt. To you, as to
her, every thought of my mind is open. I persist in refusing to
leave my country and friends to live at the court of Stockholm. And
he tells me (of course) that there is nothing he would not
sacrifice for me except his duty; he has been all his life in the
service of the King of Sweden, has places under him, and is
actually employed in collecting information for a large political
establishment. He thinks himself bound in honor to finish what he
has begun. He says he should not fear the ridicule or blame that
would be thrown upon him by his countrymen for quitting his country
at his age, but that he would despise himself if he abandoned his
duty for any passion. This is all very reasonable, but reasonable
for him only, not for me, and I have never felt anything for him
but esteem and gratitude.
Mrs. Edgeworth supplements these letters in the unpublished memoir of
her stepdaughter, which she wrote for her family and nearest friends.
She says:--
Even after her return to Edgeworthstown it was long before Maria
recovered the elasticity of her mind. She exerted all her powers of
self-command, and turned her attention to everything which her
father suggested for her to write. But _Leonora_, which she began
immediately after our return home, was written with the hope of
pleasing the Chevalier Edelcrantz; it was written in a style which
he liked, and the idea of what he would think of it was, I believe,
present to her in every page she wrote. She never heard that he had
even read it. From the time they parted at Paris there was no sort
of communication between them; and beyond the chance which brought
us sometimes into company with travellers who had been in Sweden,
or the casual mention of M. Edelcrantz in the newspapers or the
scientific journals, we never heard more of one who had been of
such supreme interest to her, as to us all at Paris, and of whom
Maria continued to have all her life the most romantic
recollection.
Miss Edgeworth's self-control was manifested at once. In none of her
other letters does the matter recur; they are as chatty and lively as
ever; but the incident throws much light both upon her character and the
precepts of repression of feelings she loved to inculcate. She had not
merely preached, but practiced them.
In January, 1803, Mr. Edgeworth suddenly received a peremptory order
from the French Government to quit Paris in twenty-four hours and France
in fifteen days. Much amazed, he went to Passy, taking Miss Edgeworth
with him, and quietly awaited the solution of the riddle. It proved that
Bonaparte believed him to be brother to the Abbe Edgeworth, the devoted
friend of Louis XVI., and not till it was explained to him that the
relationship was more distant was Mr. Edgeworth allowed to return. The
cause for the order, as for its withdrawal, was petty. The Edgeworths'
visit was, however, after all, brought to an abrupt conclusion. Rumors
of imminent hostilities began to be heard, and though the reports
circulated were most contradictory, Mr. Edgeworth thought it wise to be
ready for departure. It was decided that M. Le Breton, who was well
informed about Bonaparte's plans, should, at a certain evening party,
give Mr. Edgeworth a hint, and, as he dared neither speak nor write, he
was suddenly to put on his hat if war were probable. The hat was put on,
and Mr. Edgeworth and his family hurried away from Paris. They were but
just in time. Mr. Lovell Edgeworth, who was on his way from Geneva, and
never received his father's warning letter, was stopped on his journey,
made prisoner, and remained among the _detenus_ till 1814.
After a short stay in London the family went to Edinburgh to visit Henry
Edgeworth, who had shown signs of the family malady. Here they spent an
agreeable time, seeing the many men of learning who in those days made
Edinburgh a delightful residence. Warm friendships were formed with the
Alisons, the Dugald Stewarts, and Professor Playfair.
Returned to Edgeworthstown, Miss Edgeworth set to work industriously to
prepare for the press her _Popular Tales_, and write _Leonora_ and
several of the _Tales of Fashionable Life_. She exerted all her powers
of self-command to throw her energy into her writing, and to follow up
every suggestion made by her father; but it was clear to those who
observed her closely that she had not forgotten the man of whom, all her
life, she retained a tender memory. It was long before she thoroughly
recovered her elasticity of spirits, and the mental struggle did not
pass over without leaving its mark. Early in 1805 Miss Edgeworth fell
seriously ill with a low, nervous fever; it was some while before she
could leave her room, read, or even speak. As she got better she liked
to be read to, though scarcely able to express her thanks. The first day
she was really convalescent was destined to mark an era in her life.
While she was lying on the library sofa her sister Charlotte read out to
her _The Lay of the Last Minstrel_, then just published. It was the
beginning of Miss Edgeworth's enthusiastic admiration of Scott, which
resulted in a warm friendship between the two authors.
