“I thank you, ma’am, I’m much obliged to you.”
But I really believe he spoke without knowing what he was saying.
“What a wonderful command,” said Dr. Delap, very gravely, “that lady must have over herself!”
She now took out a handkerchief, and wiped her eyes.
“Sir Philip,” cried Mr. Seward, “how can you suffer her to dry her own eyes? — you, who sit next her?”
“I dare not dry them for her,” answered he, “because I am not the right man.”
“But if I sat next her,” returned he, “she would not dry them herself.”
“I wish,” cried Dr. Delap, “I had a bottle to put them in; ’tis a thousand pities they should be wasted.”
“There, now,” said Mrs. Thrale, “she looks for all the world as if nothing had happened; for, you know, nothing has happened!”
“Would you cry, Miss Burney,” said Sir Philip, “if we asked you?”
“She can cry, I doubt not,” said Mr. Seward, “on any Proper occasion.”
“But I must know,” said I, “what for.”
I did not say this loud enough for the S. S. to hear me, but if I had, she would not have taken it for the reflection it meant. She seemed, the whole time, totally insensible to the numerous strange and, indeed, impertinent speeches which were made and to be very well satisfied that she was only manifesting a tenderness of disposition, that increased her beauty of countenance. At least, I can put no other construction upon her conduct which was, without exception, the strangest I ever saw. Without any pretence of affliction, — to weep merely because she was bid, though bid in a manner to forbid any one else, — to be in good spirits all the time, — to see the whole company expiring of laughter at her tears, without being at all offended, and, at last, to dry them up, and go on with the same sort of conversation she held before they started!
“EVERYTHING A BORE.”
Sunday, June 20. — While I was sitting with Mr. Thrale, in the library, Mr. Seward entered. As soon as the first inquiries were over, he spoke about what he calls our comedy, and he pressed and teazed me to set about it. But he grew, in the evening, so queer, so ennuye, that, in a fit of absurdity, I called him “Mr. Dry;” and the name took so with Mrs. Thrale, that I know not when he will lose it. Indeed, there is something in this young man’s alternate drollery and lassitude, entertaining qualities and wearying complaints, that provoke me to more pertness than I practise to almost anybody.
The play, he said, should have the double title of “The Indifferent Man, or Everything a Bore;” and I protested Mr. Dry should be the hero. And then we ran on, jointly planning a succession of ridiculous scenes; — he lashing himself pretty freely though not half so freely, or so much to the purpose, as I lashed him; for I attacked him, through the channel of Mr. Dry, upon his ennui, his causeless melancholy, his complaining languors, his yawning inattention, and his restless discontent. You may easily imagine I was in pretty high spirits to go so far: in truth, nothing else could either have prompted or excused my facetiousness: and his own manners are so cavalier, that they always, with me, stimulate a sympathising return.
He repeatedly begged me to go to work, and commit the projected scenes to paper: but I thought that might be carrying the jest too far; for as I was in no humour to spare him, written raillery might, perhaps, have been less to his taste than verbal.
He challenged me to meet him the next morning, before breakfast, in the library, that we might work together at some scenes, but I thought it as well to let the matter drop, and did not make my entry till they were all assembled.
He, however, ran upon nothing else; and, as soon as we happened to be left together, he again attacked me.
“Come,” said he, “have you nothing ready yet? I dare say you have half an act in your pocket.”
“No,” quoth I, “I have quite forgot the whole business; I was only in the humour for it last night.”
“How shall it begin?” cried he; “with Mr. Dry in his study? — his slippers just on, his hair about his ears, — exclaiming, ‘O what a bore is life! — What is to be done next?”
“Next?” cried I, “what, before he has done anything at all?”
“Oh, he has dressed himself, you know. — Well, then he takes up a book—”
“For example, this,” cried I, giving him Clarendon’s History.
He took it up in character, and flinging it away, cried
“No — this will never do, — a history by a party writer is vidious.”
I then gave him Robertson’s “America.”
“This,” cried he, “is of all reading the most melancholy; — an account of possessions we have lost by our own folly.”
I then gave him Baretti’s “Spanish Travels.”
