Mrs. Voluble. Ah, the times are very bad! Very bad, indeed! — all the gentlefolks breaking, — why, Betty, the meat i’n’t half done! — poor Mr. Mite, the rich cheesemonger at the corner is quite knocked up.
Mrs. Wheedle. You don’t say so?
Mrs. Voluble. Very true, indeed.
Mrs. Wheedle. Well, who’d have thought of that? Pray, Mrs. Betty, give me some bread.
Miss Jenny. Why, it is but a week ago that I met him a-driving his own whiskey.
Mrs. Voluble. Ah, this is a sad world! A very sad world, indeed! Nothing but ruination going forward from one end of the town to the other. My dear Mrs. Wheedle, you don’t eat; pray let me help you to a little slice more.
Mrs. Wheedle. O, I shall do very well; I only wish you’d take care of yourself.
Mrs. Voluble. There, that little bit can’t hurt you, I’m sure. As to Miss Jenny, she’s quite like a crocodile, for she lives upon air.
Mrs. Wheedle. No, ma’am, the thing is she laces so tight that she can’t eat half her natural victuals.
Mrs. Voluble. Ay, ay, that’s the way with all the young ladies; they pinch for fine shapes.
Bob. Mother, I wish you’d help me, — I’m just starved.
Mrs. Voluble. Would you have me help you before I’ve helped the company, you greedy fellow, you? Stay till we’ve done, can’t you? & then if there’s any left, I’ll give you a bit.
Miss Jenny. I’ll give Master Bobby a piece of mine, if you please, ma’am.
Mrs. Voluble. No, no, he can’t be very hungry, I’m sure, for he eat a dinner to frighten a horse. And so, as I was telling you, she has agreed to stay here all night, & to be sure, poor thing, she does nothing in the world but cry, all as ever I can say to her, & I believe I was talking to her for a matter of an hour before you came, without her making so much as a word of answer. I declare it makes one as melancholy as a cat to see her. I think this is the nicest cold beef I ever tasted, — you must eat a bit, or I shall take it quite ill.
Mrs. Wheedle. Well, it must be leetle tiny morsel, then.
Mrs. Voluble. I shall cut you quite a fox-hall slice.
Bob. Mother, if Mrs. Wheedle’s had enough, you’d as good give it me.
Mrs. Voluble. I declare I don’t believe there’s such another fellow in the world for gourmandizing! — There, — take that, & be quiet. So, as I was saying —
Bob. Lord, Mother, you’ve given me nothing but fat!
Mrs. Voluble. Ay, & too good for you, too. I think, at your age, you’ve no right to know fat from lean.
Mrs. Wheedle. Ah, Master Bobby, these are no times to be dainty! One ought to be glad to get bread to eat. I’m sure, for my part, I find it as hard to get my bills paid, as if the fine ladies had no money but what they earned.
Mrs. Voluble. If you’ll take my advice, Mrs. Wheedle, you’ll send in your account directly, & then, if the young lady has any money left, you’ll get it at once.
Mrs. Wheedle. Why that’s just what I thought myself, so I made out the bill, & brought it in my pocket.
Mrs. Voluble. That’s quite right. But, good lack, Mrs. Wheedle, who’d have thought of such a young lady’s being brought to such a pass? — I shall begin soon to think there’s no trusting in any body.
Miss Jenny. For my part, if I was to choose, I should like best to be a lady at once, & follow no business at all.
Bob. And for my part, I should like best to be a duke.
Mrs. Voluble. A duke? You a duke, indeed! You great numskull, I wish you’d learn to hold your tongue. I’ll tell you what, Mrs. Wheedle, you must know it’s my notion this young lady expects something in the money way out of the City, for she gave me a letter, just before you came, to send by a porter; so as I was coming down stairs, I just peeped in at the sides —
Enter Cecilia.
O Law! — I hope she did not hear me!
Cecilia. I beg your pardon, Mrs. Voluble for this intrusion, but I rang my bell three times, & I believe nobody heard it.
Mrs. Voluble. I’m sure, ma’am, I’m quite sorry you’ve had such a trouble; but I dare say it was all my son Bobby’s fault, for he keeps such a continual jabbering, that there’s no hearing any thing in the world for him.
Bob. Lord, mother, I’ll take my oath I ha’n’t spoke three words the whole time! I’m sure I’ve done nothing but gnaw that nasty fat this whole night.
Mrs. Voluble. What, you are beginning again, are you? —
Cecilia. I beg I may occasion no disturbance; I merely wished to know if my messenger were returned.
