You know how it is with some books. You’ve been meaning to read them for years, but somehow you always pass them by. Perhaps part of that comes from the idea that you think you know what the book’s about, and there’s a familiarity to it since it’s been sitting on the shelf for decades. This is exactly the case with Maria Edgeworth’s Castle Rackrent. I’d always meant to read it, but I passed by my old hardback edition–even the college library threw it away which is how I came to own it. For some reason that I cannot adequately explain I had the impression that Castle Rackrent was a gothic novel–perhaps because I’d seen it linked with Ann Radcliffe’s works, so I was very surprised to find myself laughing at this very funny short book narrated by the old, faithful family retainer, Thady. Thady manages to outlive generations of dissolute owners of Castle Rackrent in the book that he presents as a “Memoir of the Rackrent Family.” The cover of the Oxford Classics edition says it all:
But first a note on Maria Edgeworth… the introduction to my copy states that she was born on January 1, 1767 and died on May 22, 1849. At this point in time, Wikipedia gives her birth year as 1768. She was born in Oxfordshire as the result of the marriage between her father Richard Lovell Edgeworth and the first of four wives. My copy states that Maria was the first child of 19–Wikipedia places her as the second of 22. Right away of course, whichever version is the correct one, we know that there’s an interesting dynamic at work–especially with a quote from Maria’s father regarding his four wives:
I have had four wives. The second and third were sisters, and I was in love with the second in the lifetime of the first.
So whether we are talking about 19 children or twenty-two, this had to be an energetic and chaotic household. Maria Edgeworth lived with her aunts until her mother’s death and then her father remarried and relocated the family to his Irish estates. She returned to England for her education during the illness of her first stepmother, Honora Sneyd, but after her death, and Mr Edgeworth’s remarriage to Honora’s sister (my intro says that this was Honora’s dying request), Maria shortly returned to Ireland yet again. So no small amount of impermanence and upheaval until Maria’s teen years. At this point she became involved in her father’s business and estates.
Castle Rackrent was published in 1800, initially without the author’s name, but this was added for the second edition. This is an unusual novel for its time as it is narrated by a servant, Old Thady Quirk, and if this story were told by the successive gentry owners of the estate, it would be a very different story indeed. As it is, Thady ‘s disingenuousness may be a construct to not speak ill of his various ‘masters,’–a habit from a lifetime of obsequiousness, or it may be his way of telling this shameful history while still appearing ‘loyal’ to the dissolute members of the family. Nonetheless, it’s the spaces between Thady’s naïve narrative and the actual events that creates so much humour. And this is how it begins:
Having, out of friendship for the family, upon whose estate, praised be heaven! I and mine have lived rent-free time out of mind, voluntarily undertaken to publish the MEMOIRS OF THE RACKRENT FAMILY, I think it my duty to say a few words, in the first place, concerning myself. My real name is Thady Quirk, though in the family I have always been known by no other than “Honest Thady.”
The insertion of Honest Thady let’s us know that the version we are about to hear is suspect, and as the tales unfold from Honest Thady of a dissolute bunch of owners, we have every reason to suspect his version of events.
Castle Rackrent was originally owned by Sir Tallyhoo Rackrent who came to a bad end, so the estate passed to Sir Patrick O’Shaughlin with the stipulation that he take the “surname and arms of Rackrent.” The litigious Sir Patrick, “who used to boast that he had a lawsuit for every letter in the alphabet,” according to Thady, “gave the finest entertainment” in which “not a man could stand after supper but Sir Patrick himself.” Here’s an example of Thady’s fond recollection of a Rackrent:
I remember when I was a little boy, the first bumper of claret he gave me after dinner, how he praised me for carrying it to my mouth.
Probably a good thing that the male Rackrents seem to die early and without issue–and that brings me to my very favourite member of the family, Sir Kit, who brings over his new bride who is, as we learn later, a very dark-complexioned Jewish woman, the “grandest heiress in England,” who’s been married for her fortune. The poor woman has no idea of what’s in store for her:
“Is the large room damp, Thady?” said his honour.
