Monday, November 4. — This was a grand and busy day. Mr. Swinerton has been some time arranging a meeting for all our house, with Lady De Ferrars, whom you may remember as Charlotte Ellerker, and her lord and sisters: and this morning it took place, by mutual appointment, at his lodgings, where we met to breakfast. Dr. Johnson, who already knew Lord De Ferrars, and Mrs. and Miss Thrale, and myself, arrived first and then came the Lord and Lady, and Miss Ellerker and her youngest sister, Harriet. Lord De Ferrars is very ugly, but extremely well-bred, gentle, unassuming, sensible, and pleasing. His lady is much improved since we knew her in former days, and seems good-humoured, lively, and rather agreeable. Miss Ellerker is nothing altered.
I happened to be standing by Dr. Johnson when all the ladies came in; but, as I dread him before strangers, from the staring attention he attracts both for himself and all with whom he talks, I endeavoured to change my ground. However, he kept prating a sort of comical nonsense that detained me some minutes whether I would or not; but when we were all taking places at the breakfast-table I made another effort to escape. It proved vain; he drew his chair next to mine, and went rattling on in a humorous sort of comparison he was drawing of himself to me, — not one word of which could I enjoy, or can I remember, from the hurry I was in to get out of his way. In short, I felt so awkward from being thus marked out, that I was reduced to whisper a request to Mr. Swinerton to put a chair between us, for which I presently made a space: for I have often known him stop all conversation with me, when he has ceased to have me for his next neighbour. Mr. Swinerton who is an extremely good-natured young man, and so intimate here that I make no scruple with him, instantly complied, and placed himself between us.
But no sooner was this done, than Dr. Johnson, half seriously, and very loudly, took him to task.
“‘How now, sir! what do you mean by this? Would you separate me from Miss Burney?”
Mr. Swinerton, a little startled, began some apologies, and Mrs. Thrale winked at him to give up the place; but he was willing to oblige me, though he grew more and more frightened every minute, and coloured violently as the Doctor continued his remonstrance, which he did with rather unmerciful raillery, upon his taking advantage of being in his own house to thus supplant him, and cram; but when he had borne it for about ten minutes, his face became so hot with the fear of hearing something worse, that he ran from the field, and took a chair between Lady De Ferrars and Mrs. Thrale.
I think I shall take warning by this failure, to trust only to my own expedients for avoiding his public notice in future. However it stopped here; for Lord De Ferrars came in, and took the disputed place without knowing of the contest, and all was quiet.
MISS BURNEY WILL NOT BE PERSUADED TO DANCE.
... Late as it was, it was settled we should go to the ball, the last for the season being this night. My own objections about going not being strong enough to combat the ado my mentioning them would have occasioned, I joined in the party, without demur.
The ball was half over, and all the company seated to tea. Mr. Wade came to receive us all, as usual, and we had a table procured for us, and went to tea ourselves, for something to do. When this repast was over, the company returned to their recreation. The room was very thin, and almost half the ladies danced with one another, though there were men enough present, I believe, had they chosen such exertion; but the Meadowses at balls are in crowds. Some of the ladies were in riding habits, and they made admirable men. ’Tis tonnish to be so much undressed at the last ball.
None of our usual friends, the Shelleys, Hatsels, Dickens, or Pepys, were here, and we, therefore, made no party — but Mrs. Thrale and I stood at the top of the room to look on the dancing, and as we were thus disengaged, she was seized with a violent desire to make one among them, and I felt myself an equal inclination. She proposed, as so many women danced together, that we two should, and nothing should I have liked so well; but I begged her to give up the scheme, as that would have occasioned more fuss and observation than our dancing with all the men that ever were born.