Mrs. Voluble. Dear no, ma’am, not yet.
Cecilia. Then he has certainly met with some accident. If you will be so good as to lend me your pen & ink once more, I will send another man after him.
Mrs. Voluble. Why, ma’am, he could not have got back so soon, let him go never so fast.
Cecilia. [Walking apart.] So soon! Oh, how unequally are we affected by the progress of time! Winged with the gay plumage of hope, how rapid seems its flight, — oppressed with the burden of misery, how tedious its motion! — yet it varies not, — insensible to smiles, & callous to tears, its acceleration & its tardiness are mere phantasms of our disordered imaginations. How strange that that which in its course is most steady & uniform, should, to our deluded senses, seem most mutable & irregular!
Miss Jenny. I believe she’s talking to herself.
Mrs. Voluble. Yes, she has a mighty way of musing. I have a good mind to ask her to eat a bit, for, poor soul, I dare say she’s hungry enough. Bobby, get up, & let her have your chair.
Bob. What, & then a’n’t I to have any more?
Mrs. Voluble. Do as you’re bid, will you, & be quiet. I declare I believe you think of nothing but eating & drinking all day long. Ma’am, will it be agreeable to you to eat a bit of supper with us?
Mrs. Wheedle. The young lady does not hear you; I’ll go to her myself. [Rises & follows Cecilia.] I hope, Miss Stanley, you’re very well? I hope my lady’s well? I believe, ma’am, you don’t recollect me?
Cecilia. Mrs. Wheedle? — yes, I do.
Mrs. Wheedle. I’m very sorry, I’m sure, ma’am, to hear of your misfortunes, but I hope things a’n’t quite so bad as they’re reported?
Cecilia. I thank you. Mrs. Voluble, is your pen & ink here?
Mrs. Voluble. You shall have it directly; but pray, ma’am, let me persuade you to eat a morsel first.
Cecilia. I am obliged to you, but I cannot.
Mrs. Voluble. Why now here’s the nicest little minikin bit you ever saw; — it’s enough to tempt you to look at it.
Bob. Mother, if the lady don’t like it, can’t you give it me?
Mrs. Voluble. I was just this minute going to help you, but now you’re so greedy, you shan’t have a bit.
Cecilia. Mrs. Voluble, can I find the pen & ink myself?
Mrs. Voluble. I’ll fetch it in two minutes. But, dear ma’am, don’t fret, for bad things of one sort or other are always coming to pass; & as to breaking, & so forth, why I think it happens to everybody. I’m sure there’s Mr. Grease, the tallow chandler, one of my most particular acquaintance, that’s got as genteel a shop as any in all London, is quite upon the very point of ruination: & Miss Moggy Grease, his daughter —
Cecilia. I’ll step up stairs, & when you are at leisure, you will be so good as to send me the standish.
[Going.
Mrs. Wheedle. [Stopping her.] Ma’am, as I did not know when I might have the pleasure of seeing you again, I took the liberty just to make out my little account, & bring it in my pocket; & I hope, ma’am, that when you make up your affairs, you’ll be so good as to let me be the first person that’s considered, for I’m a deal out of pocket, & should be very glad to have some of the money as soon as possible.
Cecilia. Dunned already! Good heaven, what will become of me! [Bursts into tears.]
Mrs. Voluble. Dear ma’am, what signifies fretting? — better eat a bit of supper, & get up your spirits. Betty, go for a clean plate.
[Exit Betty.
Mrs. Wheedle. Won’t you please, ma’am, to look at the bill?
Cecilia. Why should I look at it? — I cannot pay it, — I am a destitute creature, — without friend or resource!
Mrs. Wheedle. But, ma’am, I only mean —
Cecilia. No matter what you mean! — all application to me is fruitless, — I possess nothing — The beggar who sues to you for a penny is not more powerless & wretched, — a tortured & insulted heart is all that I can call my own!
Mrs. Wheedle. But sure, ma’am, when there comes to be a division among your creditors, your debts won’t amount to more than —
Cecilia. Forbear, forbear! — I am not yet inured to disgrace, & this manner of stating my affairs is insupportable. Your debt, assure yourself, is secure, for sooner will I famish with want, or perish with cold, — faint with the fatigue of labour, or consume with unassisted sickness, than appropriate to my own use the smallest part of my shattered fortune, till your — & every other claim upon it is answered.
Mrs. Wheedle. Well, ma’am, that’s as much as one can expect.
Re-enter Betty, with a plate & a letter.
Betty. Ma’am, is your name Miss Stanley?
