Complete Novels of Maria Edgeworth

by Maria Edgeworth

  At Chamouni there is a little museum of stones and crystals, etc., where MM. Moilliet and Pictet contrived to treat their geological souls to seven napoleons’ worth of specimens. An English lady was buying some baubles, when her husband entered: “God bless my soul and body, another napoleon gone!”

  At the inn at Bonneville — shackamarack gilt dirt, Irish-French. Pictet bought a sparrow some boys in the street threw up at the window, and said he would bring it home for his little grandson. It was ornamented with a topping made of scarlet cloth. He put it in his hat, and tied a handkerchief over it; and hatless in the burning sun he brought it to Geneva.

  August 6.

  The day after our return we dined at Mrs. Marcet’s with M. Dumont, M. and Madame Prevost, M. de la Rive, M. Bonstettin, and M. de Candolle, the botanist, a particularly agreeable man. He told us of many experiments on the cure of goitres. In proportion as the land has been cultivated in some districts the goitres have disappeared. M. Bonstettin told us of some cretins, the lowest in the scale of human intellect, who used to assemble before a barber’s shop and laugh immoderately at their own imitations of all those who came to the shop, ridiculing them in a language of their own.

  To MRS. EDGEWORTH. PREGNY, Aug. 10, 1820.

  I wrote to my Aunt Ruxton a long — much too long an account of our Chamouni excursion, since which we have dined at Pictet’s with his daughters, Madame Prevost Pictet and Madame Vernet, agreeable, sensible, and the remains of great beauty; but the grandest of all his married daughters is Madame Enard. M. Enard is building a magnificent house, the admiration, envy, and scandal of Geneva; we have called it the Palais de la Republique.

  Dumont, tell Honora, is very kind and cordial; he seems to enjoy universal consideration here, and he loves Mont Blanc next to Bentham, above all created things: I had no idea till I saw him here how much he enjoyed the beauties of nature. He gave us a charming anecdote of Madame de Staël when she was very young. One day M. Suard, as he entered the saloon of the Hotel Necker, saw Madame Necker going out of the room, and Mademoiselle Necker standing in a melancholy attitude with tears in her eyes. Guessing that Madame Necker had been lecturing her, Suard went towards her to comfort her, and whispered, “Un caresse du papa vous dedommagera bien de tout ça.” She immediately, wiping the tears from her eyes, answered, “Eh! oui, Monsieur, mon père songe à mon bonheur present, maman songe à mon avenir.” There was more than presence of mind, there was heart and soul and greatness of mind, in this answer.

  Dumont speaks to me in the kindest, most tender, and affectionate manner of our Memoirs; he says he hears from England, and from all who have read them, that they have produced the effect we wished and hoped; the MS. had interested him, he said, so deeply that with all his efforts he could not then put himself in the place of the indifferent public.

  M. Vernet, Pictet’s son-in-law, mentioned a compliment of a Protestant curé at Geneva to the new Catholic Bishop which French politeness might envy, and which I wish that party spirit in Ireland and all over the world could imitate. “Monseigneur, vous êtes dans un pays où la moitié du peuple vous ouvre leurs coeurs, et l’autre moitié vous tende les bras.”

