Adieu, my dear Daddy,
I am ever most truly yours,
F. BURNEY.
[Fanny signs the letters about Mr. Barlow with her name “writ large,” and twice or thrice underlined, to show that it would, at least, never be changed to “Barlow.” In knowing her own mind at once upon marriage, no woman surpassed Fanny; and if Mr. Crisp had read Mr. Barlow’s letter, he must have said, with Mr. Bennet to his daughter Elizabeth (had “Pride and Prejudice” then been written), “I know your disposition.... Your lively talents would place you” (if not in “the greatest danger,” in “misery,”) “in an unequal marriage. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing you unable to respect your partner in life.” Mr. Crisp and Dr. Burney were, according to the opinion of their time, over-indulgent to a young lady’s mere fancy — or even whim. Lady Bertram (in “Mansfield Park”) lays down the proper view, when she says to her niece (on Mr. Crawford’s proposing marriage), “You must be aware, Fanny, that it is every young woman’s duty to accept such a very eligible offer as this.” In fact, the name of no one of note in the eighteenth century who thought that daughters should have a free choice in marriage occurs to the editor, except that of Dr. Johnson. Mr. Crisp had, it is seen, thought it not expedient to answer Fanny’s foregoing letter, and Dr. Burney did not go to Chesington until Mr. Barlow had wholly ceased to trouble.]
[MISS BURNEY TO MR. CRISP.]
[This extract from a letter which Mr. Crisp has endorsed “June 10,” gives Fanny’s first impressions on hearing Agujari.]
At length, — we have heard Agujari! We wished for you! — I cannot tell you how much we wished for you! — The great singers of former years, whom I have heard you so emphatically describe seem to have all their talents revived in this wonderful singer! — I could compare her to nothing I ever heard, — but only to what you have heard, your Carestino, — Farinelli — Senesino — alone are worthy to be ranked with the Bastardini. — Such a powerful voice! — so astonishing a compass, — reaching from C. in the middle of the harpsichord to two notes above the harpsichord! — Every tone so clear, so full, so charming! — Then her shake — so plump — so true, so open! It is as strong and distinct as Mr. Burney’s upon the harpsichord. Besides its great power, her voice is all sweetness, and when she pleases, all softness and delicacy. She sings in the highest style of taste and with an expression so pathetic, that it is impossible to hear it unmoved. She does the greatest difficulties that are possible to be given to her, with all the ease and facility that I could say “my dear Daddy!”
She came before 7, and stayed till 12, and was singing almost all the time! She permitted us to encore almost every song. She sung in twenty different styles. The greatest was son regina and son amante, from Didone. Good God! what a song! and how sung! Then she gave us two or three Cantabiles, sung divinely, then she chaunted some church-music, in a style so nobly simple, and unadorned, that it stole into one’s very soul! Then she gave us a bravura, with difficulties which seemed only possible for an instrument in the hands of a great master; then she spoke some recitative, so nobly! In short, whether she most astonished, or most delighted us, I cannot say, but she is really a sublime singer! We had not a soul beyond our own family, which was her particular desire. She gave us some hope of coming once more before she quits England. If she does, and if we know of it in time, could you resist coming to town for one night? Papa could introduce you to her as one who desired to be admitted, because your health would not permit you to hear her at the Pantheon. Indeed, it would greatly answer to you. Besides her musical talents, she has really a great deal of [ — ] and would entertain you by her conversation. She has great ideas of action, and grew so animated in singing an arria parlante from Didone that she acted it throughout with great spirit and feeling. I could not help regretting to her that she should sing at the Pantheon, when she was so much formed for the Theatre. She made faces, and shrugs, in the Italian way, and said—” Oui — comme une statue! — comme une petite êcoliïre” — and then she took up a book to take herself off when singing at the Pantheon. We all hoped that, after the Gabriella was gone, she would return to England, and to the Opera House. She said that if ever she did, it should be through the means of Dr. Burney, — into whose hands she would put her engagements, and to no one else! She professes great contempt for the managers. — By the way, Miss Davis has gained her cause, and the managers will lose near £2,000. Among other things Agujari sang a Rondeau... she says she detests ces... for her talents are so very superior that she cannot chuse but hold all other performers cheap. The Gabriella, her only rival she has never heard, and consequently she has never met with any singer equal to herself. She is a wonderful creature!.... Adieu my dear Daddy. My father cannot yet fix his day for dear Chesington — I wish I could fix mine! My love to Kitty, and respects to Mrs. H....
June 11th.
And now for the singer of singers [Agujari!] She came, with Signor Maestro Colla, to tea. She frightened us a little at first, by complaining of a cold. Mr. Burney, as usual, played first; and after that, Signora Agujari rose to sing! We all rose too, — we seemed all Ear. Had a pin fallen, I suppose we should have taken it at least for a thunder-clap. All was husht and rapt attention. Signor Colla accompanied her. She began by singing what she called a little Minuet of his composition. Her cold was not affected — for her voice was really not quite clear. However, she acquitted herself charmingly, and little, as she called this Minuet, it contained difficulties, which I firmly believe no other singer in the world could have executed. She was so obliging as to sing it twice, and the second time was much better than the first. But her great talents and our great astonishment were reserved for her second song, which was taken from Metastasio’s opera of Didone, set by Colla: Non hai ragione, ingrate!