Cecilia. Yes; is that letter for me? [Takes it.]
Mrs. Voluble. Betty, why did not you bring the letter first to me? Sure I’m the mistress of my own house. Come, Mrs. Wheedle, come & finish your supper.
Mrs. Wheedle returns to the table.
Cecilia. I dread to open it! Does anybody wait?
Betty. Yes, ma’am, a man in a fine lace livery.
Cecilia. [Reading.]
“Since you would not hear my message from Mr. Censor, I must try if you will read it from myself. I do most earnestly exhort you to go instantly & privately into the country, & you may then depend upon my support & protection. Beaufort now begins to listen to reason—”
Oh Heaven!
“and, therefore, if you do not continue in town with a view to attract his notice, or, by acquainting him with your retirement, seduce him to follow you—”
Insolent, injurious woman!
“I have no doubt but he will be guided by one whose experience & studies entitle her to direct him. I shall call upon you very soon, to know your determination, & to supply you with cash for your journey, being, with the utmost sorrow for your misfortunes, dear Miss Stanley,
“Yours &c
Judith Smatter.”
What a letter!
Betty. Ma’am, if you please, is there any answer?
Cecilia. No, none.
Betty. Then, ma’am, what am I to say to the footman?
Cecilia. Nothing. — yes, — tell him I have read this letter, but if he brings me another, it will be returned unopened.
Betty. Yes, ma’am. Laws! What a comical answer!
[Exit.
Mrs. Voluble. I wonder who that letter was from!
Miss Jenny. I dare say I can guess. I’ll venture something it’s from her sweetheart.
Mrs. Voluble. That’s just my thought! [They whisper.]
Cecilia. Is then every evil included in poverty? & is the deprivation of wealth what is has least to regret? Are Contempt, Insult, & Treachery its necessary attendants? — Is not the loss of affluence sufficiently bitter, — the ruin of all Hope sufficiently severe, but that Reproach, too, must add her stings, & Scorn her daggers?
Mrs. Voluble. When I’ve eat this, I’ll ask her if we guessed right.
Cecilia. “Beaufort begins to listen to reason,” — mercenary Beaufort! Interest has taken sole possession of thy heart, — weak & credulous that I was to believe I had ever any share in it!
Mrs. Voluble. I’m of ten minds whether to speak to her, or leave her to her own devices.
Cecilia. “To listen to reason,” — is, then, reason another word for baseness, falsehood & inconstancy?
Mrs. Wheedle. I only wish my money was once safe in my pocket.
Cecilia. Attract his notice? Seduce him to follow! — am I already so sunk? Already regarded as a designing, interested wretch? I cannot bear the imputation, — my swelling heart seems too big for its mansion, — O that I could quit them all!
Mrs. Voluble. [Rising & approaching Cecilia.] Ma’am, I’m quite sorry to see you in such trouble; I’m afraid that letter did not bring you agreeable news; — I’m sure I wish I could serve you with all my heart, & if you’re distressed about a lodging, I’ve just thought of one in Queen Street, that, in a week’s time, —
Cecilia. In a week’s time I hope to be far away from Queen Street, — far away from this hated city, — far away, if possible, from all to whom I am known!
Mrs. Voluble. Dear ma’am, sure you don’t think of going beyond seas?
Mrs. Wheedle. If you should like, ma’am, to go abroad, I believe I can help you to a thing of that sort myself.
Cecilia. How?
Mrs. Wheedle. Why, ma’am, I know a lady who’s upon the very point of going, & the young lady who was to have been her companion, all of a sudden married a young gentleman of fortune, & left her without any notice.
Cecilia. Who is the lady?
Mrs. Wheedle. Mrs. Hollis, ma’am; she’s a lady of very good fortunes.
Cecilia. I have heard of her.
Mrs. Wheedle. And she wants a young lady very much. She sets off the beginning of next week. If it’s agreeable to you to go to her, I shall be proud to show you the way.
Cecilia. I know not what to do!
Mrs. Voluble. Dear ma’am, I would not have you think of such a desperation scheme; things may be better soon, & who knows but Mr. Beaufort may prove himself a true lover at the last? Lord, if you could but once get the sight of him, I dare say, for all my lady, the day would be your own.
Cecilia. What odious interpretations! To what insults am I exposed! — yes, I had indeed better quit the kingdom, — Mrs. Wheedle, I am ready to attend you.
Mrs. Wheedle. Then, Master Bobby, bid Betty call a coach.
Cecilia. No, — stay! —
Mrs. Wheedle. What, ma’am, won’t you go?