While we were debating this matter, a gentleman suddenly said to me,— “Did you walk far this morning, Miss Burney?” And, looking at him, I saw Mr. Metcalf, whose graciousness rather surprised me, for he only made to Mrs. Thrale a cold and distant bow, and it seems he declares, aloud and around, his aversion to literary ladies. That he can endure, and even seek me is, I presume, only from the general perverseness of mankind, because he sees I have always turned from him; not, however, from disliking him, for he is a shrewd, sensible, keen, and very clever man; but merely from a dryness on his own side that has excited retaliation.
“Yes,” I answered, “we walked a good way.”
“Dr. Johnson,” said he, “told me in the morning you were no walker; but I informed him then I had had the pleasure of seeing you upon the Newmarket Hill.”
“Oh, he does not know,” cried I, “whether I am a walker or not — he does not see me walk, because he never walks himself.”...
Here he was called away by some gentleman, but presently came to me again.
“Miss Burney,” he said, “shall you dance?”
“No, sir, not to-night.”
“A gentleman,” he added, “has desired me to speak to you for him.”
Now, Susanna, for the grand moment! — the height — the zenith of my glory in the ton meridian! I again said I did not mean to dance, and to silence all objection, he expressively said, —
“Tis Captain Kaye who sends me.”
Is not this magnificent? Pray congratulate me!
I was really very much surprised, but repeated my refusal, with all customary civilities to soften it. He was leaving me with this answer, when this most flashy young officer, choosing to trust his cause to himself, came forward, and desired to be introduced to me. Mr. Metcalf performed that ceremony, and he then, with as much respect and deference as if soliciting a countess, said, —
“May I flatter myself you will do me the honour of dancing with me?”
I thanked him, and said the same thing over again. He looked much disappointed, and very unwilling to give up his plan.
“If you have not,” he said, “any particular dislike to dancing, it will be doing, not only me, but the whole room much honour, if you will make one in a set.”
“You do me much honour, sir,” I answered, “but I must beg you to excuse me.”
“I hope not,” cried he, “I hope out of charity you will dance, as it is the last ball, and the company is so thin.”
“Oh, it will do very well without me; Mr. Wade himself says he dies to-night a very respectable death.”
“And will you not have the goodness to help it on a little in its last stage?”
“No,” said I, laughing; “why should we wish it to be kept lingering?”
“Lingering!” repeated he, looking round at the dancers, “no, surely it is not quite so desperate; and if you will but join in, you will give it new existence.”
I was a little thrown off my guard at this unexpected earnestness, so different to the ton of the day, and I began hardly to know what to answer, my real objection being such as I could by no means publish, though his urgency and his politeness joined would have made me give up any other.
“This is a very quiet dance,” he continued, “there is nothing fatiguing in it.”
“You are very good,” said I, “but I cannot really dance to-night.”
I was sorry to seem so obstinate, but he was just the man to make every body inquire whom he danced with; and any one who wished for general attention could do no better than to be his partner. The ever-mischievous Mrs. Thrale, calling to Mr. Selwyn, who stood by us, said, —
“Why, here’s a man in love! — quite, downright in love with Miss Burney, if ever I saw one!”
“He is quite mortified, at least,” he answered; “I never saw a man look more mortified.”
“Well, he did not deserve it,” said she; “he knew how to beg, and he ought not t
o have been so served.”
I begged her to be silent, for Mr. Metcalf returned to me.
“Were you too much tired,” he said, “with your walk this morning, to try at a dance?”
I excused myself as well as I could, and we presently went into the card-room to vary the scene. When we returned to the ball-room I was very glad to see my new captain had just taken out Lady Anne Lindsay, who is here with Lady Margaret Fordyce, and who dances remarkably well, and was every way a more suitable partner for him. He was to leave the town, with his regiment, the next day.
Tuesday. — Mrs. Thrale took me out to walk with her. We met Lady De Ferrars and Miss Ellerker in our ramble, and the very moment the ball was mentioned, this dear and queer creature called out, —
“Ay, there was a sad ado, ladies dancing with ladies, and all sorts of odd things; and that handsome and fine Mr. Kaye broke his heart almost to dance with Miss Burney; but she refused him, and so, in despair, he took out Lady Anne Lindsay.”
