The strict guardian

“Uncle Silas” by Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu (1814-1873) is a comparatively well-known work. “The Purcell Papers”, an earlier book by the same author (on which the later work draws), is less famous – but the section describing a “Passage in the secret history of an Irish countess” really does deserve to be better-known, at least in our circles.

There’s no spanking, per se, but it does contain the most fascinating description of a young woman of marriageable age being sent to live with her uncle and guardian, a gentleman by the name of Sir Arthur. It starts with her arrival at his home:

My uncle having given me fully to understand that I was most welcome, and might command whatever was his own, pressed me to take some refreshment; and on my refusing, he observed that previously to bidding me good-night, he had one duty further to perform, one in whose observance he was convinced I would cheerfully acquiesce.

He then proceeded to read a chapter from the Bible; after which he took his leave with the same affectionate kindness with which he had greeted me, having repeated his desire that I should consider everything in his house as altogether at my disposal.

Events are full of promise, as she forms an attachment to a young gentleman – of which her guardian disapproves:

I was early next day summoned to attend my uncle in his private room, which lay in a corner turret of the old building; and thither I accordingly went, wondering all the way what this unusual measure might prelude. When I entered the room, he did not rise in his usual courteous way to greet me, but simply pointed to a chair opposite to his own. This boded nothing agreeable. I sat down, however, silently waiting until he should open the conversation.

A scolding follows, in which Sir Arthur makes it clear that she is to have nothing more to do with her suitor. But before long, she writes a long letter to the young man concerned, and gives it to a village boy to deliver:

I was sitting in my bedroom early in the day, reading by myself, when I heard a knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ said I; and my uncle entered the room.

‘Will you excuse me?’ said he. ‘I sought you in the parlour, and thence I have come here. I desired to say a word with you. I trust that you have hitherto found my conduct to you such as that of a guardian towards his ward should be.’

I dared not withhold my consent.

‘And,’ he continued, ‘I trust that you have not found me harsh or unjust, and that you have perceived, my dear niece, that I have sought to make this poor place as agreeable to you as may be.’

I assented again; and he put his hand in his pocket, whence he drew a folded paper, and dashing it upon the table with startling emphasis, he said:

‘Did you write that letter?’

The sudden and tearful alteration of his voice, manner, and face, but, more than all, the unexpected production of my letter to Mr. Jefferies, which I at once recognised, so confounded and terrified me, that I felt almost choking.

I could not utter a word.

‘Did you write that letter?’ he repeated with slow and intense emphasis.’ You did, liar and hypocrite!… I have defeated your first attempt, madam; and by the holy God, if ever you make another, chains, straw, darkness, and the keeper’s whip shall be your lasting portion!’

With these astounding words he left the room, leaving me almost fainting.

Hold on? “He left the room”? What sort of a cop-out is that? Everything’s teed up perfectly for a sound birching, or a whipping with her guardian’s riding crop at the very least. And he simply threatens her (somewhat excessively, it must be said) – and leaves?

I’m highly disappointed – and thinking that I really should dig out my Regency clothes and take on some young lady as my ward for an evening… Any Irish countesses out there needing whipping?