Complete Works of Frances Burney

by Frances Burney

  MRS. THRALE’S SECOND MARRIAGE.

  MRS. THRALE to FANNY BURNEY

  Mortimer-st., Cavendish-sq.

  Tuesday night, May 1784.

  I am come, dearest Burney. It is neither dream nor fiction, though I love you dearly, or I would not have come. Absence and distance do nothing towards wearing out real affection so you shall always find it in your true and tender H. L. T.

  I am somewhat shaken bodily, but ’tis the mental shocks that have made me unable to bear the corporeal ones. ’Tis past ten o’clock, however, and I must lay myself down with the sweet expectation of seeing my charming friend in the morning to breakfast. I love Dr. Burney too well to fear him, and he loves me too well to say a word which should make me love him less.

  May 17. — Let me now, my Susy, acquaint you a little more connectedly than I have done of late how I have gone on. The rest of that week I devoted almost wholly to sweet Mrs. Thrale, whose society was truly the most delightful of cordials to me, however, at times, mixed with bitters the least palatable. Were I not sensible of her goodness, and full of incurable affection for her, should I not be a monster?...

  I parted most reluctantly with my dear Mrs. Thrale, whom, when or how I shall see again heaven only knows! but in sorrow we parted — on my side in real affliction.

  [Towards the end of July in this year, Mrs. Thrale’s second

  marriage took place with Mr. Piozzi, and Miss Burney went

  about the same time to Norbury Park, where she passed some

  weeks with Mr and Mrs. Locke. The following “sketch” of a

  letter, and memorandum of what had recently passed between

  Mrs. Piozzi and herself, is from the journal of that

  period.]

  FANNY BURNEY to MRS. PIOZZI

  Norbury Park,

  Aug. 10, 1784.

  When my wondering eyes first looked over the letter I received last night, my mind instantly dictated a high-spirited vindication of the consistency, integrity, and faithfulness of the friendship thus abruptly reproached and cast away. But a sleepless night gave me leisure to recollect that you were ever as generous as precipitate, and that your own heart would do justice to mine, in the cooler judgment of future reflection. Committing myself, therefore, to that period, I determined Simply to assure you, that if my last letter hurt either you or Mr. Piozzi, I am no less sorry than surprised; and that if it offended you, I sincerely beg your pardon.

  Not to that time, however, can I wait to acknowledge the pain an accusation so unexpected has caused me, nor the heartfelt satisfaction with which I shall receive, when you are able to write it, a softer renewal of regard.

  May heaven direct and bless you! F. B.

  N.B. — This is the sketch of the answer which F. B. most

  painfully wrote to the unmerited reproach of not sending

  “cordial congratulations” upon a marriage which she had

  uniformly, openly, and with deep and avowed affliction,

  thought wrong.

  MRS. PIOZZI to FANNY BURNEY

  Wellbeck-st., NO, 33, Cavendish-sq.,

  Friday, Aug. 13, 1784.

  Give yourself no serious concern, sweetest Burney. All is well, and I am too happy myself to make a friend otherwise; quiet your kind heart immediately, and love my husband if you love his and your H. L. Piozzi.

  N.B. — To this kind note, F. B. wrote the warmest and most

  affectionate and heartfelt reply; but never received another

  word! And here and thus stopped a correspondence of six

  years of almost unequalled partiality, and fondness on her

  side; and affection, gratitude, admiration, and sincerity

  on that of ‘F. B., who could only conjecture the cessation

  to be caused by the resentment of Piozzi, when informed of

  her constant opposition to the union.

  A HAPPY HOME.

  Friday, Oct. 8. — I set off with my dear father for Chesington, where we passed five days very comfortably; my father was all good humour, all himself, — such as you and I mean by that word. The next day we had the blessing of your Dover letter and on Thursday, Oct.:14, I arrived at dear Norbury Park at about seven o’clock, after a pleasant ride in the dark. Locke most kindly and cordially welcomed me; he came out upon the steps to receive me, and his beloved Fredy waited for me in the vestibule. Oh, with what tenderness did she take me to her bosom! I felt melted with her kindness, but I could not express a joy like hers, for my heart was very full of my dearest Susan, whose image seemed before me upon the spot where we had so lately been together. They told me that Madame de la Fite, her daughter, and Mr. Hinde, were in the house; but as I am now, I hope, come for a long time, I did not vex at hearing this. Their first inquiries were if I had not heard from Boulogne.

