Then followed the great Feast of the night, which was Muthel’s Duet for two harpsichords by Mr. Burney and my sister. They played delightfully. It is impossible for admiration to exceed what the company in general expressed. The Lakes in particular declared they had never heard Music before. The charming Baroness spoke her approbation in the highest terms. Mr. Harris, and, indeed, every body, appeared enchanted.
The Concert finished by another song from Miss Louisa Harris, for they all agreed that no instrumental music could be attended to, after such a duet; and therefore the Baroness would not consent to play again.
They all went away soon after —
June 6th.
I must go back a fortnight or more.
Soon after their visit to Mrs. O’Connor’s, my grandmother, aunts, Mr. Burney and my sister dined here. As my aunt Beckey is remarkably good tempered, I fixed upon her to make a few enquiries of what passed at Hoxton, where Mrs. O’Connor lives; for I was desirous to know whether my cold was believed, and whether they had forbore, as I had earnestly entreated that they would, to betray their knowledge of Mr. Barlow’s secret; for it is certainly incumbent upon every female who refuses a man to keep from the world his unsuccessful choice, [which she must always regard as a grateful compliment to her, whether she likes or detests him — unless she is very rich.]....
She told me that they seemed to believe my tale; but that, to use her own words— “[When] poor Mr. Barlow came to hand us out of the coach — he said nothing — but when he saw you was not there, he looked ready to drop!” She assured me that they had all very carefully guarded my secret, and that he had not said anything of his intended call here.
She asked me to dine with her the next day — I told her that perhaps I might call in the afternoon... accordingly I went to tea, and ran up stairs, as usual, without ceremony, — but when I opened the door, the first object that met my eyes was Mr. Barlow seated with my grandmother, aunts, and Mrs. Powel, a niece of Mrs. O’Connor. [I was quite disconcerted,] for I could not help fearing that my aunt Beckey, who has a much better temper than understanding, had acquainted him of my intended visit; the more so as, though he seemed much pleased, he did not appear at all surprised at my entrance.
He made a thousand anxious enquiries about my health. My answers were short and cold, and I turned as much from him as I could with decency; for I dreaded his attributing my silence to his letter to a wrong cause, and therefore thought myself obliged to manifest my disapprobation of his assiduity by my behaviour. [Not, however, to be affected, or impertinent,].... my reserve by degrees wore off, and I endeavoured to behave as if I had never received his letter. I had the conversation, it is true, pretty much to myself, for though I soon grew easy and unconcerned, he by no means followed my example. He took an opportunity of making an invite to my grandmother to make Mrs. O’Connor another visit soon. He pressed it earnestly, and said that as the last visit had by no means answered [all] Mrs. O’ Connor’s hopes she could not rest till favoured with another. [He then entreated] and conjured me not to have a cold then. I made very little answer, and was not sorry that he thought my cold in my own power —
A week passed after this, without my hearing or seeing any more of Mr. B., and I hoped that he had resigned his pretensions. But on Saturday morning, while we were at breakfast, I had a letter brought me in a hand which I immediately knew to be his. As it by no means is so high flown as his first I will copy it Madm — I have somewhere seen that powerful Deity, Cupid, and the invincible Mars, habited in a similar manner; and each have in their train several of the same disposition Attendants: the propriety of which Thought I own pleas’d me, for when drawn from the allegory, it is acknowledg’d, both Love and War are comparative in several particulars; they each require CONSTANCY, and the hope of Success stimulate each to Perseverance; and as the one is warm’d and encourag’d by the desire of Glory; so the other is much more powerfully fir’d and transported by the Charms of the Fair Sex: I have been told that Artifice and Deception are connected to both, but those Qualitys I shou’d determine to discard, and substitute in their Place an open Frankness, and undisguised Truth and Honour; and for Diligence, Assiduity, Care, and Attention, which are essential to both, and which some place in the Catalogue of the Labours of Love, I should have them happily converted to Pleasures, in the honour of devoting them to Miss Fanny Burney; if the Destinys auspiciously avert a disagreeable sequel, for as the bravest General may miscarry; so the most sincere Lover may lose the wish’d-for Prize; to prevent which I shou’d continue to invoke my guardian Genius, that she may ever inspire me with such Principles and Actions as may enable me to reach the summit of my Ambition, in approving myself not unworthy the Esteem of your amiable self, and not unworthy — but stop, oh ardurous Pen, and presume not (‘til in the front you can place PERMISSION to hope) ascending such sublime heights.
It has given me great Uneasiness that the excessive hurry of Business has so long prevented me the honour of waiting on you, and enquiring after your Welfare, which I earnestly wish to hear, but I determine, with your leave, e’er long to do myself that Pleasure, as methinks Time moves very slowly in granting me an Opportunity to declare, in some small degree (for I could not reach what I shoud call otherwise) how much I am, with the greatest Respect inimaginable,
Dr Miss Fanny
Yr most devoted & most obedt Servt.
THOS. BARLOW.
Hoxton.