As this is what she called an Arria parlante,* she was desirous that we should all understand the words, before we heard the music; and in a voice softly melodious, she repeated the song through, before she sang it, and then translated its sense into French. It is nobly set. She began with a fullness and power of voice, that astonished us beyond all our possible expectations. She then lowered it to the most expressive softness; in short, she was sublime: I can use no other word, without degrading her.
This and another great song from the same opera, Son Regina, e son amante, she sung in a style, to which my ears have been hitherto strangers She unites to her astonishing and incomparable powers of execution and luxuriant facility and compass of voice, an expression still more delicate, — and I had almost said, equally feelings with that of my darling Millico. But, though her merit is superior to any singers I ever before heard, I do confess I can never have pleasure superior, if equal, from hearing any music in this nether worlds to what I have, to the most exquisite degree, felt from hearing Millico. His sensibility in singing seemed more unaffectedly genuine and touchant than any other human being’s I ever heard.
Agujari, however, has [vocal] talents that almost surpass belief to those who have not heard her. Her voice reaches from the middle of the harpsichord to two notes above it, yet it is never husky when low, or shrill when high. She grew so animated, while she was singing that she acted throughout the two songs of Didone, and with great spirit and meaning. She began Son Regina, with a dignity I scarce had an idea of, and then proceeded to e son amante, in a tone of voice so sweetly pathetic, so softly clear, that it almost melted us to tears to hear it; then when she grew more animated, — never was expression more impassioned.
I could not forbear regretting to her, that she should perform in a place where her talents were half obscured, as she seemed so much formed to grace a Theatre, from her excellent ideas of action. She made faces at the name of The Pantheon, and took herself off when standing there—” Comme une statue! — comme une petite Ecolière!”
To display her various powers to my father, she sung in all styles, the Bravura, the Arria parlante, the Cantabile, Church-Music, Recitative, and Rondeau, though she laughed at her
self in the latter, saying, “Ah! je hais ces misères là; ils me font guignon!”
* * * * * *
I called lately upon my grandmother and found her at cards with my aunts and Mrs. O’Connor, who I saw looked rather gravely upon me. I enquired after Miss Dickenson, and sat and chatted about a quarter of an hour, and then I said I must be gone, for Miss Cooke, from Chesington, and Mr and Miss Simmons were to drink tea with us. Just as I rose, and was taking leave, Mrs. O’Connor called out— “No! Stop a moment!—” I stood, suspended, — and in a solemn kind of manner she addressed herself to my grandmother, and said, “Would you think this lady to be one of the greatest cheats that ever was born?”
They all stared, and she went on. “Who, to look in her face, and see so much good nature would believe her to have none? — to be actually cruel? Here has she sat this half hour — and never once had the common civility to ask how my poor Mr. Barlow does, whose heart she has been breaking! Fie! — fie!”
I was much surprised at this attack, — and made no immediate answer, hardly knowing whether she meant it seriously — My aunts looked rather displeased, and my grandmother said— “I’ll assure you, I began to wonder what you meant by calling my grand-daughter a cheat.”
“O yes!” cried Mrs. O’Connor, “I expected to make you all angry! — I thought as much! — but I could not contain. Poor Mr. Barlow! how will he wish he had happened to have been here, when I tell him. But you need not, I shall say, for she never once asked how you did!”
“If Mr. Barlow would have been the better for any enquiry,” said I, “I should certainly—”
“O — if you meant nothing else” cried she, “it may be as well as it is! but you will — you will say yes yet?—”
“Let us hope,” said my aunt Anne, very judiciously, “that they may both do better.”
“Ay — well — I don’t know — I can’t say — all I know is that poor Mr. Barlow is almost dying with grief — you — you — naughty thing! you have broke his heart!”
“O,” cried I, endeavouring to laugh it off, “I dare say he will survive.”
“O! — very well, Ma’am, — very well — pray exult — it is always the way with you young ladies—”
I determined to make no more answer, as I was quite affronted at this speech. Exult! I would not for the world! But how affected would it sound in me to pity a man for my own cruelty, as she calls it!
“He is a good and most worthy young man,” continued she, “and I have the greatest regard for him — however — perhaps — before twice seven years’ time — you may repent.” How excessively impertinent! I was quite silent, and so were my grandmother and aunt Anne; but my poor aunt Beckey simply added to Mrs. O’Connor’s prediction by saying— “Ay — when you are like usl.”
Perhaps Mrs. O’Connor thought she had gone too far, for she afterwards seemed to endeavour to soften her attack by saying a great deal of the good nature of my looks; — and wishing — though with an air of doubt — that I might be happier.