  Saturday. — I fully expected a letter, but none came; but Sunday I depended upon one. The post, however, did not arrive before we went to church. Madame de la Fite, seeing my sorrowful looks, good naturedly asked Mrs. Locke what could be set about to divert a little la pauvre Mademoiselle Beurney? and proposed reading a drama of Madame de Genlis. I approved it much, preferring it greatly to conversation and accordingly, she and her daughter, each taking characters to themselves, read “La Rosire de Salency.” It is a very interesting and touchingly simple little drama. I was so much pleased that they afterwards regularly read one every evening while they stayed.

  Next morning I went up stairs as usual, to treat myself with a solo of impatience for the post, and at about twelve o’clock I heard Mrs. Locke stepping along the passage. I was sure of good news, for I knew, if there was bad, poor Mr. Locke would have brought it. She came in, with three letters in her hand, and three thousand dimples in her cheeks and chin! Oh, my dear Susy, what a sight to me was your hand! I hardly cared for the letter; I hardly desired to open it; the direction alone almost satisfied me sufficiently. How did Mrs. Locke embrace me! I half kissed her to death. O Then came dear Mr. Locke, his eyes brighter than ever— “Well, how does she do?”

  This question forced me to open my letter; all was just as I could wish, except that I regretted the having written the day before such a lamentation. I was so congratulated! I shook hands with Mr. Locke; the two dear little girls came jumping to wish me joy and Mrs. Locke ordered a fiddler, that they might have a dance in the evening, which had been promised them from the time of Mademoiselle de la Fite’s arrival, but postponed from day to day, by general desire, on account of my uneasiness.

  Monday, Oct. 25 — Mr. Hinde and Madame and Mademoiselle de la Fite all left us. They were all so good humoured and so happy, there was no being glad; though how to be sorry at remaining alone with this family, I really know not. Both the De la Fites went away in tears. I love them for it.

  Wednesday, Nov. 3 — This day has brought ine another sweet letter from my Susy. What a set of broken-fortuned, broken-charactered people of fashion are about you at Boulogne. The accounts are at once curious and melancholy to me.

  Nothing can be more truly pleasant than our present lives. I bury all disquietudes in immediate enjoyment; an enjoyment more fitted to my secret mind than any I had ever hoped to attain. We are so perfectly tranquil, that not a particle of our whole frames seems ruffled or discomposed., Mr. Locke is gayer and more sportive than I ever have seen him; his Freddy seems made up of happiness; and the two dear little girls are in spirits almost ecstatic; and all from that internal contentment which Norbury Park seems to have gathered from all corners of the world into its own sphere.

  Our mornings, if fine, are to ourselves, as Mr. Locke rides out; if bad, we assemble in the picture room. We have two books in public reading: Madame de Sevigne’s “Letters,” and Cook’s last “Voyage.” Mrs. Locke reads the French, myself the English.

  Our conversations, too, are such as I could almost wish to last for ever. Mr. Locke has been all himself, — all instruction, information, and intelligence, — since we have been left alone; and the invariable swee
tness, as well as judgment, of all he says, leaves, indeed, nothing to wish. They will not let me go while I can stay, and I am now most willing to stay till I must go. The serenity of a life like this, smoothes the whole internal surface of the mind. My own I assure you, begins to feel quite glossy. To see Mrs. Locke so entirely restored to total health, and to see her adoring husband lose all his torturing Solicitude, while he retains his Unparalleled tenderness-these are sights to anticipate a taste of paradise, if paradise has any felicity consonant to our now ideas.

