The Works of Maria Edgeworth, Part I Vol 5

Marilyn Butler

• Publisher: Routledge
• Year: 2019
• ISBN:
  9781000749441
• Edition: 1
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literary Collections
• Index: Literature

This book is a collection of novels The Absentee, Madame de Fleury, and Emilie de Coulanges by Maria Edgeworth that address issues of nationalism in an Anglo-Irish context and that will be of much use to scholars, students and general readers interested in fictional works. MARIA EDGEWORTH was born in 1768. Her first novel, Castle Rackrent (1800) was also her first Irish tale. The next such tale was Ennui (1809), after which came The Absentee, which began life as an unstaged play and was then published (in prose) in Tales of Fashionable Life (1812), as were several of her other stories. They were followed in 1817 by the last of her Irish tales, Ormond. Maria Edgeworth died in 1849. Edited with an introduction and notes by Marilyn Butler.

The Absentee

Tales and Novels

By
Maria Edgeworth.

In Eighteen Volumes.

Tales of Fashionable Life.

Containing

The Absentee.

LONDON

* Facsimile title page modelled on 1832/3 edition.

The Absentee

Chapter I

‘Are you to be at lady Clonbrony’s¹ gala next week?’ said lady Langdale to Mrs Dareville, whilst they were waiting for their carriages in the crushroom² of the opera-house.

‘O yes! every body’s to be there, I hear,’ replied Mrs Dareville. ‘Your ladyship, of course?’

‘Why, I don’t know; if I possibly can. Lady Clonbrony makes it such a point with me, that I believe I must look in upon her for a few minutes. They are going to a prodigious expence on this occasion. Soho³ tells me the reception rooms are all to be new furnished, and in the most magnificent style.’

‘At what a famous rate those Clonbronies are dashing on,’ said colonel Heathcock. ‘Up to any thing.’

‘Who are they? – these Clonbronies, that one hears of so much of late?’ said her grace of Torcaster. ‘Irish absentees,⁴ I know. But how do they support all this enormous expence?’

‘The son will have a prodigiously fine estate when some Mr Quin⁵ dies,’ said Mrs Dareville.

‘Yes, every body who comes from Ireland will / have a fine estate when somebody dies,’ said her grace. ‘But what have they at present?’

‘Twenty thousand a year, they say,’ replied Mrs Dareville.

‘Ten thousand, I believe,’ cried lady Langdale.^a

‘Ten thousand, have they? – possibly,’ said her grace. ‘I know nothing about them – have no acquaintance among the Irish. Torcaster knows something of lady Clonbrony; she has fastened herself by some means, upon him; but I charge him not to commit me. Positively, I could not for any body, and much less for that sort of person, extend the circle of my acquaintance.’

‘Now that is so cruel of your grace,’ said Mrs Dareville, laughing, ‘when poor lady Clonbrony works so hard, and pays so high, to get into certain circles.’

‘If you knew all she endures, to look, speak, move, breathe, like an Englishwoman, you would pity her,’ said lady Langdale.

‘Yes, and you cawnt conceive the peens she teekes to talk of the teeblesand cheers^ and to thank Q, and with so much teeste to speak pure English,’ said Mrs Dareville.

‘Pure cockney, you mean,’ said lady Langdale.

‘But does lady Clonbrony expect^a to pass for English?’ said the duchess.

‘O yes!^b because she is not quite Irish bred and born – only bred, not born,’ said Mrs Dareville. ‘And she could not be five minutes in your grace’s company before she would tell you that she was Henglish, born in Hoxfordshire.’⁶

‘She must be a vastly amusing personage – I should like to meet her, if one could see and hear her incog.,’⁷ said the duchess. ‘And lord Clonbrony, what is he?’

‘Nothing, nobody,’ said Mrs Dareville: ‘one never even hears of him.’

‘A tribe of daughters too, I suppose?’

‘No, no,’ said lady Langdale; ‘daughters would be past all endurance.’

‘There’s a cousin, though, a miss^c Nugent,’⁸ said Mrs Dareville, ‘that lady Clonbrony has with her.’

‘Best part of her, too,’ said colonel Heathcock – ‘d——d fine girl! – never saw her look better than at the opera to-night!’

‘Fine complexion! as lady Clonbrony says, when she means a high colour,’ said lady Langdale.

‘Miss^d Nugent is not a lady’s beauty,’ said Mrs Dareville. ‘Has she any fortune, colonel?’

‘’Pon honour, don’t know,’ said the colonel.

‘There’s a son, somewhere, is not there?’ said lady Langdale.