As to my enquiring after Mr. Barlow, I felt too conscious to mention his name, and had I looked so, and spoke of him at the same time, I am certain she would have put a wrong construction upon it. Besides, Mr. Barlow, I believe, would catch at a shadow, and if he heard I merely asked after his health, he would be anxious I doubt not, to answer me him self, and I should be extremely uneasy to have, or to give, any further trouble about this affair. [Ah! will anyone I can love — ever thus love me? — Singleness, therefore, be mine — with peace of mind and liberty. My father and Mr. Crisp spoil me for every other male creature.]
* * * *
[Between the last paragraph on Mr. Barlow and this letter from Fanny to Mr. Crisp, at least twenty pages have been cut out of this diary and are missing. We say that they are missing because over thirty pages of the Barlow narration have also been cut out, but lie loose within the cover of the diary. It is believed that much of what is missing related to the last illness of Dr. Burney’s mother. The following letter has lost the last of its four quarto leaves, and with that, Mr. Crisp’s customary endorsement of the day on which it reached him. Mme. D’Arblay, feeling after a date, has headed it in later days “30 Octr.’75.”]
[Miss BURNEY TO MR. CRISP.]
My dear Daddy, It is so long since I wrote to you that I suppose you conclude we are all gone a fortune-hunting in some other planet, however, though I cannot totally exculpate myself from the charge of negligence, yet a great part of the time during which I have been silent has been employed in a manner that would have given you no pleasure to have heard of, — for my poor grandmother Burney, after a long, painful, lingering illness, in the course of which we all contributed our mites towards assisting as nurses, has breathed her last. I shall not dwell upon this melancholy subject, as I know your peculiar aversion to the Horrors — but shall proceed to write upon those topics which you have yourself made choice of.
Now first as to that R[ogue] my F[ather]. He was at Buxton near three weeks, and bathed 15 times. He went afterwards to sea bathing at Clay in Norfolk. He has been returned home about a fortnight, and I thank God is in good health at present, though his hand is still obstinately bent. The History has been this very day, for the first time since its long cessation, put into the press. It is now rough written to the end of the first volume, Preface and Dedication inclusive. When it is actually published we intend to keep the carnival.
As to the Gabriellé, she has taken a house in Golden-square, and has had a brass plate put on the door, with Mrs. Gabrielle on it. She and Rauzzini seem admirably suited for each other, for let her live ever so much en princesse, he will always keep her in countenance by living en prince. He has had his drawing room painted after the manner of the card rooms at the Pantheon, with pink and green and finely ornamented. The first opera is to be next Saturday, when, if you do not come to town I shall think and conclude that you are lost to all the St. Cecelian powers of attraction. Indeed if neither Agujari or Gabrielli have charms to allure you to the Opera or Pantheon, one may imagine that you are become as indifferent to music as to dancing or horse-racing. The opera is to be Metastasio’s Didone, which is the very opera that Agujari sung to us twelve songs from, composed by her Maestro Sigr. Colla. It is to be a half pasticcio, but all the recitatives by Sacchini, as well as a cantabile for Rauzzini, and all the part of la Gabrielli. This I very much rejoice at, as I had rather hear her first in music of his composition, than of any other Maestro whose works I am unacquainted with. I am extremely glad, also, that the squalling Galli is dismissed, and Savoi once more taken as Second man. A sister of Gabrielli is to be Second woman, and I hear she is very pretty, but no further has yet transpired. The rehearsals are begun and the managers are very busy. My father, at the earnest invitation of Mr and Mrs. Yates and Mrs. Brooke, dined at their house last week, with the following delicious party — Rauzzini, Sacchini, the sister, and the Gabrielli herself! He tells us that she is still very pretty, and extremely elegant; and very well bred, and has the air and manner of a woman of rank. She did not sing, neither did any presume to ask her; but she has invited my father to her house, and desired to cultivate his acquaintance. There’s for you! He intends, notwithstanding the value of his time, to shortly avail himself of this graciousness. Nothing could ever exceed the expectations of people of all ranks and all ways of thinking concerning this so celebrated singer. For my part, should anything unfortunately prevent my hearing her first performance, I shall regard it ever after as a very great misfortune —
Now for family. All well. Bessie is to go to Paris as soon as Mrs. Strange returns from Scotland. Dick is at school at Harrow. Little Sally is come home, and is one of the most innocent, artless, queer little things you ever saw, and altogether she is a very sweet, and very engaging child Jem we hear nothing of yet; but when he comes it will be no fault of mine if I do not obey your kind commands, and accompany him to Chesington. Neither will it be any fault of his, for I know he will both go himself and make me, if
it is in his power.
I have had the honour lately of a sort of correspondence with Mrs. Brooke, opera manager, and authoress of ‘Lady Julia Mandeville,’ &c., &c., and she has been not a little civil upon the occasion, though she only wrote queries concerning my father’s absence, return, and so forth, when he was at Buxton. Pray, if you are at any time, when not well, or not busy, disposed for some light summer readings send for The Correspondents, which you will find to be a queer series of letters between a young widow and an old half philosopher: Mrs. Brooke (who is very honourably mentioned by both of them) assures us that they are genuine letters of the late Lord and present young Lady Lyttelton, his son’s wife. How they got to the press seems so unaccountable, that it makes one doubt their authenticity whether one will or no.
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 488