Life And Letters Of Maria Edgeworth/Volume 1/Letter 127
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."