Читать книгу The Diary and Collected Letters of Madame D'Arblay, Frances Burney - Frances Burney - Страница 75

(Fanny Burney to Mrs. Philips, late Miss Susan Burney.)

February, 1782.

As I have a frank and a subject, I will leave my bothers, and write you and my dear brother Molesworth¹¹⁴ a little account of a rout I have just been at, at the house of Mr. Paradise.

You will wonder, perhaps, in this time of hurry, why I went thither; but when I tell you Pacchierotti¹¹⁵ was there, you will not think it surprising.

There was a crowd of company; Charlotte and I went together; my father came afterwards. Mrs. Paradise received us very graciously, and led me immediately up to Miss Thrale, who was sitting by the Pac.

We were very late, for we had waited cruelly for the coach, and Pac had sung a song out of “Artaxerxes,” composed for a tenor, which we lost, to my infinite regret. Afterwards he sang “Dolce speme” delightfully.

Mrs. Paradise, leaning over the Kirwans and Charlotte, who hardly got a seat all night for the crowd, said she begged to speak to me. I squeezed my great person out, and she then said,—

“Miss Burney, Lady Say and Sele desires the honour of being introduced to you.”

Her ladyship stood by her side. She seems pretty near fifty-at least turned forty; her head was full of feathers, flowers, jewels, and gew-gaws, and as high as Lady Archer’s her dress was trimmed with beads, silver, persian sashes, and all sorts of fine fancies; her face is thin and fiery, and her whole manner spoke a lady all alive.

“Miss Burney,” cried she, with great quickness, and a look all curiosity, “I am very happy to see you; I have longed to see you a great while. I have read your performance, and I am quite delighted with it. I think it’s the most elegant novel I ever read in my life. Such a style! I am quite surprised at it. I can’t think where you got so much invention!”

You may believe this was a reception not to make me very loquacious. I did not know which way to turn my head.

“I must introduce you,” continued her ladyship, “to my sister; she’ll be quite delighted to see you. She has written a novel herself so you are sister authoresses. A most elegant thing it is, I assure you; almost as pretty as yours, only not quite so elegant. She has written two novels, only one is not so pretty as the other. But I shall insist upon your seeing them. One is in letters, like yours, only yours is prettiest; it’s called the ‘Mausoleum of Julia’!”

What unfeeling things, thought I, are my sisters! I’m sure I never heard them go about thus praising me. Mrs. Paradise then again came forward, and taking my hand, led me up to her ladyship’s sister, Lady Hawke, saying aloud, and with a courteous smirk,

“Miss Burney, ma’am, authoress of ‘Evelina.’”

“Yes,” cried my friend, Lady Say and Sele, who followed me close, “it’s the authoress of ‘Evelina,’ so you are sister authoresses!”

Lady Hawke arose and curtsied. She is much younger than her sister, and rather pretty; extremely languishing, delicate, and pathetic; apparently accustomed to be reckoned the genius of her family, and well contented to be looked upon as a creature dropped from the clouds. I was then seated between their ladyships, and Lady S. and S., drawing as near to me as possible, said,—

“Well, and so you wrote this pretty book!—and pray did your papa know of it?”

“No, ma’am; not till some months after the publication.”

“So I’ve heard—it’s surprising! I can’t think how you invented it!—there’s a vast deal of invention in it! And you’ve got so much humour, too! Now my sister has no humour; hers is all sentiment. You can’t think how I was entertained with that old grandmother and her son!”

I suppose she meant Tom Branghton for the son.

“How much pleasure you must have had in writing it; had not you?”

“Y—e—s, ma’am.”

“So has my sister; she’s never without a pen in her hand; she can’t help writing for her life. When Lord Hawke is travelling about with her, she keeps writing all the way.”

“Yes,” said Lady Hawke; “I really can’t help writing. One has great pleasure in writing the things; has one not, Miss Burney?”

“Y—e—s, ma’am.”

“But your novel,” cried Lady Say and Sele, “is in such a style!—so elegant! I am vastly glad you made it end happily. I hate a novel that don’t end happy.”

“Yes,” said Lady Hawke, with a languid smile, “I was vastly glad when she married Lord Orville. I was sadly afraid it would not have been.”

“My sister intends,” said Lady Say and Sele, “to print her ‘Mausoleum,’ just for her own friends and acquaintances.”

“Yes,” said Lady Hawke; “I have never printed yet.”

