Читать книгу The Diary and Collected Letters of Madame D'Arblay, Frances Burney - Frances Burney - Страница 38

We left Tunbridge Wells, and got, by dinner time, to our first stage, Uckfield. Our next stage brought us to Brighthelmstone, where I fancy we shall stay till the Parliament calls away Mr. Thrale.⁷⁵

The morning after our arrival, our first visit was from Mr Kipping, the apothecary, a character so curious that Foote⁷⁶ designed him for his next piece, before he knew he had already written his last. He is a prating, good-humoured old gossip, who runs on in as incoherent and unconnected a style of discourse as Rose Fuller, though not so tonish.

The rest of the morning we spent, as usual at this place, upon the Steyn, and in booksellers’ shops. Mrs. Thrale entered all our names at Thomas’s, the fashionable bookseller; but we find he has now a rival, situated also upon the Steyn, who seems to carry away all the custom and all the company. This is a Mr. Bowen, who is just come from London, and who seems just the man to carry the world before him as a shop-keeper. Extremely civil, attentive to watch opportunities Of obliging, and assiduous to make use of them—skilful in discovering the taste or turn of mind of his customers, and adroit in putting in their way just such temptations as they are least able to withstand. Mrs. Thrale, at the same time that she sees his management and contrivance, so much admires his sagacity and dexterity, that, though open-eyed, she is as easily wrought upon to part with her money, as any of the many dupes in this place, whom he persuades to require indispensably whatever he shows them. He did not, however, then at all suspect who I was, for he showed me nothing but schemes for raffles, and books, pocket-cases, etc., which weie put up for those purposes. It is plain I can have no authoress air, since so discerning a bookseller thought me a fine lady spendthrift, who only wanted occasions to get rid of money.

Sunday morning, as we came out of church, we saw Mrs. Cumberland, one of her sons, and both her daughters. Mrs. Thrale spoke to them, but I believe they did not recollect me. They are reckoned the flashers of the place, yet everybody laughs at them for their airs, affectations, and tonish graces and impertinences.

In the evening, Mrs. Dickens, a lady of Mrs. Thrale’s acquaintance, invited us to drink tea at the rooms with her, which we did, and found them much more full and lively than the preceding night. The folks of most consequence with respect to rank, were Lady Pembroke and Lady Di Beauclerk,⁷⁷ both of whom have still very pleasing remains of the beauty for which they have been so much admired. But the present beauty, whose remains our children (i.e. nieces) may talk of, is a Mrs. Musters, an exceedingly pretty woman, who is the reigning toast of the season.

While Mrs. Thrale, Mrs. Dickens, and I were walking about after tea, we were joined by a Mr. Cure, a gentleman of the former’s acquaintance. After a little while he said—

“Miss Thrale is very much grown since she was here last year; and besides, I think she’s vastly altered.”

“Do you, sir,” cried she, “I can’t say I think so.”

“Oh vastly!—but young ladies at that age are always altering. To tell you the truth, I did not know her at all.”

This, for a little while, passed quietly; but soon after, he exclaimed,

“Ma’am, do you know I have not yet read ‘Evelina?”

“Have not you so, sir?” cried she, laughing.

“No, and I think I never shall, for there’s no getting it. The booksellers say they never can keep it a moment, and the folks that hire it keep lending it from one to another in such a manner that it is never returned to the library. It’s very provoking.”

“But,” said Mrs. Thrale, “what makes you exclaim about it so to me?”

“Why, because, if you recollect, the last thing you said to me when we parted last year, was—be sure you read ‘Evelina.’ So as soon as I saw you I recollected it all again. But I wish Miss Thrale would turn more this way.”

“Why, what do you mean, Mr. Cure? do you know Miss Thrale now?”

“Yes, to be sure,” answered he, looking full at me, “though I protest I should not have guessed at her had I seen her with anybody but you.”

“Oh ho!” cried Mrs. Thrale, laughing, “so you mean Miss Burney all this time.”

Mr. Cure looked aghast. As soon, I suppose, as he was able, he repeated, in a low voice, “Miss Burney! so then that lady is the authoress of ‘Evelina’ all this time.”

And, rather abruptly, he left us and joined another party.

I suppose he told his story to as many as he talked to, for, in a short time, I found myself so violently stared at that I could hardly look any way without being put quite out of countenance,—particularly by young Mr. Cumberland, a handsome, soft-looking youth, who fixed his eyes upon me incessantly, though but the evening before, when I saw him at Hicks’s, he looked as if it would have been a diminution of his dignity to have regarded me twice. One thing proved quite disagreeable to me, and that was the whole behaviour of the whole tribe of the Cumberlands, which I must explain.

Mr. Cumberland,⁷⁸ when he saw Mrs. Thrale, flew with eagerness to her and made her take his seat, and he talked to her, with great friendliness and intimacy, as he has been always accustomed to do,—and inquired very particularly concerning her daughter, expressing an earnest desire to see her. But when, some time after, Mrs. Thrale said, “Oh, there is my daughter, with Miss Burney,” he changed the discourse abruptly,—never came near Miss Thrale, and neither then nor since, when he has met Mrs. Thrale, has again mentioned her name: and the whole evening he seemed determined to avoid us both.