Notwithstanding I was at once sorry and provoked [at] perceiving how sanguine this youth chose to be I was not absolutely concerned at receiving this [2nd] letter, because I regarded it as a fortunate opportunity of putting an unalterable conclusion to the whole affair. However,.... I thought it my duty to speak to my father before I sent an answer, never doubting his immediate concurrence.
My mother, Sulfey, and I went to the Opera that evening; it was therefore too late when I returned to send a letter to Hoxton — but I went up stairs into the study, and told my father I had received another epistle from Mr. Barlow, which I could only attribute to my not answering, as I had wished, his first. I added that I proposed, with his leave, to write to Mr. Barlow the next morning.
My father looked grave, asked me for the letter, put it in his pocket unread, and wished me good night.
I was seized with a kind of pannic. I trembled at the idea of his espousing, however mildly, the cause of this young man. I passed a restless night, and in the morning dared not write without his permission, which I was now half afraid to ask.
About 2 o’clock, while I was dawdling in the study, and waiting for an opportunity to speak, we heard a rap at the door and soon after John came in and said—” A gentlemen is below, who asks for Miss Burney: Mr. Barlow.” I think I was never more distressed in my life — to have taken pains to avoid a private conversation so highly disagreeable to me, and at last to be forced into it at so unfavourable a juncture, for I had now two letters from him, both unanswered, and consequently open to his conjectures. I exclaimed— “Lord! how provoking! what shall I do?”
My father looked uneasy and perplexed: he said something about not being hasty, which I did not desire him to explain. [Terrified lest he should hint at the advantage of an early establishment — like Mr. Crisp — quick from the study — but slow enough afterwards — I] went down stairs. I saw my mother pass [from the front] into the back parlour; which did not add to the graciousness of my reception of poor Mr. Barlow, who I found alone in the [front] parlour. I was not sorry that none of the family were there, as I now began to seriously dread any protraction of this affair.
He came up to me with an air of tenderness and satisfaction, began some anxious enquiries about my health; but I interrupted him with saying—” I fancy, Sir, you have not received a letter I — I”
[I stopt, for I could not say which I had sent!]
“A letter? — No, Ma’am!”
“You will have it, then, to-morrow, Sir.”
We were both silent for a minute or two, wh
en he said —
“In consequence I presume, Ma’am, of the one!”
“Yes, Sir,” cried I.
“And pray — Ma’am — Miss Burney! — may I — beg to ask the contents? — that is — the — the — .” He could not go on.
“Sir — I — it was only — it was merely — in short, you will see it to-morrow.”
“But if you would favour me with the contents now, I could perhaps answer it at once?”
“Sir, it requires no answer!”
A second silence ensued. I was really distressed myself to see his distress, which was very apparent. After some time he stammered out something of hoping, and beseeching — which, gathering more firmness, I answered—” I am much obliged to you, Sir, for the [too] good opinion you are pleased to have of me — but I should be very sorry you should lose any more time upon my account — as I have no thoughts of changing my situation [and abode.]”
He seemed to be quite overset: having, therefore, so freely explained myself, I then asked him to sit down, and began to talk of the weather. When he had a little recovered himself, he drew a chair close to me and began making most ardent professions of respect and regard, and so forth. I interrupted him as soon as I could, and begged him to rest satisfied with my answer.
“Satisfied?” repeated he, “my dear Ma’am — is that possible?”
“Perhaps, Sir,” said I, “I ought to make some apologies for not answering your first letter — but really I was so much surprised — upon so short an acquaintance.”
He then began making excuses for having written; but as to short acquaintance, he owned it was a reason for me — but for him — fifty years could not have more convinced him of my, &c. &c.
“You have taken a sudden, and far too partial idea of my character,” answered I. “If you look round among your older acquaintance, I doubt not but you will very soon be able to make a better choice.”
He shook his head: “I have seen Madam, a great many ladies, it is true — but never—”
“You do me much honour,” cried I, “but I must desire you would take no further trouble about me — for I have not at present the slightest thoughts of ever leaving this house.”
“At present?” repeated he, eagerly. “No, I would not expect it — I would not wish to precipitate — but in future—”
“Neither now or ever, Sir,” returned I, “have I anyview of changing my condition.”
“But surely, surely this can never be! so severe a resolution — you cannot mean it — it would be wronging all the world!”
“I am extremely sorry, Sir, that you did not receive my letter, because it might have saved you this trouble.”
He looked very much mortified, and said in a dejected voice—” If there is anything in me — in my connexions — or in my situation in life, which you wholly think unworthy of you — and beneath you — or if my character, or disposition meet with your disapprobation — I will immediately forgo all — I will not — I would not—”
“No, indeed, Sir,” cried I, “I have neither seen or heard of anything of you that was to your disadvantage — and I have no doubts of your worthiness—”
He thanked me, and seemed reassured; but renewed his solicitations in the most urgent manner. He repeatedly begged my permission to acquaint my family of the state of his affairs, and to abide by their decision; but I would not let him say two words following upon that subject. I told him that my answer was a final one, and begged him to take it as such.