“I saw Lady Hawke’s name,” quoth I to my first friend, “ascribed to the play of ‘Variety.’”¹¹⁶

“Did you indeed?” cried Lady Say, in an ecstasy. “Sister! do you know Miss Burney saw your name in the newspapers, about the play!”

“Did she?” said Lady Hawke, smiling complacently. “But I really did not write it; I never wrote a play in my life.”

“Well,” cried Lady Say, “but do repeat that sweet part that I am so fond of—you know what I mean; Miss Burney must hear it,—out of your novel, you know!”

Lady H.—No, I can’t; I have forgot it.

Lady S.—Oh, no! I am sure you have not; I insist upon it.

Lady H.—But I know you can repeat it yourself; you have so fine a memory; I am sure you can repeat it.

Lady S.—Oh, but I should not do it justice! that’s all,—I should not do it justice!

Lady Hawke then bent forward, and repeated—”‘If, when he made the declaration of his love, the sensibility that beamed in his eyes was felt in his heart, what pleasing sensations and soft alarms might not that tender avowal awaken!’”

“And from what, ma’am,” cried I, astonished, and imagining I had mistaken them, “is this taken?”

“From my sister’s novel!” answered the delighted Lady Say and Sele, expecting my raptures to be equal to her own; “it’s in the ‘Mausoleum,’—did not you know that? Well, I can’t think how you can write these sweet novels! And it’s all just like that part. Lord Hawke himself says it’s all poetry. For my part, I’m sure I never could write so. I suppose, Miss Burney, you are producing another,—a’n’t you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Oh, I dare say you are. I dare say you are writing one this Very minute!”

Mrs. Paradise now came up to me again, followed by a square man, middle-aged, and hum-drum, who, I found was Lord Say and Sele, afterwards from the Kirwans, for though they introduced him to me, I was so confounded by their vehemence and their manners, that I did not hear his name.

“Miss Burney,” said Mrs. P., presenting me to him, “authoress of ‘Evelina.’”

“Yes,” cried Lady Say and Sele, starting up, “’tis the authoress of ‘Evelina!’”

“Of what?” cried he.

“Of ‘Evelina.’ You’d never think it,—she looks so young, to have so much invention, and such an elegant style! Well, I could write a play, I think, but I’m sure I could never write a novel.”

“Oh, yes, you could, if you would try,” said Lady Hawke.

“Oh, no, I could not,” answered she; “I could not get a style—that’s the thing—I could not tell how to get a style! and a novel’s nothing without a style, you know!”

“Why no,” said Lady Hawke; “that’s true. But then you write such charming letters, you know!”

“Letters!” repeated Lady S. and S. simpering; “do you think so? Do you know I wrote a long letter to Mrs. Ray just before I came here, this very afternoon,—quite a long letter! I did, I assure you!”

Here Mrs. Paradise came forward with another gentleman, younger, slimmer, and smarter, and saying to me, “Sir Gregory Page Turner,” said to him,

“Miss Burney, authoress of ‘Evelina.’”

At which Lady Say and Sele, In fresh transport, again rose, and rapturously again repeated—

“Yes, she’s authoress of ‘Evelina’! Have you read it?”

“No; is it to be had?”

“Oh dear, yes! it’s been printed these two years! You’d never think it! But it’s the most elegant novel I ever read in my life. Writ in such a style!”

“Certainly,” said he very civilly; “I have every inducement to get it. Pray where is it to be had? everywhere, I suppose?”

“Oh, nowhere, I hope,” cried I, wishing at that moment it had been never in human ken.

My square friend, Lord Say and Sele, then putting his head forward, said, very solemnly, “I’ll purchase it!”

His lady then mentioned to me a hundred novels that I had never heard of, asking my opinion of them, and whether I knew the authors? Lady Hawke only occasionally and languidly joining in the discourse: and then Lady S. and S., suddenly rising, begged me not to move, for she should be back again in a minute, and flew to the next room.

I took, however, the first opportunity of Lady Hawke’s casting down her eyes, and reclining her delicate head, to make away from this terrible set; and, just as I was got by the pianoforte, where I hoped Pacchierotti would soon present himself, Mrs. Paradise again came to me, and said,—

“Miss Burney, Lady Say and Sele wishes vastly to cultivate your acquaintance, and begs to know if she may have the honour of your company to an assembly at her house next Friday?—and I will do myself the pleasure to call for you if you will give me leave.”

“Her ladyship does me much honour, but I am unfortunately engaged,” was my answer, with as much promptness as I could command.