DR. JOHNSON HELD IN GENERAL DREAD.
Thursday. — Mr. Metcalf called upon Dr. Johnson, and took him out for an airing. Mr. Hamilton is gone, and Mr. Metcalf is now the only person out of this house that voluntarily communicates with the doctor. He has been in a terrible severe humour of late, and has really frightened all the people, till they almost ran from him. To me only I think he is now kind, for Mrs. Thrale fares worse than anybody. ’Tis very strange and very melancholy that he will not a little more accommodate his manners and language to those of other people. He likes Mr. Metcalf, however, and so do I, for he is very clever and entertaining when he pleases.
Poor Dr. Delap confessed to us, that the reason he now came so seldom, though he formerly almost lived with us when at this place, was his being too unwell to cope with Dr. Johnson. And the other day Mr. Selwyn having refused an invitation from Mr. Hamilton to meet the doctor, because he preferred being here upon a day when he was out, suddenly rose at the time he was expected to return, and said he must run away, “for fear the doctor should call him to account.”
SHORT, FAT, HANDSOME MISS MONCKTON: DUCAL INDIFFERENCE.
Sunday, November 10, brings in a new person. The e Honourable Miss Monckton, who is here with her mother, the Dowager Lady Galway, has sent various messages of her earnest desire to be acquainted with Mrs. Thrale and your humble servant to command. Dr. Johnson ‘she already knew,’ for she is one of those who stand foremost in collecting all extraordinary or curious people to her London conversaziones, which, like those of Mrs. Vesey, mix the rank and file literature, and exclude all beside. Well — after divers intimations of this sort, it was at last settled that Lady De Ferrars should bring her here this morning.
In the evening came Lady De Ferrars, Miss Monckton, and Miss Ellerker. Miss Monckton is between thirty and forty very short, very fat, but handsome; splendidly and fantastically dressed, rouged not unbecomingly, yet evidently and palpably desirous of gaining notice and admiration. She has an easy levity in her air, manner, voice, and discourse, that speak all within to be comfortable; and her rage of seeing anything curious may be satisfied, if she pleases, by looking in a mirror.
I can give you no account of the conversation, as it was broken, and not entertaining. Miss Monckton went early, having another engagement, but the other ladies stayed very late. She told us, however, one story extremely well worth recalling. The Duke of Devonshire was standing near a very fine glass lustre in a corner of a room, at an assembly, and in a house of people who, Miss Monckton said, were by no means in a style of life to hold expense as immaterial; and, by carelessly lolling back, he threw the lustre down and it was broke. He shewed not, however, the smallest concern or confusion at the accident, but coolly said, “I wonder how I did that!” He then removed to the opposite corner, and to shew, I suppose, he had forgotten what he had done, leaned his head in the same manner, and down came the opposite lustre! He looked at it very calmly, and, with a philosophical dryness, merely said, “This is singular enough!” and walked to another part of the room, without either distress or apology.
MISS MONCKTON’S ASSEMBLY: SACQUES AND RUFFLES.
December 8. — Now for Miss Monckton’s assembly.
I had begged Mrs. Thrale to call for me, that I might have her countenance and assistance upon my entrance. Miss Thrale came also. Every thing was in a new style. We got out of the coach into a hall full of servants, not one of which inquired our names, or took any notice of us. We proceeded, and went upstairs, and, when we arrived at a door, stopped and looked behind us. No servant had followed or preceded us. We deliberated what was to be done. To announce ourselves was rather awkward, neither could we be sure we were going into the right apartment. I proposed going up higher, till we met with somebody; Miss Thrale thought we should go down and call some of the servants; but Mrs. Thrale, after a ridiculous consultation, determined to try her fortune by opening the door. This being done, we entered a room full of tea-things, and one maid-servant.
“Well,” cried Mrs. Thrale, laughing, “what is to be done now? I suppose we are come so early that nothing is ready.”
The maid stared, but said,— “There’s company in the next room.”