‘Don’t know, ’pon honour,’ replied the colonel.

‘Yes – at Cambridge – not of age yet,’ said Mrs Dareville. ‘Bless me! here is lady Clonbrony come back. I thought she was gone half an hour ago!’

‘Mamma,’ whispered one of lady Langdale’s daughters, leaning between her mother and Mrs Dareville, ‘who is that gentleman that passed us just now?’

‘Which way?’

‘Towards the door. – There now, mamma, you / can see him. He is speaking to lady Clonbrony – to miss Nugent – now lady Clonbrony is introducing him to miss Broadhurst.’

‘I see him now,’ said lady Langdale, examining him through her glass; ‘a very gentlemanlike looking young man, indeed.’

‘Not an Irishman, I am sure, by his manner,’ said her grace.

‘Heathcock!’ said lady Langdale, ‘who is miss Broadhurst talking to?’

‘Eh! now really – ’pon honour – don’t know,’ replied Heathcock.

‘And yet he certainly looks like somebody one should^e know,’ pursued lady Langdale, ‘though I don’t recollect seeing him any where before.’

‘Really now!’ was all the satisfaction she could gain from the insensible, immoveable colonel. However, her ladyship, after sending a whisper along the line, gained the desired information, that the young gentleman was lord Colambre, son, only son, of lord and lady Clonbrony – that he was just come from Cambridge – that he was not yet of age – that he would be of age within a year; that he would then, after the death of somebody, come into possession of a fine estate by the mother’s side; ‘and therefore, Cat’rine, my dear,’ said she, turning round to the daughter who had first pointed him out, ‘you understand we should never talk about other people’s affairs.’

‘No, mamma, never. I hope to goodness, mamma, lord Colambre did not hear what you and Mrs Dareville were saying!’ /

‘How could he, child? – He was quite at the other end of the world.’

‘I beg your pardon, ma’am – he was at my elbow, close behind us; but I never thought about him till I heard somebody say “my lord —”’

‘Good heavens! – I hope he didn’t hear.’

‘But, for my part, I said nothing,’ cried lady Langdale.

‘And for my part, I said nothing but what every body knows,’ cried Mrs Dareville.

‘And for my part, I am guilty only of hearing,’ said the duchess. ‘Do, pray, colonel Heathcock, have the goodness to see what my people are about, and what chance we have of getting away to-night.’

‘The duchess of Torcaster’s carriage stops the way!’ – a joyful sound to colonel Heathcock and to her grace, and not less agreeable, at this instant, to lady Langdale, who, the moment she was disembarrassed of the duchess, pressed through the crowd to lady Clonbrony, and addressing her with smiles and complacency, was charmed to have a little moment to speak to her – could not sooner get through the crowd – would certainly do herself the honour to be at her ladyship’s gala.^a While lady Langdale spoke, she never seemed to see or think of any body but lady Clonbrony, though, all the time, she was intent upon every motion of lord Colambre; and whilst she was obliged to listen with a face of sympathy to a long complaint of lady Clonbrony’s, about Mr Soho’s want of taste in ottomans,⁹ she was vexed to perceive that his lordship showed no desire to be introduced to her or to her daughters; but, on the / contrary, was standing talking to miss Nugent. His mother, at the end of her speech, looked round for ‘Colambre’ – called him twice before he heard – introduced him to lady Langdale, and to lady Cat’rine, and lady Anne —, and to Mrs Dareville; to all of whom he bowed with an air of proud coldness, which gave them reason to regret that their remarks upon his mother and his family had not been made sotto voce.