“Oh, damp, your honour! how should it be but as dry as a bone,” says I, “after all the fires we have kept in it day and night? It’s the barrack-room your honour’s talking on.”
“And what is a barrack-room, pray, my dear?” were the first words I ever heard out of my lady’s lips.
“No matter, my dear,” said he, and went on talking to me ashamed-like I should witness her ignorance. To be sure, to hear her talk one might have taken her for an innocent, for it was, “What’s this, Sir Kit?” and “What’s that, Sir Kit? all the way we went. To be sure, Sir Kit had enough to do to answer her.
“And what do you call that, Sir Kit?” said she; “that–that looks like a pile of black bricks, pray, Sir Kit?’
“My turf-stack, my dear,” said my master, and bit his lip.
Where have you lived, my lady, all your life, not to know a turf-stack when you see it? thought I; but I said nothing. Then, by-and-by, she takes out her glass, and begins spying over the country.
“And what’s all that black swamp out yonder, Sir Kit?” says she.
“My bog, my dear,” says he and went on whistling.
“It’s a very ugly prospect, my dear,” says she.
“You don’t see it, my dear,” says he; “for we’ve planted it out; when the trees grow up in summertime—” says he.
“Where are the trees,” said she, “my dear?” still looking through her glass.
“You are blind, my dear,” says he: “what are thee under your eyes?”
“These shrubs?” said she.
“Trees,” said he.
“May be they are what you call trees in Ireland, my dear,” said she; “but they are not a yard high, are they?”
“They were planted out but last year, my lady,” says I, to soften matters between them, for I saw she was going to make his honour mad with her: “they are very well grown for their age, and you’ll not see the bog of Allyballycarricko’shaughlin at-all-at-all through the screen, when once the leaves come out. But, my lady, you must not quarrel with any part or parcel of Allyballycarricko’shaughlin, for you don’t know how many hundred years that same bit of bog has been in the family; we would not part with the bog of Allyballycarricko’shaughlin upon no account at all; it cost the late Sir Murtagh two hundred good pounds to defend his title to it and boundaries against the O’Learys, who cut a road through it.”
Now one would have thought this would have been hint enough for my lady, but she fell to laughing like one out of their right mind, and made me say the name of the bog over, for her to get it by heart, a dozen times; then she must ask me how to spell it, and what was the meaning of it in English–Sir Kit standing by whistling all the while.
According to Thady “she laid the corner-stone of all her future misfortunes” this very first day, and if you want to know the fate of this particular Lady Rackrent (none of them exactly fare well), then you’ll have to read the book. Thady relates her history in this deadpan style–as if what happened to the poor woman was 1) deserved and 2) normal, but then the term ‘normal’ doesn’t apply to the Rackrents–an atrocious bunch of Anglo-Irish riffraff, a family of boozers, bounders and debtors, and the very worst sort of landowners.
There’s also an extensive glossary that accompanies the text, and written in an authoritarian style, this adds another level of irony to the humorous tale. Finally the topic of the Irish Roof emerged in Great Granny Webster, and the subject appears again here–the windows are broken and the roof leaks, but there’s too many debts and too little money to fix anything as the various heirs to the castle run the place into the ground.
29 responses to “Castle Rackrent by Maria Edgeworth”
Yes, wonderful. Almost a great book. Maybe not even almost. Important, too – Scott was inspired by it. I think Wuthering Heights owes it something for that narrator, but that is just a guess.
A lot of the humor is still fresh, too.
An unexpected surprise, Tom. I’ve yet to read anything else by Edgeworth but I have Belinda and The Absentee here (My CR edition is in an edition which includes The Absentee). Have you read those, and if so which one did you find superior?
My intro is full of the praises of other authors for the book.
