Читать книгу The Diary and Collected Letters of Madame D'Arblay, Frances Burney - Frances Burney - Страница 117

Then coming up close to me, the king said—

“But what?—what?—how was it?”

“Sir”—cried I, not well understanding him.

“How came you—how happened it—what?—what?”

“I—I only wrote, Sir, for my own amusement,—only in some odd, idle hours.”

“But your publishing—your printing,—how was that?

“That was only, sir,—only because—”

I hesitated most abominably, not knowing how to tell him a long story, and growing terribly confused at these questions;—besides,—to say the truth, his own “what? what?” so reminded me of those vile “Probationary Odes,” that, in the midst of all my flutter, I was really hardly able to keep my countenance.

The What! was then repeated, with so earnest a look, that, forced to say something, I stammeringly answered—

“I thought-sir-it would look very well in print!”

I do really flatter myself this is the silliest speech I ever made! I am quite provoked with myself for it; but a fear of laughing made me eager to utter anything, and by no means conscious, till I had spoken, of what I was saying. He laughed very heartily himself,—well he might—and walked away to enjoy it, crying out,

“Very fair indeed! that’s being very fair and honest.”

Then, returning to me again, he said,

“But your father—how came you not to show him what you wrote?”

“I was too much ashamed of it, sir, seriously.”

Literal truth that, I am sure.

“And how did he find it out?

“I don’t know myself, sir. He never would tell me.”

Literal truth again, my dear father, as you can testify.

“But how did you get it printed?”

“I sent it, sir, to a bookseller my father never employed, and that I never had seen myself, Mr. Lowndes, in full hope by that means he never would hear of it.”

“But how could you manage that?”

“By means of a brother, sir.”

“O!—you confided in a brother, then?”

“Yes, sir,—that is, for the publication.”

“What entertainment you must have had from hearing people’s conjectures, before you were known! Do you remember any of them?”

“Yes, sir, many.”

“And what?”

“I heard that Mr. Baretti¹⁶³ laid a wager it was written by a man for no woman, he said, could have kept her own counsel.”

This diverted him extremely.

“But how was it,” he continued, “you thought most likely for your father to discover you?”

“Sometimes, sir, I have supposed I must have dropt some of the manuscript; sometimes, that one of my sisters betrayed me.”

“O! your sister?—what, not your brother?”

“No, sir; he could not, for—”

I was going on, but he laughed so much I could not be heard, exclaiming,

“Vastly well! I see you are of Mr. Baretti’s’mind, and think your brother could keep your secret, and not your sister?”

“Well, but,” cried he presently, “how was it first known to you, you were betrayed?”

“By a letter, sir, from another sister. I was very ill, and in the country; and she wrote me word that my father had taken up a review, in which the book was mentioned, and had put his finger upon its name, and said—‘Contrive to get that book for me.’”

“And when he got it,” cried the king, “he told me he was afraid of looking at it! and never can I forget his face when he mentioned his first opening it. But you have not kept your pen unemployed all this time?”

“Indeed I have, sir.”

“But why?”

“I—I believe I have exhausted myself, sir.”

He laughed aloud at this, and went and told it to Mrs. Delany, civilly treating a plain fact as a mere bon mot.

Then, turning to me again, he said, more seriously, “But you have not determined against writing, any more?”

“N-o, sir”

“You have made no vow—no real resolution of that sort?”

“No, sir.”

“You only wait for inclination?”

“No, sir.”

A very civil little bow spoke him pleased with this answer, and he went again to the middle of the room, where he chiefly stood, and, addressing us in general, talked upon the different motives of writing, concluding with,

“I believe there is no constraint to be put upon real genius; nothing but inclination can set it to work. Miss Burney, however, knows best.” And then, hastily returning to me, he cried, “What? what?”

“No, sir, I—I-believe not, certainly,” quoth I, very awkwardly, for I seemed taking a violent compliment only as my due; but I knew not how to put him off as I would another person.

He then made some inquiries concerning the pictures with which the room is hung, and which are all Mrs. Delany’s own painting and a little discourse followed, upon some of the masters whose pictures she has copied. This was all with her; for nobody ever answers him without being immediately addressed by him.

He then came to me again, and said,

“Is your father about anything at present?”

“Yes, sir, he goes on, when he has time, with his history.”

“Does he write quick?”

“Yes, sir, when he writes from himself; but in his history he has so many books to consult, that sometimes he spends three days in finding authorities for a single passage.”

“Very true; that must be unavoidable.” He pursued these inquiries some time, and then went again to his general station before the fire, and Mrs. Delany inquired if he meant to hunt the next day. “Yes,” he answered; and, a little pointedly, Mrs. Delany said,

“I would the hunted could but feel as much pleasure as the hunter.”

The king understood her, and with some quickness, called out, “Pray what did you hunt?”

Then, looking round at us all,—

“Did you know,” he said, “that Mrs. Delany once hunted herself?—and in a long gown, and a great hoop?”

It seems she had told his majesty an adventure of that sort which had befallen her in her youth, from some accident in which her will had no share.