‘Lady Langdale’s carriage stops the way!’ Lord Colambre made no offer of his services, notwithstanding a look from his mother. Incapable of the meanness of voluntarily listening to a conversation not intended for him to hear, he had, however, been compelled, by the pressure of the crowd, to remain a few minutes stationary, where he could not avoid hearing the remarks of the fashionable friends: disdaining dissimulation, he made no attempt to conceal his displeasure. Perhaps his vexation was increased by his consciousness that there was some mixture of truth in their sarcasms. He was sensible that his mother, in some points – her manners, for instance – was obvious¹⁰ to ridicule and satire. In lady Clonbrony’s address there was a mixture of constraint, affectation, and indecision, unusual in a person of her birth, rank, and knowledge of the world. A natural and unnatural manner seemed struggling in all her gestures, and in every syllable that she articulated – a naturally free, familiar, good-natured, precipitate, Irish manner, had been schooled, and schooled late in life, into a sober, cold, still, stiff deportment, which she mistook for English. / A strong Hibernian accent she had, with infinite difficulty, changed into an English tone. Mistaking reverse of wrong for right, she caricatured the English pronunciation; and the extraordinary precision of her London phraseology betrayed her not to be a Londoner, as the man who strove to pass for an Athenian was detected by his Attic dialect.¹¹ Not aware of her real danger, lady Clonbrony was, on the opposite side, in continual apprehension every time she opened her lips, lest some treacherous a or e, some strong r, some puzzling aspirate or non-aspirate, some unguarded note, interrogative, or expostulatory, should betray her to be an Irishwoman. Mrs Dareville had, in her mimicry, perhaps, a little exaggerated, as to the teebles and cheers, but still the general likeness of the representation of lady Clonbrony was strong enough to strike and vex her son. He had now, for the first time, an opportunity of judging of the estimation in which his mother and his family were held by certain leaders of the ton,¹² of whom, in her letters, she had spoken so much, and into whose society, or rather into whose parties, she had been admitted. He saw that the renegado cowardice with which she denied, abjured, and reviled her own country, gained nothing but ridicule and contempt. He loved his mother; and, whilst he endeavoured to conceal her faults and foibles as much as possible from his own heart, he could not endure those who dragged them to light and ridicule. The next morning, the first thing that occurred to lord Colambre’s remembrance, when he awoke, was the sound of the contemptuous emphasis / which had been laid on the words IRISH ABSENTEES! – This led to recollections of his native country, to comparisons of past and present scenes to future plans of life. Young and careless as he seemed, lord Colambre was capable of serious reflection. Of naturally quick and strong capacity, ardent affections, impetuous temper, the early years of his childhood passed at his father’s castle in Ireland, where, from the lowest servant to the well-dressed dependent of the family, every body had conspired to wait upon, to fondle, to flatter, to worship, this darling of their lord. Yet he was not spoiled – not rendered selfish; for in the midst of this flattery and servility, some strokes of geniune generous affection had gone home to his little heart; and though unqualified submission had increased the natural impetuosity of his temper, and though visions of his future grandeur had touched his infant thought, yet, fortunately, before he acquired any fixed habits of insolence or tyranny, he was carried far away from all that were bound or willing to submit to his commands, far away from all signs of hereditary grandeur – plunged into one of our great public schools – into a new world. Forced to struggle, mind and body, with his equals, his rivals, the little lord became a spirited school-boy, and, in time, a man. Fortunately for him, science and literature happened to be the fashion among a set of clever young men with whom he was at Cambridge. His ambition for intellectual superiority was raised, his views were enlarged, his tastes and his manners formed. The sobriety of English good sense mixed most advantageously with / Irish vivacity: English prudence governed, but did not extinguish, his Irish enthusiasm. But, in fact, English and Irish had not been invidiously contrasted in his mind: he had been so long resident in England, and so intimately connected with Englishmen, that he was not obvious to any of the commonplace ridicule thrown upon Hibernians; and he had lived with men who were too well informed and liberal to misjudge or depreciate a sister country. He had found, from experience, that, however reserved the English may be in manner, they are warm at heart; that, however averse they may be from forming new acquaintance, their esteem and confidence once gained, they make the most solid friends. He had formed friendships in England; he was fully sensible of the superior comforts, refinement, and information, of English society; but his own country was endeared to him by early association, and a sense of duty and patriotism attached him to Ireland. — ‘And shall I too be an absentee?’ was a question which resulted from these reflections – a question which he was not yet prepared to answer decidedly.

In the mean time, the first business of the morning was to execute a commission for a Cambridge friend. Mr Berryl had bought from Mr Mordicai,¹³ a famous London coachmaker, a curricle,¹⁴warranted sound, for which he had paid a sound price, upon express condition that Mr Mordicai^a should be answerable for all repairs of the curricle for six months. In three, both the carriage and body were found to be good for nothing – the curricle had been returned / to Mordicai^b – nothing had since been heard of it, or from him; and lord Colambre had undertaken to pay him and it a visit, and to make all proper inquiries. Accordingly, he went to the coachmaker’s; and, obtaining no satisfaction from the underlings, desired to see the head of the house. He was answered that Mr Mordicai was not at home. His lordship had never seen Mr Mordicai; but just then he saw, walking across the yard, a man who looked something like a Bond-street coxcomb,¹⁵ but not the least like a gentleman, who called, in the tone of a master, for ‘Mr Mordicai’s barouche!’¹⁶ — It appeared; and he was stepping into it, when lord Colambre took the liberty of stopping him; and, pointing to the wreck of Mr Berryl’s curricle, now standing in the yard, began a statement of his friend...