  We have taken a pretty and comfortable caleche for our three weeks’ tour with the Moilliets. But I must tell you of our visit to M. and Madame de Candolle; we went there to see some volumes of drawings of flowers which had been made for him. I will begin from the beginning; Joseph Buonaparte, who has been represented by some as a mere drunkard, did, nevertheless, some good things; he encouraged a Spaniard of botanical skill to go over to Mexico and make a Mexican flora; he employed Mexican artists, and expended considerable sums of money upon it; the work was completed, but the engraving had not been commenced when the revolution drove Joseph from his throne. The Spaniard withdrew from Spain, bringing with him his botanical treasure, and took refuge at Marseilles, where he met De Candolle, who, on looking over his Mexican flora, said it was admirably well done for Mexicans, who had no access to European books, and he pointed out its deficiencies; they worked at it for eighteen months, when De Candolle was to return to Geneva, and the Spaniard said to him, “Take the book — as far as I am concerned, I give it to you, but if my government should reclaim it, you will let me have it.” De Candolle took it and returned to Geneva, where he became not only famous but beloved by all the inhabitants. This summer he gave a course of lectures on botany, which has been the theme of universal admiration. Just as the lectures finished, a letter came from the Spaniard, saying he had been unexpectedly recalled to Spain, that the King had offered to him the Professorship he formerly held, that he could not appear before the King without his book; and that, however unwilling, he must request him to return it in eight days. One of De Candolle’s young-lady pupils was present when he received the letter and expressed his regret at losing the drawings: she exclaimed, “We will copy them for you.” De Candolle said it was impossible — 1500 drawings in eight days! He had some duplicates, however, and some which were not peculiar to Mexico he threw aside; this reduced the number to a thousand, which were distributed among the volunteer artists. The talents and the industry shown, he says, were astonishing; all joined in this benevolent undertaking without vanity and without rivalship; those who could not paint drew the outlines; those who could not draw, traced; those who could not trace made themselves useful by carrying the drawings backwards and forwards. One was by an old lady of eighty. We saw thirteen folio volumes of these drawings done in the eight days! Of course some were much worse than others, but even this I liked: it showed that individuals were ready to sacrifice their own amour propre in a benevolent undertaking.

  De Candolle went himself with the original Flora to the frontier; he was to send it by Lyons. Now the custom-house officers between the territory of Geneva and France are some of the most strict and troublesome in the universe, and when they saw the book they said, “You must pay 1500 francs for this.” But when the chief of the Douane heard the story, he caught the enthusiasm, and with something like a tear in the corner of his eye, exclaimed, “We must let this book pass. I hazard my place; but let it pass.”

  To MISS LUCY EDGEWORTH. PREGNY, Aug 13, 1820.

  Ask to see Lettres Physiques et Morales sur l’Histoire de la Terre et de l’Homme, adressées à la Reine d’Angleterre. Par M. de Luc. 1778.

  Ask your mother to send a messenger forthwith to Pakenham Hall to borrow this book; and if the gossoon does not bring it from Pakenham Hall, next morning at flight of night send off another or the same to Castle Forbes, and to Mr. Cobbe, who, if he has not the book, ought to be hanged, and if he has, drawn and quartered if he does not send it to you. But if, nevertheless, he should not send it, do not rest satisfied under three fruitless attempts; let another — not the same boy, as I presume his feet are weary — gossoon be off at the flight of night for Baronstown, and in case of a fourth failure there, order him neither to stint nor stay till he reaches Sonna, where I hope he will at last find it. Now if, after all, it should not amuse you, I shall be much mistaken, that’s all. Skip over the tiresome parts, of which there are many, and you will find an account of the journey we are going to make, and of many of the feelings we have had in seeing glaciers, seas of ice and mountains.

  I believe I mentioned in some former letter that we had become acquainted with M. Arago, who, in his height and size, reminded us of our own dear Dr. Brinckley, but I am sure I did not tell what I kept for you, my dear Lucy, that you might have the pleasure of telling it to your mother and all the friends around you.

  When M. Arago was with us in our excursion to Chamouni, he was speaking of the voyage of Captain Scoresby to the Arctic regions, which he had with him and was reading with great delight. As I found he was fond of voyages and travels, and from what he said of this book perceived that he was an excellent judge of their merits, I asked if he had ever happened to meet with a book called Karamania, by a Captain Beaufort. He knew nothing of our connection with him, and I spoke with a perfect indiff
erence from which he could not guess that I felt any interest about the book, or the person, but the sort of lighting up of pleasure which you have seen in Dr. Brinckley’s face when he hears of a thing he much approves, immediately appeared in Monsieur Arago’s face, and he said Karamania was, of all the books of travels he had seen, that which he admired the most: that he had admired it for its clearness, its truth, its perfect freedom from ostentation. He said it contained more knowledge in fewer words than any book of travels he knew, and must remain a book of reference — a standard book. Then he mentioned several passages that he recollected having liked, which proved the impression they had made; the Greek fire, the amphitheatre at Sidé, etc. He knew the book as well as we do, and alluded to the parts we all liked with great rapidity and delight in perceiving our sympathy. He pointed out the places where an ordinary writer would have given pages of amplification. He was particularly pleased with the manner in which the affair of the sixty Turks is told, and said, “That marked the character of the man and does honour to his country.”