Then we considered again how to make ourselves known; and then Mrs. Thrale again resolved to take courage and enter. She therefore opened another door, and went into another apartment. I held back, but looked after, and observing that she made no curtsey, concluded she was gone into some wrong place. Miss Thrale followed, and after her went little I, wondering who was to receive, or what was to become of us.
Miss Monckton lives with her mother, the old Dowager Lady Galway, in a noble house in Charles-street, Berkeleysquare, The room was large and magnificent. There was not much company, for we were very early. Lady Galway sat at the side of the fire, and received nobody. She seems very old, and was dressed with a little round white cap, and not a single hair, no cushlori, roll, nor any thing else but the little round cap, which was flat upon her forehead. Such part of the company as already knew her made their compliments to her where she sat, and the rest were never taken up to her, but belonged wholly to Miss Monckton.
Miss Monckton’s own manner of receiving her guests was scarce more laborious; for she kept her seat when they entered, and only turned round her head to nod it, and say “How do you do?” after which they found what accommodation they could for themselves.
As soon, however, as she perceived Mrs. and Miss Thrale, which was not till they had been some minutes in the room, she arose to welcome them, contrary to her general Custom, and merely because it was their first visit. Our long train making my entrance some time after theirs, gave me the advantage of being immediately seen by her, and she advanced to me with quickness, and very politely thanked me for coming, and said, —
“I fear you think me very rude for taking the liberty of sending to you.”
“No, indeed, you did me much honour,” quoth I.
She then broke further into her general rules, by making way for me to a good place, and seating me herself, and then taking a chair next me, and beginning a little chat. I really felt myself much obliged to her for this seasonable attention, for I was presently separated from Mrs. Thrale, and entirely surrounded by strangers, all dressed superbly, and all looking saucily; and as nobody’s names were spoken, I had no chance to discover any acquaintances. Mr. Metcalf, indeed, came and spoke to me the instant I came in, and I should have been very happy to have had him for my neighbour; but he was engaged in attending to Dr. Johnson, who was standing near the fire, and environed with listeners.
Some new people now coming in, and placing themselves in a regular way, Miss Monckton exclaimed,— “My whole care is to prevent a circle;” and hastily rising, she pulled about the chairs, and planted the people in groups, with as dexterous a disorder as you would desire to see.
The company in general were dressed with more brilliancy than at any rout I ever was at, as most of them were going to the Duchess of Cumberland’s, and at
tired for that purpose. Just behind me sat Mrs. Hampden, still very beautiful, but insufferably affected. Another lady, in full dress, and very pretty, came in soon after, and got herself a chair just before me; and then a conversation began between her and Mrs. Hampden, of which I will give you a specimen.
“How disagreeable these sacques are! I am so incommoded with these nasty ruffles! I am going to Cumberland House — are you?”
“To be sure,” said Mrs. Hampden, “what else, do you think, would make me bear this weight of dress? I can’t bear a sacque.”
“Why, I thought you said you should always wear them?”
“Oh, yes, but I have changed my mind since then — as many people do.”
“Well, I think it vastly disagreeable indeed,” said the other, “you can’t think how I am encumbered with these ruffles!”
“Oh I am quite oppressed with them,” said Mrs. Hampden, “I can hardly bear myself up.”
“And I dined in this way!” cried the other; “only think — dining in a sacque!”
“Oh,” answered Mrs. Hampden, “it really puts me quite out of spirits.”
After this they found some subject less popular, and the lady unknown leaned over me, without any ceremony, to whisper with Mrs. Hampden. I should have offered her my place if she had made any apology, but as it was, I thought she might take her own way. In the course of the evening, however, I had the pleasure to observe a striking change in her manners; for as soon as she picked up, I know not how, my name, she ceased her whispering, looked at me with the civilest smiles, spoke to me two or three times, and calling to a fine beau, said —
“Do pray sit this way, that you may screen Miss Burney as well as me from that fire.”
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 541