He remonstrated very earnestly. “This is the severest decision!.... Surely you must allow that the social state is what we were all meant for? — that we were created for one another? — that to form such a resolution is contrary to the design of our being?” —
“All this may be true,” said I, “I have nothing to say in contradiction to it — but you know there are many odd characters in the world — and I am one of them.”
“O, no, no, no, — that can never be! but is it possible that you can have so bad an opinion of the Married State? It seems to me the only state for happiness!”
“Well, Sir, you are attracted to the married life — I am to the single — therefore every man in his humour — do you follow your opinion — and let me follow mine.”
“But, surely — is not this singular?”
“I give you leave, Sir,” cried I, laughing, “to think me singular — odd — queer — nay, even whimsical, if you please.”
“But, my dear Miss Burney, only—”
“I entreat you, Sir, to take my answer — you really pain me by being so urgent.”
“That would not I do for the world! — I only beg you to suffer me — perhaps in future—”
“No, indeed, I shall never change — I do assure you you will find me very obstinate!”
He began to lament his own destiny. I grew extremely tired of so often saying the same thing; but I could not absolutely turn him out of the house; and, indeed, he seemed so dejected and unhappy, that I made it my study to soften my refusal as much as I could without leaving room for future expectations.
About this time my mother came in. We both rose. I was horridly provoked at my situation.
“I am only come in for a letter,” cried she, “pray don’t let me disturb you.” And away she went —
[This could not but be encouraging to him, for] she was no sooner gone than he began again the same story, and seemed determined not to give up his cause. He hoped, at least, that I would allow him to enquire after my health?
“I must beg you, Sir, to send me no more letters.”
He seemed much hurt, and looked down in silence.
“You had better, Sir, think of me no more, if you study your own happiness—”
“I do study my own happiness — more than I have ever [had] any probability of doing before!”
“You have made an unfortunate choice, Sir, but you will find it easier to forget it than you imagine. You have only to suppose that I was not at Mr. Burney’s on May Day — and it was a mere chance my being there — and then you will be—”
“But, if I could, — could I also forget seeing you at old Mrs. Burney’s? — and if I did — can I forget that I see you now?”
“O yes! In three months’ time you may forget you ever saw me. You will not find it so difficult as you suppose.”
“You have heard, Ma’am, of an old man being ground young? Perhaps you believe that? But you will not deny me leave to sometimes see you?”
“My father, Sir, is seldom, hardly ever, indeed, at home.”
“I have never seen the Doctor — but I hope he would not refuse me the permission to enquire after your health? I have no wish without his consent.”
“Though I acknowledge myself to be singular I would not have you think me either affected or trifling, — and therefore I must assure you I am fixed in the answer I have given you — unalterably fixed.”
His entreaties grew [now] extremely.... distressing to me. He besought me to take more time, and said it should be the study of his life to make me happy. “Allow me, my dear Miss Burney, only to hope that my future conduct—”
“I shall always think myself obliged, nay, honoured by your good opinion — and you are entitled to my best wishes for your health and happiness — but, indeed, the less we meet the better.”
“What — what can I do?” cried he very sorrowfully.
“Why — go and ponder upon this affair for about half an hour. Then say — what an odd, queer, strange creature she is — and then — think of something else.”
“O no, no! — you cannot suppose all that? I shall think of nothing else; — your refusal is more pleasing than any other lady’s acceptance—”
He said this very simply, but too seriously for me to laugh at. Just then, Susette came in — but did not stay two minutes. It would have been shocking to be thus left purposely as if with a declared lover, and [then] I was not sorry to have an opportunity of preventing future doubts and expectations.
I rose and walked to the window thinking it high time to end a conversation already much too long; and then he again began to entreat me not to be so very severe. I told him that I was sure I should never alter the answer I made at first; that I was very happy at home; and not at all inclined to try my fate elsewhere. I then desired my compliments to Mrs. O’Connor and Miss Dickenson, and made a reverence by way of leave taking.
“I am extremely sorry to detain you so long, Ma’am,” said he, in a melancholy voice. I made no answer. He then walked about the room; and then again besought my leave to ask me how I did some other time. I absolutely, though civilly refused it, and told him frankly that, fixed as I was it was better that we should not meet.
He then took his leave: — returned back; — took leave; — and returned again. [I now made a more formal reverence of the head, at the same time] expressing my good wishes for his welfare, in a sort of way that implied I expected never to see him again. He would fain have taken a more tender leave of me, — but I repulsed him with great surprise and displeasure. I did not, however, as he was so terribly sorrowful refuse him my hand, which he had made sundry attempts to take in the course of conversation. When I withdrew it, as I did presently, I rang the bell to prevent his again returning from the door.
Though I was really sorry for the unfortunate and misplaced attachment which this young man professes for me, yet I could almost have jumped for joy when he was gone, to think that the affair was thus finally over.
Indeed I think it hardly possible for a woman to be in a more irksome situation than when rejecting a worthy man, who is all humility, respect, and submission, and who throws himself and his fortune at her feet.
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 486