  I then told him that Captain Beaufort was uncle to the two young ladies with me!

  He told me he had read an article in the Journal des Sçavans in which Karamania is mentioned and parts translated. I have recommended it to many at Paris who wanted English books to translate, but I am sorry to say that little is read there besides politics and novels. Science has, however, a better chance than literature.

  Whenever any one in your Book Society wants to bespeak a book, perhaps you could order Recueil des Éloges, par M. Cuvier. They contain the Lives, not merely the Éloges, of all the men of science since 1880, written, and with an excellent introduction. The lives of Priestley and Cavendish are written with so much candour towards the English philosophers that even Mr. Chenevix cannot have anything to complain of.

  To MISS HONORA EDGEWORTH. BERNE, August 19, 1820.

  The day we set out from Pregny we breakfasted at Coppet; from some misunderstanding M. de Staël had not expected us and had breakfasted, but as he is remarkably well-bred, easy, and obliging in his manners he was not put out, and while our breakfast was preparing he showed us the house. All the rooms once inhabited by Madame de Staël we could not think of as common rooms — they have a classical power over the mind, and this was much heightened by the strong attachment and respect for her memory shown in every word and look, and silence by her son and by her friend, Miss Randall. He is correcting for the press Les dix Années d’Exil. M. de Staël after breakfast took us a delightful walk through the grounds, which he is improving with good taste and judgment. He told me that his mother never gave any work to the public in the form in which she originally composed it; she changed the arrangement and expression of her thoughts with such facility, and was so little attached to her own first views of the subject that often a work was completely remodelled by her while passing through the press. Her father disliked to see her make any formal preparation for writing when she was young, so that she used to write often on the corner of the chimney-piece, or on a pasteboard held in her hand, and always in the room with others, for her father could not bear her to be out of the room — and this habit of writing without preparation she preserved ever afterwards.

  M. de Staël told me of a curious interview he had with Buonaparte when he was enraged with his mother, who had published remarks on his government — concluding with “Eh! bien vous avez raison aussi. Je conçois qu’un fils doit toujours faire la defense de sa mère, mais enfin, si Monsieur veut écrire des libelles, il faut aller en Angleterre. Ou bien, s’il cherche la gloire, c’est en Angleterre qu’il faut aller. C’est l’Angleterre, ou la France — il n’y a que ces deux pays en Europe — dans le monde.”

  Before any one else at Paris, Miss Randall told me, had the MS. de Sainte-Hélène, a copy had been sent to the Duke of Wellington, who lent it to Madame de Staël; she began to read it eagerly, and when she had read about half, she stopped and exclaimed, “Where is Benjamin Constant? we will wait for him.” When he came, she began to give him an account of what they had been reading; he listened with the indifference of a person who had already seen the book, and when she urged him to read up to them, he said he would go on where they were. When it was criticised, he defended it, or writhed under it as if the attack was personal. When accused of being the author, he denied it with vehemence, and Miss Randall said to him, “If you had simply denied it I might have believed you, but when you come to swearing, I am sure that you are the author.”

  M. de Staël called his little brother, Alphonse Rocca, to introduce him to us; he is a pleasing, gentle-looking, ivory-pale boy with dark-blue eyes, not the least like Madame de Staël. M. de Staël speaks English perfectly, and with the air of an Englishman of fashion. After our walk he proposed our going on the lake — and we rowed for about an hour. The deep, deep blue of the water, and the varying colours as the sun shone and the shadows of the clouds appeared on it were beautiful. When we returned and went to rest in M. de Staël’s cabinet, Dumont, who had quoted from Voltaire’s “Ode on the Lake of Geneva,” read it to us. Read it and tell me where you think it ought to begin.