From the time of the Edgeworths' return Ireland had been agitated with
the fears of a French invasion, and Mr. Edgeworth once more exerted
himself to establish telegraphic communication across the country. As
usual, his family joined him in his pursuits, and Miss Edgeworth, with
the rest, was kept employed in copying out the vocabularies used in
conversations. The year 1804 was almost engrossed by this. Nevertheless
she found time to write _Griselda_ at odd moments in her own room. Her
father knew nothing either of the plan of the book or of its execution,
and she sent it on her own account to her publisher, Johnson, with the
request to print the title-page of a single copy without her name, and
to send it over to Mr. Edgeworth as a new novel just come out. Miss
Sneyd, who was in the secret, led him to peruse it quickly. He read it
with surprise and admiration, and feeling convinced that Miss Edgeworth
had not had the actual time to write it, and yet seeing it was like her
style, he fancied his daughter Anna (Mrs. Beddoes) must have written it
to please him. When at last he was told that it was by his favorite
daughter, he was amused at the trick, and delighted at having admired
the book without knowing its author. This was one of the many little
ways in which the Edgeworths loved to please one another. A happier,
more united household it would be hard to find among circumstances
fraught with elements of domestic discord--the children and relatives of
four wives, of the most diverse characters and tastes, living peaceably
under one roof. Vitality, unwearying activity free from restlessness,
distinguished most of its members, and especially the father and eldest
daughter. Nor was there anything prim or starched in the home
atmosphere; though ethically severe and maintained at a high level of
thought, gaiety, laughter and all the lighter domestic graces prevailed.
Miss Edgeworth's letters reflect a cheerful, united home of the kind she
loves to paint. Like many united families, the Edgeworths were strong in
a belief in their own relations; they had the clan feeling well
developed. Not a member went forth from the paternal nest but was held
in constant remembrance, in constant intercourse with home, and it was
usually Miss Edgeworth's ready pen that kept the link well knit. Hence
the large number of her family letters extant, many of which have no
separate interest for the world, but which, taken as a whole, reflect
both her own unselfish personality and the busy life of young and old
around her. In her letters she never dwells on troubles; they overflow
with spirits, life and hope. As they are apt to be long and diffuse, it
is not easy to quote from them; but every one presents a nature that
beat in unison with all that is noble and good. She was alive to
everything around her, full of generous sympathies, enthusiastic in her
admiration of all that had been achieved by others. Her praises came
fresh and warm from a warm and eloquent Irish heart. That these
utterances are toned down and tamed in her books, is yet another proof
how the need to illustrate her father's ulterior aims cramped her in the
expression of her feelings. His mind, though she knew it not, was
inferior to hers, and though it was in some respects like her own, it
yet hung heavy on the wings of her fancy. In later life she wrote more
letters to acquaintances than at this time. In these years she says to a
friend who upbraided her for not writing oftener:--
I do not carry on what is called a regular correspondence with
anybody except with one or two of my very nearest relations. And it
is best to tell you the plain truth, that my father particularly
dislikes to see me writing letters; therefore I write as few as I
possibly can.
Of herself she speaks least of all, of her writings seldom, and when she
does, but incidentally. Without certainly intending it, she painted
herself when she writes of Mrs. Emma Granby ("the modern Griselda"):--
All her thoughts were intent upon making her friends happy. She
seemed to live in them more than in herself, and from sympathy rose
the greatest pleasure and pain of her existence. Her sympathy was
not of that useless kind which is called forth only by the elegant
fictitious sorrows of a heroine of romance; hers was ready for all
the occasions of real life; nor was it to be easily checked by the
imperfections of those to whom she could be of service.
It is one of the most delightful features in Miss Edgeworth, that in her
the dignity of the author is sustained by the moral worth of the
individual--a combination unhappily not common.
Visits to and from neighbors or friends, more or less eminent, visits
from nephews and nieces, letters from all quarters of the globe,
prevented the life at Edgeworthstown from ever becoming stagnant, even
if a home so full of young people could be devoid of life. Then, too,
though the Edgeworths kept themselves aloof from politics, the course of
public affairs did not always hold aloof from them, and at various times
the disturbed state of Ireland caused them discomfort and fears. Sorrows
and sickness, too, did not refrain from entering that happy home. There
were the usual juvenile illnesses, there were births, there were
sicknesses among the elder branches. In 1807 Charlotte, the darling of
the family, died after much suffering, a victim to hereditary
consumption. In 1809 Mr. Edgeworth himself was seriously ill, and
Henry's health, too, became so precarious that it was needful to send
him to Madeira. For a long time it seemed likely that Miss Edgeworth
would go out to nurse him, but the project fell to the ground; and a few
years later this brother, her especial nursling, also died of pulmonary
disease.
The sorrow for Charlotte's death cast a cloud over all the year 1807.
During its course Miss Edgeworth's greatest pleasure was the planting of
a new garden her father had laid out for her near her own room, that had
been enlarged and altered, together with some alterations to the main
building. She was at all times an enthusiastic gardener, finding
pleasure and health in the pursuit. "My garden adds very much to my
happiness, especially as Honora and all the children have shares in it."
