This intelligence gave me the utmost uneasiness — I foresaw a thousand dangers of a discovery — I dreaded the indiscreet warmth of all my confidants. In truth, I was quite sick with apprehension, and was too uncomfortable to go to Brompton, and Susan carried my excuses.
Upon her return, I was somewhat tranquillised, for she assured me that there was not the smallest suspicion of the author, and that they had concluded it to be the work of a man! and Miss Humphries, who read it aloud to Richard said several things in its commendation, and concluded them by exclaiming, “It’s a thousand pities the author should lie concealed!”
Finding myself more safe than I had apprehended, I ventured to go to Brompton next day. In my way up-stairs, I heard Miss Humphries in the midst of Mr. Villars’ letter of consolation upon Sir John Belmont’s rejection of his daughter; and just as I entered the room, she cried out, “How pretty that is!”
How much in luck would she have thought herself, had she known who heard her!
In a private confabulation which I had with my aunt Anne, she told me a thousand things that had been said in its praise, and assured me they had not for a moment doubted that the work was a man’s.
Comforted and made easy by these assurances, I longed for the diversion of hearing their observations, and therefore (though rather mal a propos) after I had been near two hours in the room, I told Miss Humphries that I was afraid I had interrupted her, and begged she would go on with what she was reading.
“Why,” cried she, taking up the book, “we have been prodigiously entertained;” and very readily she continued.
I must own I suffered great difficulty in refraining from laughing upon several occasions, and several times, when they praised what they read, I was upon the point of saying, “You are very good!” and so forth, and I could scarcely keep myself from making acknowledgments, and bowing my head involuntarily. However, I got off perfectly safe.
Monday. — Susan and I went to tea at Brompton. We met Miss Humphries coming to town. She told us she had just finished “Evelina,” and gave us to understand that she could not get away till she had done it. We heard afterwards from my aunt the most flattering praises; and Richard could talk Of nothing else. His encomiums gave me double pleasure, from being wholly unexpected: for I had prepared myself to hear that he held it extremely cheap.
It seems, to my utter amazement, Miss Humphries has guessed the author to be Anstey, who wrote the “Bath Guide”! How improbable and how extraordinary a supposition! But they have both of them done it so much honour that, but for Richard’s anger at Evelina’s bashfulness, I never Could believe they did not suspect me. I never went to Brompton without finding the third volume in Richard’s hands; he speaks of all the characters as if they were his acquaintance, and Praises different parts perpetually: both he and Miss Humphries seem to have it by heart, for it is always a propos to Whatever is the subject of discourse, and their whole conversation almost consists of quotations from it.
Chesington, June 18. — I came hither the first week in May. My recovery from that time to this, has been slow and sure; but as I could walk hardly three yards in a day at first, I found so much time to spare, that I could not resist treating myself with a little private sport with “Evelina,” a young lady whom I think I have some right to make free with. I had promised Hetty that she should read it to Mr. Crisp, at her own particular request; but I wrote my excuses, and introduced it myself.
I told him it was a book which Hetty had taken to Brompton, to divert my cousin Richard during his confinement. He was so indifferent about it, that I thought he would not give himself the trouble to read it, and often embarrassed me by unlucky questions, such as, “If it was reckoned clever?” and “What I thought of it?” and “Whether folks laughed at it?” I always evaded any direct or satisfactory answer; but he was so totally free from any idea of suspicion, that my perplexity escaped his notice.
At length, he desired me to begin reading to him. I dared not trust my voice with the little introductory ode, for as that is no romance, but the sincere effusion of my heart, I could as soon read aloud my own letters, written in my own name and character: I therefore skipped it, and have so kept the book out of his sight, that, to this day, he knows not it is there. Indeed, I have, since, heartily repented that I read any of the book to him, for I found it a much more awkward thing than I had expected: my voice quite faltered when I began it, which, however, I passed off for the effect of remaining weakness of lungs; and, in short, from an invincible embarrassment, which I could not for a page together repress, the book, by my reading, lost all manner of spirit.