“Who,” cried he, flinging it aside, “can read travels by a fellow who never speaks a word of truth.”
Then I gave him a volume of “Clarissa.”
“Pho,” cried he, “a novel writ by a bookseller! — there is but one novel now one can bear to read, — and that’s written by a young lady.”
I hastened to stop him with Dalrymple’s Memoirs, and then proceeded to give him various others, upon all which he made severe, splenetic, yet comical comments; — and we continued thus employed till he was summoned to accompany Mr. Thrale to town.
The next morning, Wednesday, I had some very serious talk with Mr. Seward, — and such as gave me no inclination for railery, though it was concerning his ennui on the contrary, I resolved, at that moment, never to rally him upon that subject again, for his account of himself filled me with compassion.
He told me that he had never been well for three hours in a day in his life, and that when he was thought only tired he was really so ill that he believed scarce another man would stay in company. I was quite shocked at this account, and told him, honestly, that I had done him so little justice as to attribute all his languors to affectation.
PROPOSED MATCH BETWEEN MR. SEWARD AND THE WEEPER-AT-WILL.
When Mrs. Thrale joined us, Mr. Seward told us he had just seen Dr. Jebb. — Sir Richard, I mean, — and that he had advised him to marry.
“No,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “that will do nothing for you; but if you should marry, I have a wife for you.”
“Who?” cried he, “the S. S.?”
“The S. S.? — no! — she’s the last person for you, — her extreme softness, and tenderness, and weeping, would add languor to languor, and irritate all your disorders; ’twould be drink to a dropsical man.”
“No, no, — it would soothe me.”
“Not a whit! it would only fatigue you. The wife for you is Lady Anne Lindsay. She has birth, wit, and beauty, she has no fortune, and she’d readily accept you; and she is such a spirit that she’d animate you, I warrant you! O, she would trim you well! you’d be all alive presently. She’d take all the care of the money affairs, — and allow you out of them eighteen pence a week! That’s the wife for you!”
Mr. Seward was by no means “agreeable” to the proposal; he turned the conversation upon the S. S., and gave us an account of two visits he had made her, and spoke in favour of her manner of living, temper, and character. When he had run on in this strain for some time, Mrs. Thrale cried,
“Well, so you are grown very fond of her?”
“Oh dear, no!” answered he, drily, “not at all!”
“Why, I began to think,” said Mrs. Thrale, “you intended to supplant the parson.”
“No, I don’t: I don’t know what sort of an old woman she’d make; the tears won’t do then. Besides, I don’t think her so sensible as I used to do.”
“But she’s very pleasing,” cried I, “and very amiable.”
“Yes, she’s pleasing, — that’s certain; but I don’t think she reads much; the Greek has spoilt her.”
“Well, but you can read for yourself.”
“That’s true; but does she work well?”
“I believe she does, and that’s a bett
er thing.”
“Ay; so it is,” said he, saucily, “for ladies; ladies should rather write than read.”
“But authors,” cried I, “before they write should read.”
Returning again to the S. S., and being again rallied about her by Mrs. Thrale, who said she believed at last he would end there, — he said,
“Why, if I must marry — if I was bid to choose between that and racking on the wheel, I believe I should go to her.”
We all laughed at this exquisite compliment; but, as he said, it was a compliment, for though it proved no passion for her, it proved a preference.
“However,” he continued, “it won’t do.”
“Upon my word,” exclaimed I, “you settle it all your own way! — the lady would be ready at any rate!”
“Oh yes! any man might marry Sophy Streatfield.”
I quite stopt to exclaim against him.
“I mean,” said he, “if he’d pay his court to her.”
THE FATE OF “THE WITLINGS.”
FANNY BURNEY to MR. CRISP.
Friday, July 30. — This seems a strange, unseasonable period for my undertaking, but yet, my dear daddy, when you have read my conversation with Mr. Sheridan, I believe you will agree that I must have been wholly insensible, nay, almost ungrateful, to resist encouragement such as he gave me — nay, more than encouragement, entreaties, all of which he warmly repeated to my father.