Cecilia. [Walking apart.] Am I not too rash? — expose myself, like a common servant, to be hired? — submit to be examined, & hazard being rejected! — no, no, my spirit is not yet so broken.
Mrs. Voluble. I hope, ma’am, you are thinking better of it. For my part, if I might be free to advise you, I should say send to the young gentleman, & see first what is to be done with him.
Cecilia. What humiliating suggestions! Yes, I see I must be gone, — I see I must hide myself from the world, or submit to be suspected of views & designs I disdain to think of. Mrs. Wheedle, I cannot well accompany you to this lady myself, but if you will go to her in my name, — tell her my unhappy situation, as far as your knowledge of it goes — & that, alas, includes but half its misery! — you will much oblige me. When did you say she leaves England?
Mrs. Wheedle. Next week, ma’am.
Cecilia. I shall have time, then, to arrange my affairs. Tell her I know not, yet, in what capacity to offer myself, but that, at all events, it is my first wish to quit this country.
Mrs. Wheedle. Yes, ma’am. I’ll get my hat & cloak, & go directly.
[Exit.
Cecilia. Alas, to what abject dependence may I have exposed myself!
Mrs. Voluble. Come, ma’am, let me persuade you to taste my raison wine, — I do believe it’s the best that —
Cecilia. I thank you, but I can neither eat nor drink.
[Going.
Re-enter Mrs. Wheedle.
Mrs. Wheedle. I suppose, ma’am, I may tell Mrs. Hollis you will have no objection to doing a little work for the children, & things of that sort, as the last young lady did?
Cecilia. Oh heavy hour! — down, down, proud heart! — Tell her what you will! — I must submit to my fate, not choose it; & should servility & dependence be my lot, I trust, at least, that I shall not only find them new, — not only find them heart-breaking & cruel — but short & expeditious.
Cecilia. I have no more directions to give, & I can answer no more questions. The sorrows of my situation seem every moment to be aggravated, — Oh Beaufort! Faithless, unfeeling Beaufort! To have rescued you from distress & mortification such as this would have been my heart’s first joy, — my life’s only pride!
[Exit.
Mrs. Voluble. She’s quite in a sad taking, that’s the truth of it.
Miss Jenny. Poor young lady! I’m so sorry for her you can’t think.
Mrs. Voluble. Come, Mrs. Wheedle, you shan’t go till you’ve drunk a glass of wine, so let’s sit down a little while & be comfortable. [They seat themselves at the table.] You need not be afraid of the dark, for Bobby shall go with you.
Bob. Mother, I’d rather behalf not.
Mrs. Voluble. Who wants to know whether you’d rather or not? I suppose there’s no need to consult all your rather-nesses. Well, ma’am, so, as I was going to tell you, poor Miss Moggy Grease — [A violent knocking at the door.] Lord bless me, who’s at the door? Why, they’ll knock the house down! Somebody to Mr. Dabler, I suppose; but he won’t be home this two hours.
Bob. Mother, may I help myself to a drop of wine? [Takes the bottle.]
Mrs. Voluble. Wine, indeed! No, — give me the bottle this minute. [Snatches & overturns it.] Look here, you nasty fellow, see how you’ve made me spill it!
Enter Betty.
Betty. Laws, ma’am, here’s a fine lady all in her coach, & she asks for nobody but you.
Mrs. Voluble. For me? Well, was ever the like! Only see, Betty, what a slop Bobby’s made! There’s no such a thing as having it seen. Come, folks, get up all of you, & let’s move away the table. Bob, why don’t you stir? One would think you were nailed to your seat.
Bob. Why, I’m making all the haste I can, a’n’t I?
They all rise, & Bob overturns the table.
Mrs. Voluble. Well, if this is not enough to drive one mad! I declare I could flee the boy alive! Here’s a room to see company! You great, nasty, stupid dolt, you, get out of my sight this minute.
Bob. Why, mother, I did not do it for the purpose.
Mrs. Voluble. But you did, you great loggerhead, I know you did! Get out of my sight this minute, I say! [Drives him off the stage.] Well, what’s to be done now? — Did ever any body see such a room? — I declare I was never in such a pucker in my life. Mrs. Wheedle, do help to put some of the things into the closet. Look here, if my china bowl i’n’t broke! I vow I’ve a great mind to make that looby eat it for his supper. — Betty, why don’t you get a mop? — you’re as helpless as a child. — No, a broom, — get a broom, & sweep them all away at once. — Why, you a’n’t going empty handed, are you? — I declare you have not half the head you was born with.
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 367