Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 2/Letter 78
To MRS. EDGEWORTH.
NORTH AUDLEY STREET, Feb. 11, 1831.
You must have seen in the papers the death of Mr. Hope, and I am sure it shocked you. But it was scarcely possible that it could strike you so much as it did me. I, who had seen him but a few days before, and who had been rallying him upon his being hypochondriac. I, who had been laughing at him along with Mrs. Hope, for being, I thought, merely in the cold fit after having been in the hot fit of enthusiasm while finishing his book. He knew too well, poor man, what we did not know. I believe that I never had time to describe to you the impression that visit to him made upon me. I had actually forced Mrs. Hope to go up and say he must see me; that such an old friend, and one who had such a regard for him, and for whom I knew he had a sincere regard, must be admitted to see him even in his bed-chamber. He sent me word that if I could bear to see a poor sick man in his night-cap, I might come up.
So I did, and followed Mrs. Hope through all the magnificent apartments, and then up to the attics, and through and through room after room till we came to his retreat, and then a feeble voice from an arm-chair—
"O! my dear Miss Edgeworth, my kind friend to the last."
And I saw a figure sunk in his chair like La Harpe, in figured silk robe de chambre and night-cap; death in his paled, sunk, shrunk face; a gleam of affectionate pleasure lighted it up for an instant, and straight it sunk again. He asked most kindly for my two sisters—"tell them I am glad they are happy."
The half-finished picture of his second son was in the corner, beside his arm-chair, as if to cheer his eyes.
"By an Irish artist," he politely said to me, "of great talent."
When I rallied him at parting on his low spirits, and said, "How much younger you are than I am!"
"No, no; not in mind, not in the powers of life. GOD bless you; good-bye."
I told him I would only say au revoir, and that never came; it was only the next day but one after this that Fanny read to me his death in the paper. It was dreadfully sudden to us; what must it have been to Mrs. Hope? I am sure she had no idea of its coming so soon. I forgot to say that as I got up to go away, I told him laughing, that he was only ill of a plethora of happiness, that he had everything this world could give, and only wanted a little adversity.
"Yes," said he, "I am happy, blessed with such a wife and such a son!"
He looked with most touching gratitude up to her, and she drew back without speaking.
Oh! I cannot tell you the impression the whole scene left on my mind.
March 14.
I hope your mother is better, and now inhaling spring life. Tell her, with my love, that I have exhibited her work[1] at various places to the admiration and almost incredulity of all beholders—such beautiful flowers at ninety-two!
At last we were fortunately at home when Lady Wellesley and Miss Caton called, and, thanks to my impudence in having written to him the moment he landed, and thanks to his good nature, Sir John Malcolm came at the same moment, and Lady Wellesley and he talked most agreeably over former times in India and later times in Ireland. Lady Wellesley is not nearly so tall or magnificent a person as I expected. Her face beautiful, her manner rather too diplomatically studied. People say "she has a remarkably good manner;" perfectly good manners are never "remarkable," felt, not seen. Sir John is as entertaining and delightful as his Persian sketches, and as instructive as his Central India.
Footnotes[edit]
- ↑ A scarf embroidered with flowers, worked for Miss Edgeworth by Mrs. Beaufort, when she was ninety-two.