Nevertheless, though he has by no means treated it with the praise so lavishly bestowed upon it from other quarters, I had the satisfaction to observe that he was even greedily eager to go on with it; so that I flatter myself the story caught his attention: and, indeed, allowing for my mauling reading, he gave it quite as much credit as I had any reason to expect. But, now that I was sensible of my error in being ‘my own mistress of the ceremonies, I determined to leave to Hetty the third volume, and therefore pretended I had not brought it. He was in a delightful ill humour about it, and I enjoyed his impatience far more than I should have done his forbearance. Hetty, therefore, when she comes, has undertaken to bring it.
I have had a visit from my beloved Susy, who, with my mother and little Sally, spent a day here, to my no small satisfaction; and yet I was put into an embarrassment, of which I even yet know not what will be the end, during their short stay: for Mr. Crisp, before my mother, very innocently said, “O! Susan, pray Susette, do send me the third volume of “Evelina”; Fanny brought me the two first on purpose, I believe, to tantalize me.”
I felt myself in a ferment; and Susan, too, looked foolish, and knew not what to answer. As I sat on the same sofa with him, I gave him a gentle shove, as a token, which he could not but understand, that he had said something wrong — though I believe he could not imagine what. Indeed, how should he?
My mother instantly darted forward, and repeated “Evelina, — what’s that, pray?”
Again I jolted Mr. Crisp, who, very much perplexed, said, in a boggling manner, that it was a novel — he supposed from the circulating library — only a “trumpery novel.”
Ah, my dear daddy! thought I, you would have devised some other sort of speech, if you knew all! But he was really, as he well might be, quite at a loss for what I wanted him to say.
“You have had it here, then, have you?” continued my mother.
“Yes — two of the volumes,” said Mr. Crisp.
“What, had you them from the library?” asked my mother.
“No, ma’am,” answered I, horribly frightened, “from my sister.”
The truth is, the books are Susan’s, who bought them the first day of publication; but I did not dare own that, as it would have been almost an acknowledgment of all the rest.
She asked some further questions, to which we made the same sort of answers, and then the matter dropped. Whether it rests upon her mind, or not, I cannot tell.
Two days after, I received from Charlotte a letter the most interesting that could be written to me, for it acquainted me that My dear father was, at length, reading my book, which has now been published six months. How this has come to pass, I am yet in the dark; but, it seems, that the very Moment almost that my mother and Susan and Sally left the house, he desired Charlotte to bring him the “Monthly Review;” she contrived to look over his shoulder as he opened it, which he did at the account of “Evelina; Or, a Young Lady’s Entrance into the World.” He read it with great earnestness, then put it down; and presently after snatched it up, and read it again. Doubtless, his paternal heart felt some agitation for his girl, in reading a review of her publication! — how he got at the name, I cannot imagine.
Soon after he turned to Charlotte, and bidding her come close to him, he put his finger on the word “Evelina,” and saying, she knew what it was, bade her — write down the name, and send th
e man to Lowndes, as if for herself. This she did, and away went William.
He then told Charlotte, that he had never known the name of it till the day before. ’Tis strange how he got at it! He added that I had come off vastly well in this review, except for “the Captain.” Charlotte told him it had also been in “Kenrick’s review,” and he desired her to copy out for him what was said in both of them. He asked her, too, whether I had mentioned the work was by a lady?
When William returned, he took the books from him, and the moment he was gone, opened the first volume — and opened it upon the Ode! How great must have been his astonishment, at seeing himself so addressed! Indeed, Charlotte says he looked all amazement, read a line or two with great eagerness, and then, stopping short, he seemed quite affected, and the tears started into his eyes: dear soul! I am sure they did into mine, nay, I even sobbed, as I read the account.