Now, as to the play itself, I own I had wished to have been the bearer of it when I visit Chesington; but you seem so urgent, and my father himself is so desirous to carry it you, that I have given that plan up.
O my dear daddy, if your next letter were to contain your real opinion of it, how should I dread to open it! Be, however, as honest as your good nature and delicacy will allow you to be, and assure yourself I shall be very certain that all your criticisms will proceed from your earnest wishes to obviate those of others, and that you would have much more pleasure in being my panegyrist.
As to Mrs. Gast, I should be glad to know what I would refuse to a sister of yours. Make her, therefore, of your coterie, if she is with you while the piece is in your possession.
And now let me tell you what I wish in regard to this affair. I should like that your first reading should have nothing to do with me — that you should go quick through it, or let my father read it to you — forgetting all the time, as much as you can, that Fannikin is the writer, or even that it is a play in manuscript, and capable of alterations; — and then, when you have done, I should like to have three lines, telling me, as nearly as you can trust my candour, its general effect. After that take it to your own desk, and lash it at your leisure.
FANNY BURNEY to DR. BURNEY.
The fatal knell, then, is knolled, and down among the dead men sink the poor “Witlings” — for ever, and for ever, and for ever!
I give a sigh, whether I will or not, to their memory! for, however worthless, they were mes enfans. You, my dear sir, who enjoyed, I really think, even more than myself, the astonishing success of my first attempt, would, I believe, even more than myself, be hurt at the failure of my second; and I am sure I speak from the bottom of a very honest heart, when I most solemnly declare, that upon your account any disgrace would mortify and afflict me more than upon my own; for whatever appears with your knowledge, will be naturally supposed to have met with your approbation, and, perhaps, your assistance; therefore, though all particular censure would fall where it ought — upon me — yet any general censure of the whole, and the plan, would cruelly, but certainly involve you in its severity.
You bid me open my heart to you, — and so, my dearest sir, I will, for it is the greatest happiness of my life that I dare be sincere to you. I expected many objections to be raised — a thousand errors to be pointed out — and a million of alterations to be proposed; but the suppression of the piece were words I did not expect; indeed, after the warm approbation of Mrs. Thrale, and the repeated commendations and flattery of Mr. Murphy, how could I?
I do not, therefore, pretend to wish you should think a decision, for which I was so little prepared, has given me no disturbance; for I must be a far more egregious witling than any of those I tried to draw, to imagine you could ever credit that I wrote without some remote hope of success now — though I literally did when I composed “Evelina”!
But my mortification is not at throwing away the characters, or the contrivance; — it is all at throwing away the time, — which I with difficulty stole, and which I have buried in the mere trouble of writing.
FANNY BURNEY to MR. CRISP.
Well! there are plays that are to be saved, and plays that are not to be saved! so good night, Mr. Dabbler! — good night, Lady Smatter, — Mrs. Sapient, — Mrs. Voluble, — Mrs. Wheedle, — Censor, — Cecilia, — Beaufort, — and you, you great oaf, Bobby! — good night! good night!
And good morning, Miss Fanny Burney! — I hope you have opened your eyes for some time, and will not close them in so drowsy a fit again — at least till the full of the moon.
I won’t tell you, I have been absolutely ravished with delight at the fall of the curtain; but I intend to take the affair in the tant mieux manner, and to console myself for your censure by this greatest proof I have ever received of the sincerity, candour, and, let me add, esteem, of my dear daddy. And as I happen to love myself rather more than my play, this consolation is not a very trifling one.
As to all you say of my reputation and so forth, I perceive the kindness of your endeavours to put me in humour with myself, and prevent my taking huff, which, if I did, I should deserve to receive, upon any future trial, hollow praise from you, — and the rest from the public.
The only bad thing in this affair is, that I cannot take the comfort of my poor friend Dabbler, by calling you a crabbed fellow, because you write with almost more kindness than ever; neither can I (though I try hard) persuade myself that you have not a grain of taste in your whole composition. This, however, seriously I do believe, that when my two daddies put their heads together to concert for me that hissing, groaning, catcalling epistle they sent me, they felt as sorry for poor little Miss Bayes as she could possibly do for herself.