  Tuesday, Nov. 9. — This is Mr. William Locke’s birthday; he is now seventeen. He came home, with his brothers, to keep it, three days ago. May they all be as long-lived and as happy as they are now sweet and amiable! This sweet place is beautiful even yet, though no longer of a beauty young and blooming, such as you left it; but the character Of the prospect is so ‘grand that winter cannot annihilate its charms, though it greatly diminishes them. The variety of the grounds, and the striking form of the hills, always afford something new to observe, and contain something lasting to admire. Were I, however, in a desert, people such as these would make it gay and cheery.

  LADY F.’s ANGER AT MRS. PIOZZI’S MARRIAGE.

  FANNY BURNEY TO MRS. LOCKE.

  St. Martin’s-st.,

  Nov. 14.

  ... I had a very unpleasant morning after I left you. When the coach and I had waited upon my father, I made the visit I mentioned to you. O what a visit! — all that I pre-supposed of attack, inquiry, and acrimony, was nothing to what passed. Rage more intemperate I have not often seen; and the shrill voice of feeble old age, screaming with unavailing passion is horrible. She had long looked upon Mrs. Thrale as a kind of protege, whom she had fondled as a child, and whose fame, as she grew into notice, she was always proud to hear of, and help to exalt. She is a woman (I can well attest!) of most furious passions herself, however at liberty she thinks she may be to show no sort of mercy to those of another.

  Once, had I been less disturbed, I could have laughed; for she declared with great vehemence, that if she had suspected “the wretch of any intention to marry the man, she would have ordered her own postchaise, and followed her to prevent it!”

  Alas, poor Lady F.

  She then called upon me, to hear my story; which, most painfully to myself, I related. She expressed herself very sorry for me, till I came to an avowal of my letter after the marriage she then flew out into new choler. “I am amazed you would write to her, Miss Burney! I wonder you could think of it any more.”

  I told her, I had thought myself so much indebted to her patience with my opposition to all her views and wishes for the whole tine of her long conflict, that, although I was the first to acknowledge her last action indefensible, I should be the last to forget all that had made me love her before it was committed.

  This by no means satisfied her, and she poured forth again a torrent of unrelenting abuse. Some company, at last, came in, and I hastily took my leave. She called after me to fix some day for a longer visit; but I pretended not to hear, and ran down stairs, heartily resolving that necessity alone should ever force me into her presence again.

  When I came home — before I could get upstairs — I was summoned to Miss Streatfield, whom I met with as little pleasure as Lady F., since I had never seen her, nor indeed anybody, from the time this cruel transaction has been published. Not that I dreaded her violence, for she is as gentle as a lamb but there were causes enough for dread of another nature. However fortunately and unexpectedly, she never named the subject, but prattled away upon nothing but her own affairs; and so, methinks, have I done too, and just as if I knew you wished to hear them. Do you? — I ask only for decency’s sake.

  DR. JOHNSON’S FAILING HEALTH.

  Norbury Park, Sunday, Nov. 28. — Last Thursday, my father set me down at Bolt-court, while he went on upon business. I was anxious to again see poor Dr. Johnson, who has had terrible health since his return from Lichfield. He let me in, though very ill. He was alone, which I much rejoiced at; for I had a longer and more satisfactory conversation with him than I have had for many months. He was in rather better spirits, too, than I had lately seen him, but he told me he was going to try what sleeping out of town might do for him.

  “I remember,” said he, “that my wife, when she was near her end, poor woman, was also advised to sleep out of town, and when she was carried to the lodgings that had been prepared for her, she complained that the staircase was in very bad condition — for the plaster was beaten off the wall in many places. ‘Oh,’ said the man of the house, ‘that’s nothing but by the knocks against it of the coffins of the poor souls that have died in the lodgings.’”

  He laughed, though not without apparent secret anguish, in telling me this. I felt extremely shocked, but, willing to confine my words at least to the literal story, I only exclaimed against the unfeeling absurdity of such a confession.

  “Such a confession,” cried he, “to a person then coming to try his lodgings for her health, contains, indeed, more absurdity than we can well lay our account for.”

  I had seen Miss Thrale the day before.

  “So,” said he, “did I.”

  I then said,— “Do you ever, sir, hear from her mother?”