I believe he was obliged to go out before he advanced much further. But the next day I had a letter from Susan, in which I heard that he had begun reading it with Lady Hales, and Miss Coussmaker, and that they liked it vastly! Lady Hales spoke of it very innocently, in the highest terms, declaring she was sure it was written by somebody in high life, And that it had all the marks of real genius! She added, “he must be a man of great abilities!”
How ridiculous! but Miss Coussmaker was a little nearer the truth, for she gave it as her opinion, that the writer was a woman, for she said there was such a remarkable delicacy in the conversations and descriptions, notwithstanding the grossness and vulgarity of some of the characters, and that all oaths and indelicate words were so carefully, yet naturally avoided, that she could not but suspect the writer was a female; but, she added, notwithstanding the preface declared that the writer never would be known, she hoped, if the book circulated as she expected it would, he or she would be tempted to make a discovery.
Ha! ha! ha!-that’s my answer. They little think how well they are already acquainted with the writer they so much honour! Susan begged to have, then, my father’s real and final opinion; — and it is such that I almost blush to write, even for my own private reading; but yet is such as I can by no means suffer to pass unrecorded, as my whole journal contains nothing so grateful to me. I will copy his own words, according to Susan’s solemn declaration of their authenticity.
“Upon my word I think it the best novel I know, except Fielding’s, and, in some respects, better than his! I have been excessively pleased with it; there are, perhaps a few things that might have been otherwise. Mirvan’s trick upon Lovel is, I think, carried too far, — there is something even disgusting in it: however, this instance excepted, I protest I think it will scarce bear an improvement. The language is as good as anybody need write — I declare, as good as I would wish to read. Lord Orville’s character is just what it should be — perfectly benevolent and upright; and there is a boldness in it that struck me mightily, for he is a man not ashamed of being better than the rest of mankind. Evelina is in a new style too, so perfectly innocent and natural; and the scene between her and her father, Sir John Belmont, is a scene for a tragedy! I blubbered at it, and Lady Hales and Miss Coussmaker are not yet recovered from hearing it, it made them quite ill: indeed, it is wrought up in a most extraordinary manner.”
This account delighted me more than I — can express. How little did I dream of ever being so much honoured! But the approbation of all the world put together, would not bear any competition, in my estimation, with that of my beloved father.
July 25. — Mrs. Cholmondeley has been reading and praising “Evelina,” and my father Is quite delighted at her approbation, and told Susan that I could not have had a greater compliment than making two such women my friends as Mrs. Thrale and Mrs. Cholmondeley, for they were severe and knowing, and afraid of praising a tort et a travers, as their opinions are liable to be quoted.
Mrs. Thrale said she had only to complain it was too short. She recommended it to my mother to read! — how droll! — and she told her she would be much entertained with it, for there was a great deal of human life in it, and of the manners of the present times, and added that it was written “by somebody who knows the top and the bottom, the highest and the lowest of mankind.” She has even lent her set to my mother, who brought it home with her!
By the way, I have again resumed my correspondence with my friend Mr. Lowndes. When I sent the errata I desired to have a set directed to Mr. Grafton, at the Orange Coffee-house, for I had no copy but the one he sent me to make the errata from, which Was incomplete and unbound. However, I heard nothing at all from him; and therefore, after some consideration, and much demure I determined to make an attempt once more; for my father told me it was a shame that I, the author, should not have even one set of my own work; I ought, he said, to have had six: and indeed, he is often enraged that Lowndes gave no more for the MS. — but I was satisfied, — and that sufficed.
I therefore wrote him word, that I supposed, in the hurry of his business, and variety of his concerns, he had forgotten my request, which I now repeated. I also added, that if ever the book went through another edition, I should be glad to have timely notice, as I had some corrections and alterations to propose.
I received an immediate answer, and intelligence from my sisters, that he had sent a set of “Evelina” most elegantly bound. The answer I will copy.
Fleet-street, July 2, 1778.