“QUITE WHAT WE CALL,” AND “GIVE ME LEAVE To TELL YOU.”
We had Lady Ladd at Streatham; Mr. Stephen Fuller, the sensible, but deaf old gentleman I have formerly mentioned, dined here also; as did Mr. R — , whose trite, settled, tonish emptiness of discourse is a never-failing source of laughter and diversion.
“Well, I say, what, Miss Burney, so you had a very good party last Tuesday? — what we call the family party — in that sort of way? Pray who had you?”
“Mr. Chamier.”
“Mr. Chamier, ay? Give me leave to tell you, Miss Burney, that Mr. Chamier is what we call a very sensible man!”
“Certainly. And Mr. Pepys.”
“Mr. Pepys? Ay, very good — very good in that sort of way. I am quite sorry I could not be here; but I was so much indisposed — quite what we call the nursing party.”
“I’m very sorry; but I hope little Sharp is well?
“Ma’am, your most humble! you’re a very good lady, indeed! — quite what we call a good lady! Little Sharp is perfectly well: that sort of attention, and things of that sort, — the bow-wow system is very well. But pray, Miss Burney, give me leave to ask, in that sort of way, had you anybody else?”
“Yes, Lady Ladd and Mr. Seward.”
“So, so! — quite the family system! Give me leave to tell you, Miss Burney, this commands attention! — what we call a respectable invitation! I am sorry I could not come, indeed; for we young men, Miss Burney, we make it what we call a sort of rule to take notice of this sort of attention. But I was extremely indisposed, indeed — what we call the walnut system had quite — Pray what’s the news, Miss Burney? — in that sort of way, is there any news?”
“None, that I have heard. Have you heard any?”
“Why, very bad! very bad, indeed! — quite what we call
poor old England! I was told, in town, — fact — fact, I assure you — that these Dons intend us an invasion this very month, they and the Monsieurs intend us the respectable salute this very month; — the powder system, in that sort of way! Give me leave to tell you, Miss Burney, this is what we call a disagreeable visit, in that sort of way.”
I think, if possible, his language looks more absurd upon paper even than it sounds in conversation, from the perpetual recurrence of the same words and expressions —
THE CRYING BEAUTY AND HER MOTHER.
Brighthelmstone, October 12. — On Tuesday Mr., Mrs., Miss Thrale, and “yours, ma’am, yours,” set out on their expedition. The day was very pleasant, and the journey delightful.
We dined very comfortably at Sevenoaks, and thence made but one stage to Tunbridge. It was so dark when we went through the town that I could see it very indistinctly. The Wells, however, are about seven miles yet further, so that we saw that night nothing; but I assure you, I felt that I was entering into a new country pretty roughly, for the roads were so sidelum and jumblum, as Miss L — called those of Teignmouth, that I expected an overturn every minute. Safely, however, we reached the Sussex Hotel, at Tunbridge Wells.
Having looked at our rooms, and arranged our affairs, we proceeded to Mount Ephraim, where Miss Streatfield resides. We found her with only her mother, and spent the evening there.
Mrs. Streatfield is very — very little, but perfectly well made, thin, genteel, and delicate. She has been quite beautiful, and has still so much of beauty left, that to call it only the remains of a fine face seems hardly doing her justice. She is very lively, and an excellent mimic, and is, I think, as much superior to her daughter in natural gifts as her daughter is to her in acquired ones: and how infinitely preferable are parts without education to education without parts!
The fair S. S. is really in higher beauty than I have ever yet seen her; and she was so caressing, so soft, so amiable, that I felt myself insensibly inclining to her with an affectionate regard. “If it was not for that little, gush,” as Dr. Delap said, I should certainly have taken a very great fancy to her; but tears so ready — oh, they blot out my fair opinion of her! Yet whenever I am with her, I like, nay, almost love her, for her manners are exceedingly captivating; but when I quit her, I do not find that she improves by being thought over — no, nor talked over; for Mrs. Thrale, who is always disposed to half adore her in her presence, can never converse about her without exciting her own contempt by recapitulating what has passed. This, however, must always be certain, whatever may be doubtful, that she is a girl in no respect like any other.
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 529