Had a period in my teens when I went back and read all of the writers who inspired Jane Austen and the Brontës. I remember liking the liveliness of Maria Edgeworth much more than Horace Walpole or Ann Radcliffe – perhaps the absurdist streak agrees with me more than the Gothic one.
I’ve read that some people feel that Walpole hasn’t aged well. I haven’t read any of his yet.
Castle of Otranto is certainly no exciting read, unless you are into the particulars of the history of the gothic novel.
BTW, am I dense, or are the dates in your post a bit screwy?
Cover looks like it could be a Rowlandson: certainly that era…
That’s another one I haven’t read but I will sometime. Thanks for the heads-up on the dates. I made the corrections.
Ha! You make me want to run out and find this book immediately. One I too have dismissed when it crossed my path in the past; I’ve never been in the least bit tempted to open it. Until right now.
It really wasn’t at all what I expected, and then I’m not sure why I had the expectations I had.
I have not read any other Edgeworth. I have meant to, for the good that does.
I know the feeling…
I may well pick this up next. I got a wild hair for an an Ann Radcliffe reread over the weekend, and this seems just the thing to use as a chaser!
I’ve got to read some Radcliffe but I’m addicted to Trollope.
Ack, you say that and leave a comment at my site just before I get my dang Trollope post up – Can You Forgive Her?, all this week!
That’s one I have read. I think I have them all and I pull one at, more or less randomly, when I’m in the mood.
Love the cover .I’ve a number of books like this I want to read classics I never got round to or didn’t discover to later in life
Isn’t it a great cover? My cover is boring but I liked the looks of the Oxford Classics edition and since the cover seemed appropriate, I inserted it into the post.
I didn’t know about her, so thanks for expanding my horizons.
This is quite short Emma, so it would be a fairly quick read.
I’ve got an Oxford Uni Press copy here as well which I keep meaning to read. It looked fun when I saw it in a second-hand bookshop – I’d never heard of the author or book before I bought it. I’ve got a copy of ‘Great Granny Webster’ as well which I haven’t read yet; maybe I’ll read both together!
I could see the two going together, but I’ll be honest, GGW really sticks to me.
This is high on my list for a reread, especially after reading Belinda McKeown’s Solace which refers to it often, indeed one of the main characters is doing a dissertation on Edgeworth.
Ok, I haven’t read the McKeon book, so I’ll check that out, I’m glad you posted a comment as I wanted to ask an Irish opinion on this book: Did you find any part of it insulting or did you see it as mainly a commentary on those Anglo-Irish landlords?
Lately I have been very appreciative of the type humor that seems to to characterize this book. Irony when describing the crazy things that go on in everyday life can be so entertaining as well as enlightening. The glossary takes the cake.
Here I was going to sort out those books that have lived for too long unread on my shelves but – there could be hidden treasures.
I like the idea that it’s narrated by a servant. But you wouldn’z call him an unreliable narrator per se?
I would. He hides his dagger under his cloak. His rhetoric is unreliable.
agree. How much do you think he really worships the family? Does he really disapprove of his son’s looting?
That just sounds fabulous. I suspect there’s a free kindle copy kicking about so I’ll definitely pic it up.
Love the idea of an unreliable servant narrator.
I read this a few days ago. I’m not going to get time to write a review, but I thought I should definitely leave a comment.
Honest Thady, perhaps a bit too honest for his masters’ reputations. That cover you have really does capture it doesn’t it? There is an odd gothic quality here, in that people get locked in rooms for years and so on, but it’s all so drunken and dissolute that at the same time the word doesn’t fit.
Early on I wasn’t quite sure what to make of it, but as it continued it definitely grew on me. I did think it was pretty scathing about the Anglo-Irish landlord class, absentee landlords in general and the predations of the gentry upon the poor, but all in such humour that the biting satire slipped down pretty easily.
Nice recommendation Guy, thanks.