Sir, — I bound up a set for you the first day I had them, and hoped by some means to hear from you. The Great World send hereto buy “Evelina.” A polite lady said, Do, Mr. Lowndes, give me “Evelina,” I am treated as unfashionable for not having read it. I think the impression will be sold by Christmas. If meantime, or about that time, you favour me with any commands, I shall be proud to observe them. Your obliged servant, J. Lowndes.
To Mr. Grafton.
(Fanny Burney to Miss S. Burney.)
Chesington, Sunday, July 6.
Your letter, my dearest Susan, and the inclosed one from Lovirrides, have flung me into such a vehement perturbation, that I hardly can tell whether I wake or dream, and it is even with difficulty that I can fetch my breath. I have been strolling round the garden three or four times, in hopes of regaining a little quietness. However, I am not very angry at my inward disturbance, though it even exceeds what I experienced from the “Monthly Review.”
My dear Susy, what a wonderful affair has this been, and how extraordinary is this torrent of success, which sweeps down all before it! I often think it too much, nay, almost wish it would happen to some other person, who had more ambition, whose hopes were more sanguine, and who could less have borne to be buried in the oblivion which I even sought. But though it might have been better bestowed, it could by no one be more gratefully received.
Indeed I can’t help being grave upon the subject; for a success so really unexpected almost overpowers me. I wonder at myself that my spirits are not more elated. I believe half the flattery I have had would have made me madly merry; but all serves only to almost depress me by the fullness of heart it occasions. I have been serving Daddy Crisp a pretty trick this morning How he would rail if he found it all out! I had a fancy to dive pretty deeply into the real rank in which he held my book; so I told him that your last letter acquainted me who was reported to be the author of “Evelina.” I added that it was a profound secret, and he must by no means mention it to a human being. He bid me tell him directly, according to his usual style of command — but I insisted upon his guessing.
“I can’t guess,” said he— “may be it is you.”
Odd so! thought I, what do you mean by that?
“Pooh, nonsense!” cried I, “what should make you think of me?”
“Why, you look guilty,” answered he.
This was a horrible home stroke. Deuce take my looks! thought I — I shall owe them a grudge for this! however I found it was a mere random shot, and, without much difficulty, I laughed it to scorn.
And who do you think he guessed next? — My
father! — there’s for you! — and several questions he asked me, whether he had lately been shut up much-and so on. And this was not all — for he afterwards guessed Mrs. Thrale and Mrs. Greville.
There’s honour and glory for you! — I assure you I grinned prodigiously.
July 20. — I have had a letter from Susan. She informs me that my father, when he took the books back to Streatham, actually acquainted Mrs. Thrale with my secret. He took an opportunity, when they were alone together, of saying that Upon her recommendation, he had himself, as well as my mother; been reading “Evelina.”
“Well!” cried she, “and is it not a very pretty book? and a Very clever book? and a very comical book?
“Why,” answered he, “’tis well enough; but I have something to tell you about it.”
“Well? what?” cried she; “has Mrs. Cholmondeley found out the author?”
“No,” returned he, “not that I know of, but I believe I have, though but very lately.”
“Well, pray let’s hear!” cried she, eagerly, “I want to know him of all things.”
How my father must laugh at the him! — He then, however, undeceived her in regard to that particular, by telling her it was “our Fanny!” for she knows all about our family, as my father talks to her of his domestic concerns without any reserve.
A hundred handsome things, of course, followed; and she afterwards read some of the comic parts to Dr. Johnson, Mr. Thrale, and whoever came near her. How I should have quivered had I been there! but they tell me that Dr. Johnson laughed as heartily as my father himself did.
Nothing can be more ridiculous than the scenes in which I am almost perpetually engaged. Mr. Crisp, who is totally without suspicion, says, almost daily, something that has double the meaning he intends to convey; for, as I am often writing, either letters, Italian, or some of my own vagaries, he commonly calls me the scribe, and the authoress; asks when I shall print; says he will have all my works on royal paper, etc.; and the other day, Mrs. Gast, who frequently lectures me about studying too hard, and injuring my health, said —
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