Then, too, Miss Edgeworth was kept constantly employed attending to the
affairs of the tenants; no rapid, easy or routine task in Ireland. Thus
she writes on one occasion:--
This being May day, one of the wettest I have ever seen, I have
been regaled, not with garlands of May flowers, but with the legal
pleasures of the season. I have heard nothing but giving notices to
quit, taking possession, ejectments, flittings, etc. What do you
think of a tenant who took one of the nice new houses in this town,
and left it with every lock torn off the doors, and with a large
stone, such as John Langan[8] could not lift, driven actually
through the boarded floor of the parlor? The brute, however, is
rich; and if he does not die of whiskey before the law can get its
hand into his pocket, he will pay for this waste.
No wonder she once sighs, "I wish I had time to write some more _Early
Lessons_, or to do half the things I wish to do." With the calls on her
time, domestic, philanthropic and social, it is only amazing that she
wrote so much. Her method of working is described by herself in some
detail. From its very nature it could not fail to induce a certain
stiffness and over-anxious finish. She says:--
Whenever I thought of writing anything I always told my father my
first rough plans; and always, with the instinct of a good critic,
he used to fix immediately upon that which would best answer the
purpose. "Sketch that, and show it to me." The words, from the
experience of his sagacity, never failed to inspire me with hope of
success. It was then sketched. Sometimes, when I was fond of a
particular part, I used to dilate on it in the sketch; but to this
he always objected. "I don't want any of your painting--none of
your drapery! I can imagine all that. Let me see the bare
skeleton."
It seemed to me sometimes impossible that he could understand the
very slight sketches I made; when, before I was conscious that I
had expressed this doubt in my countenance, he always saw it.
"Now, my dear little daughter, I know, does not believe that I
understand her." Then he would, in his own words, fill up my
sketch, paint the description, or represent the character intended,
with such life, that I was quite convinced he not only seized the
ideas, but that he saw with the prophetic eye of taste the utmost
that could be made of them. After a sketch had his approbation, he
would not see the filling up till it had been worked upon for a
week or fortnight, or till the first thirty or forty pages were
written; then they were read to him, and if he thought them going
on tolerably well, the pleasure in his eyes, the approving sound of
his voice, even without the praise he so warmly bestowed, were
sufficient and delightful incitements to "go on and finish." When
he thought that there was spirit in what was written, but that it
required, as it often did, great correction, he would say: "Leave
that to me; it is my business to cut and correct, yours to write
on." His skill in cutting, his decision in criticism, was
peculiarly useful to me. His ready invention and infinite resource,
when I had run myself into difficulties, never failed to extricate
me at my utmost need. It was the happy experience of this, and my
consequent reliance on his ability, decision and perfect honesty,
that relieved me from the vacillation and anxiety to which I was so
much subject, that I am sure I should not have written or finished
anything without his support. He inspired in my mind a degree of
hope and confidence, essential in the first instance to the full
exertion of the mental powers, and necessary to insure perseverance
in any occupation. Such, happily for me, was his power over my
mind, that no one thing I ever began to write was ever left
unfinished.
That such a process was calculated to check inspiration is obvious. To
suffer one hand to chisel and clip the productions of another, to insert
into a finished frame-work incongruous episodes intended to work out a
pet idea, was as inartistic as it was pernicious. The method could not
fail to induce a certain self-consciousness on the part of the writer
fatal to spontaneity, a certain complacent, careful laying out of plans,
apt to disturb if not to distract the reader by drawing his attention
from the fabric to the machinery. It was this that laid Miss Edgeworth
open to the charge, so often made, of a mechanical spirit in her
writings. For our own part, after reading her letters, with which her
father certainly did not meddle, we are inclined to lay most of her
faults to the charge of the monitor and guide whose assistance she so
much over-rated. He, on the other hand, saw other dangers in their
system. Writing to Mrs. Inchbald, he says:--
Maria has one great disadvantage in this house--she has eight or
nine auditors who are no contemptible judges of literature, to whom
she reads whatever she intends to publish. Now, she reads and acts
so admirably well, that she can make what is really dull appear to
be lively.
Indeed, everything was done in public in that family. All Miss
Edgeworth's works were written in the common sitting-room, with the
noise of playing children about her. Her early habits of abstraction
stood her in good stead, and, at her little table by the fire, she would
sit for half an hour together, without stirring, with her pen in her
hand, or else scribble away very fast in the neat writing that never
altered to the end. A certain occasional want of closeness in her
reasoning may perhaps, however, have resulted from this habit of writing
in public, since the effort of abstraction made by the brain must of
necessity absorb some of its power. Considering how large was the family
continually around her, it is sufficiently astonishing that she could do
it at all. Once when such surprise was expressed, Mrs. Edgeworth said:
"Maria was always the same; her mind was so rightly balanced, everything
was so honestly weighed, that she suffered no inconvenience from what
would disturb or distract any ordinary writer."