Mrs. Cumberland contented herself with only looking at me as at a person she had no reason or business to know.

The two daughters, but especially the eldest, as well as the son, were by no means so quiet; they stared at me every time I came near them as if I had been a thing for a show; surveyed me from head to foot, and then again, and again returned to my face, with so determined and so unabating a curiosity, that it really made me uncomfortable.

All the folks here impute the whole of this conduct to its having transpired that I am to bring out a play this season; for Mr. Cumberland, though in all other respects an agreeable and a good man, is so notorious for hating and envying and spiting all authors in the dramatic line, that he is hardly decent in his behaviour towards them.

He has little reason, at present at least, to bear me any ill-will; but if he is capable of such weakness and malignity as to have taken an aversion to me merely because I can make use of pen and ink, he deserves not to hear of my having suppressed my play, or of anything else that can gratify so illiberal a disposition.

Dr. Johnson, Mr. Cholmondeley, and Mr. and Mrs. Thrale have all repeatedly said to me, “Cumberland no doubt hates you heartily by this time;” but it always appeared to me a speech of mingled fun and flattery, and I never dreamed of its being possible to be true.

A few days since, after tea at Mrs. Dickens’s, we all went to the rooms. There was a great deal of company, and among them the Cumberlands. The eldest of the girls, who was walking with Mrs. Musters, quite turned round her whole person every time we passed each other, to keep me in sight, and stare at me as long as possible; so did her brother.

I never saw anything so ill-bred and impertinent; I protest I was ready to quit the rooms to avoid them—till at last Miss Thrale, catching Miss Cumberland’s eye, gave her so full, determined, and downing a stare, that whether cured by shame or by resentment, she forbore from that time to look at either of us. Miss Thrale, with a sort of good-natured dryness, said, “Whenever you are disturbed with any of these starers, apply to me,—I’ll warrant I’ll cure them. I dare say the girl hates me for it; but what shall I be the worse for that? I would have served master Dickey⁷⁹ so too, only I could not catch his eye.”

Oct. 20—We have had a visit from Dr. Delap. He told me that he had another tragedy, and that I should have it to read.

He was very curious to see Mr. Cumberland, who, it seems, has given evident marks of displeasure at his name whenever Mrs. Thrale has mentioned it. That poor man is so wonderfully narrow-minded in his authorship capacity, though otherwise good, humane and generous, that he changes countenance at either seeing or hearing of any writer whatsoever. Mrs. Thrale, with whom, this foible excepted, he is a great favourite, is so enraged with him for his littleness of soul in this respect, that merely to plague him, she vowed at the rooms she would walk all the evening between Dr. Delap and me. I wished so little to increase his unpleasant feelings, that I determined to keep with Miss Thrale and Miss Dickens entirely. One time, though, Mrs. Thrale, when she was sitting by Dr. Delap, called me suddenly to her, and when I was seated, said, “Now let’s see if Mr. Cumberland will come and speak to me!” But he always turns resolutely another way when he sees her with either of us; though at all other times he is particularly fond of her company.

“It would actually serve him right,” says she, “to make Dr. Delap and you strut at each side of me, one with a dagger, and the other with a mask, as tragedy and comedy.”

“I think, Miss Burney,” said the doctor, “you and I seem to stand in the same predicament. What shall we do for the poor man? suppose we burn a play apiece?”

“Depend upon it,” said Mrs. Thrale, “he has heard, in town, that you are both to bring one out this season, and perhaps one of his own may be deferred on that account.”

On the announcement of the carriage, we went into the next room for our cloaks, where Mrs. Thrale and Mr. Cumberland were in deep conversation.

“Oh, here’s Miss Burney!” said Mrs. Thrale aloud. Mr Cumberland turned round, but withdrew his eyes instantly; and I, determined not to interrupt them, made Miss Thrale walk away with me. In about ten minutes she left him and we all came home.

As soon as we were in the carriage,

“It has been,” said Mrs. Thrale, warmly, “all I could do not to affront Mr. Cumberland to-night!”

“Oh, I hope not,” cried I, “I would not have you for the world!”

“Why, I have refrained; but with great difficulty.”

And then she told me the conversation she had just had with him. As soon as I made off, he said, with a spiteful tone of voice,

“Oh, that young lady is an author, I hear!”

“Yes,” answered Mrs. Thrale, “author of ‘Evelina.’”

“Humph,—I am told it has some humour!”

“Ay, indeed! Johnson says nothing like it has appeared for years!”

“So,” cried he, biting his lips, and waving uneasily in his chair, “so, so!”

“Yes,” continued she, “and Sir Joshua Reynolds told Mr. Thrale he would give fifty pounds to know the author!”

“So, so—oh, vastly well!” cried he, putting his hand on his forehead.

“Nay,” added she, “Burke himself sat up all night to finish it!”

This seemed quite too much for him; he put both his hands to his face, and waving backwards and forwards, said,

“Oh, vastly well!—this will do for anything!” with a tone as much as to say, Pray, no more!

Then Mrs. Thrale bid him good night, longing, she said, to call Miss Thrale first, and say, “So you won’t speak to my daughter?—why, she is no author.”