Читать книгу Memoirs of Miss Sidney Biddulph - Frances Chamberlaine Sheridan - Страница 15

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I do really think my good mother grows so fond of Mr Faulkland, that if he goes on at this rate, he will get the start even of Sir George in her affections—‘Mr Faulkland said so and so; Mr Faulkland is of opinion; and I am sure you will allow Mr Faulkland to be a good judge of such and such things.’

To say the truth, the man improves upon you every hour you know him. And yet I have discovered in him some of those little (and they are but little) alloys to his many good qualities, which Sir George at first told me of. The interest I may one day have in him makes me a closer observer than I should otherwise be. There is that sly turn to ridicule which my brother mentioned; yet, to do him justice, he never employs it, but where it is deserved; and then too with so much vivacity and good humour, that one cannot be angry with him.

We had a good deal of company at dinner with us to day; amongst the rest, young Sayers, who is just returned from his travels, as he calls it. You remember he went away a good humoured, inoffensive, quiet fool; he has brought no one ingredient of that character back with him but the last; for such a stiff, conceited, overbearing, talkative, impertinent coxcomb, does not now exist. His mother, who, poor woman, you know originally made a simpleton of the boy, contributes now all in her power to finish the sop; and she carries him about with her everywhere for a show. We were assembled in the drawing room before dinner: in burst (for it was not a common entry) Master Sayers, and his mamma, the cub handing in the old lady—So stiff, and so aukward, and so ungraceful, and so very unlike Mr Faulkland, that I pitied the poor thing, who thought that every body would admire him as much as his mother did. After he had been presented to the ladies (for it was the first time we had seen him since he came home), he took a turn or two about the room, to exhibit his person: then applying himself to a picture which hung over the door (a fine landscape of Claude Lorrain, which Mr Faulkland himself had brought over and given to Sir George), he asked my brother, in a tone scarce articulate, whether we had any painters in England? My mother, who by chance heard him, and by greater chance understood him, answered, before Sir George had time, Painters, Sir! yes, sure, and some very good ones too; why, you cannot have forgot that; it is not much above a year since you went abroad, (for you must know he had been recalled upon the death of an uncle, who had left him his estate). I observed Mr Faulkland constrained a very fly laugh, on account both of the manner of my mother’s taking his question, and her innocently-undesigned reprimand. Sayers pretended not to hear her, but looking through his fingers, as if to throw the picture into perspective, that is a pretty good piece, said he, for a copy. Oh! cry’d his mother, there is no pleasing you—people who have been abroad are such connoisseurs in painting—No body making any immediate answer, Mr Faulkland stepped up to Mr Sayers, with such a roguish humility in his countenance, that you would have sworn he was a very ignoramus, said, ‘Are you of opinion, Sir, that that picture is nothing but a copy?’ Nothing more, take my word for it, Sir: When I was at Rome, there was a Dutchman there who made it his business to take copies of copies, which he dispersed, and had people to sell for him in different parts, as pretty good prices; and they did mighty well; for very few people know a picture; and I’ll answer for it there are not many masters of eminence, but what have a hundred originals palmed upon them, more than ever they painted in their lives.

Mr Faulkland then proceeded to ask him abundance of questions, which any one, who did not know him well, would have thought he proposed for no other end but a desire of information; and the poor coxcomb Sayers plumed himself upon displaying so much travelled knowlege, to a wondering ignorant Englishman, who had never been out of his own country. The company were divided into little chattering parties, as is usual when people are whiling away an half hour before dinner. Mrs. Sayers, my mother, and I, were sitting together on a couch, near enough to hear the conversation that passed between the two gentlemen; at least as much as was not sunk in the affected, half-pronounced sentences of Mr Sayers. His mother, to whom he was the principal object of attention in the company, seemed mightily pleased at the opportunity her son had, from the inquisitiveness of Mr Faulkland (whom she did not know) of shewing his taste in the polite arts, and often looked about to observe if any body else attended to them. My mother, dear literal woman! (as I often call her to you) took every thing seriously, and whispered to me, how pretty that is, Sidney! how condescending in Mr Faulkland! you see he does not make a parade of his own knowledge in these matters, but is pleased to reap the benefit of other people’s. I, who saw the latent roguery, could hardly contain myself. Indeed I was amazed at Mr Faulkland’s grave inquisitive face, and was very glad my mother did not find him out.

Sayers, elated with having shone so conspicuously (for he observed that both my mother and I attended to his discourse) proceeded to shew away with an immensity of vanity and frothy chat, beginning every new piece of history with, ‘When I was at Rome, or, when I was at Paris’—At last, unluckily for him, speaking of an incident (which made a good deal of noise, and happened at the first-mentioned place) in which two English gentlemen had been concerned, he said it was about eleven months ago, just before he left Rome. My mother, who had heard Mr Faulkland relate the same story, but with some very different circumstances, immediately said, Mr Faulkland, have I not heard you speak of that? you were at Rome yourself when the affair happened; and if I be not mistaken, it was through your interest with the cardinal of —— that the business was made up.

If a spectre had appeared to poor Sayers, he could not have looked more aghast. He dropped his visage half-way down his breast, and for the first time speaking very plain, and very loud too, with a share of astonishment, Have you been at Rome, Sir? I was there for a little time, Sir, answered Mr Faulkland, with real modesty; for he pitied the mortified buzzard; and I know the story was represented as you have told it; the circumstances differed in a few particulars, but the facts were nearly as you have related them.

How obligingly did he reconcile the out-of-countenance Sayers to himself and to the company? Were you long abroad, pray Sir, said the coxcomb? About five years, Sir, answered Mr Faulkland; but I perceive, by the conversation I have had the honour of holding with you to-day, that many accurate and curious observations escaped me, which you made in a much shorter space of time; for the communication of which I think myself extremely obliged to you. Whether the poor soul thought him serious (as my mother did) I cannot tell; he made him a bow, however, for the compliment; but was so lowered, that he did not say a word more of Rome or Paris for the rest of the day: and in this we had a double advantage; for as he had nothing else to talk of, his mouth was effectually stopped, except when Mr Faulkland, out of compassion, asked him (as he often did) such questions as he thought he could answer, without exposing his ignorance: for he was contented to have enjoyed it in their tête à tête, and was far from wishing the company to be witnesses of it.

I think such a bagatelle may give you some idea of this man’s turn. I told it to Sir George; he laughed heartily, and said it was so like him! My brother loves even his faults, though he will not allow me to call them by that name.