  “No,” cried he, “nor write to her. I drive her quite from my mind. If I meet with one of her letters, I burn it instantly. I have burnt all I can find. I never speak of her, and I desire never to hear of her more. I drive her, as I said, wholly from my mind.”

  Yet, wholly to change this discourse, I gave him a history of the Bristol milk-woman, and told him the tales I had heard of her writing so wonderfully, though she had read nothing but Young and Milton “though those,” I continued, “could never possibly, I should think, be the first authors with anybody. Would children understand them? and grown people who have not read are children in literature.”

  “Doubtless,” said he; “but there is nothing so little comprehended among mankind as what is genius. They give to it all, when it can be but a part. Genius is nothing more than knowing the use of tools — but there must be tools for it to use: a man who has spent all his life in this room will give a very poor account of what is contained in the next.”

  “Certainly, sir; yet there is such a thing as invention. Shakspeare could never have seen a Caliban.”

  “No; but he had seen a man, and knew, therefore, how to vary him to a monster. A man who would draw a monstrous cow, must first know what a cow commonly is; or how can he tell that to give her an ass’s head or an elephant’s tusk will make her monstrous. Suppose you show me a man who is a very expert carpenter; another will say he was born to be a carpenter — but what if he had never seen any wood? Let two men, one with genius, the other with none, look at an overturned waggon; he who has no genius, will think of the waggon only as he sees it, overturned, and walk on; he who has genius, will paint it to himself before it was overturned — standing still, and moving on, and heavy loaded, and empty; but both must see the waggon, to think of it at all.”

  He then animated, and talked on, upon this milk-woman, upon a once as famous shoemaker, and upon our immortal Shakspeare, with as much fire, spirit, wit, and truth of criticism and judgment, as ever yet I have heard him. How delightfully bright are his faculties, though the poor and infirm machine that contains them seems alarmingly giving way.

  Yet, all brilliant as he was, I saw him growing worse, and offered to go, which, for the first time I ever remember, he did not oppose; but, most kindly pressing both my hands, —

  “Be not,” he said, in a voice of even tenderness, “be not longer in coming again for my letting you go now.”

  I assured him I would be the sooner, and was running off, but he called me back, in a solemn voice, and, in a manner the most energetic, said, —

  “Remember me in your prayers!”

  I longed to ask him to remember me, but did not dare. I gave him my promise, and, very heavily indeed, I left him. Great, good, and excellent that he
is, how short a time will he be our boast! Ah, my dear Susy, I see he is going! This winter will never conduct him to a more genial season here! Elsewhere, who shall hope a fairer? I wish I had bid him pray for me, but it seemed to me presumptuous.

  DR. JOHNSON DYING. HIS DEATH.

  Wednesday, Dec. 8. — At night my father brought us the most dismal tidings of dear Dr. Johnson. Dr. Warren had seen him, and told him to take what opium he pleased! He had thanked and taken leave of all his physicians. Alas! — I shall lose him, and he will take no leave of me! My father was deeply depressed; he has himself tried in vain for admission this week. Yet some people see him — the Hooles, Mr. Sastres, Mr. Langton; — but then they must be in the house, watching for one moment, whole hours. I hear from every one he is now perfectly resigned to his approaching fate, and no longer in terror of death. I am thankfully happy in hearing that he speaks himself now of the change his mind has undergone, from its dark horror — and says— “He feels the irradiation of hope,” Good, and pious, and excellent Christian — who shall feel it if not he?

  Dec. 11. — We had a party to dinner, by long appointment, for which, indeed, none of us were well disposed, the apprehension of hearing news only of death being hard upon us all. The party was, Dr. Rose, Dr. Gillies, Dr. Garthshore, and Charles.

  The day could not be well — but mark the night.

  My father, in the morning, saw this first of men! I had not his account till bed-time; he feared over-exciting me. He would not, he said, but have seen him for worlds! He happened to be better, and admitted him. He was up, and very composed. He took his hand very kindly, asked after all his family, and then, in particular, how Fanny did? “I hope,” he said, “Fanny did not take it amiss that I did not see her? I was very bad!”