  We slept at Morges on Tuesday, and arrived late and tired at Yverdun. Next morning we went to see Pestalozzi’s establishment; he recognised me and I him; he is, tell my mother, the same wild-looking man he was, with the addition of seventeen years. The whole superintendence of the school is now in the hands of his masters; he just shows a visitor into the room, and reappears as you are going away with a look that pleads irresistibly for an obole of praise.

  While we were in the school, and while I was stretching my poor little comprehension to the utmost to follow the master of mathematics, I saw enter a benevolent-looking man with an open forehead and a clear, kind eye. He was obviously an Englishman, and from his manner of standing I thought he was a captain in the navy. My attention was called away, and I was intent upon an account of a school for deaf and dumb, which I was interested in on account of William Beaufort, when a lady desired to be introduced to me; she said she had been talking to Mrs. Moilliet, taking her for Miss Edgeworth — she was “the wife of Captain Hillyar, Captain Beaufort’s friend.” What a revolution in all our ideas! We almost ran to Captain Hillyar, my benevolent — looking Englishman, and most cordially did he receive us, and insisted upon our all coming to dine with him. When I presented Fanny and Harriet to him as Captain Beaufort’s nieces he did look so pleased, and all the way home he was praising Captain Beaufort with such delight to himself. “But I never write to the fellow, faith! I’ll tell you the truth; I can’t bring myself to sit down and write to him, he is such a superior being; I can’t do it; what can I have to say worth his reading? Why, look at his letters, one page of them contains more sense than I could write in a volume.”

  At dinner, turning to Fanny and Harriet, he drank “Uncle Francis’s health;” and when we took leave he shook us by the hand at the carriage door. “You know we sailors can never take leave without a hearty shake of the hand. It comes from the heart, and I hope will go to it.”

  From Yverdun our evening drive by the lake of Neufchatel was beautiful, and mounting gradually we came late at night to Paienne, and next day to Fribourg, at the dirtiest of inns, as if kept by chance, and such a mixture of smells of onions, grease, dirt, and dunghill! But, never mind! I would bear all that, and more, to see and hear Père Gèrard. But this I keep for Lovell, as I shall tell him all about Pestalozzi, Fellenburg, and Père Gèrard’s schools. You shall not even know who Père Gèrard is.

  So we go on to Berne. The moment we entered this canton we perceived the superior cultivation of the land, the comfort of the cottagers, and their fresh-coloured, honest, jolly, independent, hard-working appearance. Trees of superb growth, beech and fir, beautifully mixed, grew on the sides of the mountains. On the road here we had the finest lightning I ever saw flashing from the horizon. Berne is chiefly built of a whitish stone, like Bath stone, and has flagged walks arched over, like Chester. A clear rivulet run
s through the middle of each street: there are delightful public walks. On Sunday we saw the peasants in their holiday costume, very pretty, etc.

  I have kept to the last that M. de Staël and Miss Randall spoke in the most gratifying terms of praise of my father’s life.

  MARIA to MISS WALLER. COPPET, Sept. 1, 1820.

  I am sure that you have heard of us, and of all we have done and seen from Edgeworthstown as far as Berne: from thence we went to Thun: there we took char-à-bancs, little low carriages, like half an Irish jaunting car, with four wheels, and a square tarpaulin awning over our heads. Jolting along on these vehicles, which would go over a house, I am sure, without being overturned or without being surprised, we went — the Swiss postillion jolting along at the same round rate up and down, without ever looking back to see whether the carriages and passengers follow, yet now and then turning to point to mountains, glaciers, and cascades. The valley of Lauterbrunn is beautiful; a clear, rushing cascady stream rushes through it: fine chestnuts, walnuts, and sycamores scattered about, the verdure on the mountains between the woods fresh and bright. Pointed mountains covered with snow in the midst of every sign of flowery summer strike us with a sense of the sublime which never grows familiar. The height of the Staubach waterfall, which we saw early in the morning, astonished my mind, I think, more than my eyes, looking more like thin vapour than water — more like strings of water; and I own I was disappointed, after all I had heard of it.