YOU are looking at her—I, too, have been looking at her; she is divine,” came a voice beside her. She did not need to turn to see the speaker. She had been longing for the sound of his voice for many days. She had not even a chance of hearing him sing before this evening.
“She is St. Cecilia herself,” said she. “You have seen Sir Joshua's picture?”
“My countryman, Piozzi, pointed it out to me,” he replied. “I was enraptured with the picture. But when the living St. Cecilia entered the room and I heard her story, I felt ready to throw myself at her feet and implore her as the guardian of poor singers to take me to her care. Her face has on it the bloom of a flower dropped fresh from the garden of God—angelic beyond the voice of man to describe.”
He spoke, as usual, in French to Fanny, but he had greeted Mrs. Burney in English, and he tried to translate his last phrase to her into the same language. He failed after the first word or two, and begged Miss Burney to complete his task for him. She did so, and her stepmother smiled and nodded in appreciation of his comment.
“She is indeed a beautiful creature,” said Mrs. Burney. “I heard her sing more than once at Bath. People went mad about her beauty and her singing, and truly I never heard any singing that so affected me. It was said that she hated to let her voice be heard in public. Her father, Mr. Linley, made her sing: she was a gold mine to Mr. Linley and he knew it.”
Signor Rauzzini had listened attentively and picked up all that she had said without the aid of a word from Fanny.
“But now she will never be heard again no more,” said he in English. “And she is right in making such a resolution, and her husband is a noble man to agree with her in this,” he continued, but in French to Fanny. “Picture that lovely creature placing herself on the level of such a one as the Agujari! sordid—vulgar—worldly! quarrelling daily with theimpresarioon some miserable question of precedence—-holding out for the largest salary—turning a gift which should be divine into gold! Oh; she was right.”
“Signor Rauzzini no doubt thinks it a pity that such a voice should cease to give pleasure to the thousands it enchanted,” said Mrs. Burney, not being able to follow him in French.
“Oh, no, no; just the opposite,” cried Fanny. “He says he admires her the more for her resolution.”
“I am so glad. Pray tell him that I agree with him,” said Mrs. Burney. “A good woman will avoid publicity. Her home should be sufficient for her.”
Fanny did not need to translate the words, he grasped their meaning at once.
“I agree with all of my heart, madame,” he cried. “I would not wish my mother or my sister to have their names spoken with freedom by everyone who paid a coin to hear them sing. I should think it—come si chiamo?—Ah! forgive my poor English.” He went off into French once more—“Pray tell madame that I think it would be odious to hear the name of my mother or my sister tossed from man to man as they toss the name of a woman who comes before the public. I think the woman who would hide herself from all eyes as a violet hides itself under a leaf is the true woman. The shy, timid, retiring one—I know her—I esteem her. I could love no other. I have a deep respect for the woman of the Orient who would die sooner than let her face be seen by a man.”
“What does he say—I like his eagerness?” asked Mrs. Burney.
Fanny translated some of his phrases, and Mrs. Burney nodded and smiled her approval.
“The bloom on the wing of a butterfly is a very tender thing,” resumed the Roman; “the breath of a man is sufficient to remove it—a single breath—and when the bloom has gone the charm of the beautiful creature has gone also.”
“I am not sure that I like the comparison to the butterfly,” said Fanny, smiling. “The butterfly is the emblem of all that is fickle—all that is idle except for its yielding to its fickleness. It is beautiful, but nothing else.”
He laughed.
“I am rebuked,” he said. “But with us the butterfly is the symbol of the life—of the soul. Assume that and you will, I think, see that I meant not to hint at the beauty of the frivolity, but at the beauty of the soul. I feel that a woman's life has on it the bloom of a butterfly's wing, and if that is once breathed on, its beauty is gone for ever—the woman's life is never again what it was—what it was meant to be. But if you wish, I will not go beyond the violet as my emblem of the best woman—my woman.”
“I thank heaven that I have no voice,” said Fanny gently, after a pause. Young Mr. North-cote, Sir Joshua's pupil, had approached Mrs. Burney—his eye was on Susy—in order to tell her that tea was being served in the drawing-room.
Mrs. Burney thanked him and took the arm that he offered.
“We shall all go in together,” said Mrs. Burney, with a sign to Fanny.
But Rauzzini contrived to evade her eye by renewing his admiration of the “St. Cecilia.”
“If I could but reproduce in song the effect that flows from her face I should be the greatest singer in the world,” said he.
“You need not envy her,” said Fanny. “Do you remember Mr. Handel's setting of 'Alexander's Feast '?”
“Only an aria or two.”
“One of the lines came into my mind just now when I looked at that picture. 'She drew an angel down.'”
“And it was very apt. She would draw an angel down.”
“Yes; but the poet has another line before that one—it refers to a singer—'He raised a mortal to the skies.' That was the line which came to my mind when I heard you sing. You raise mortals to the skies. Your power is equal to that of St. Cecilia.”
“Nay, nay; that is what you have done. I have been uplifted to the highest heaven by you. When you are near me I cannot see anything of the world. Why have we not met more frequently? Ah, I forget—I am always forgetting that the months you spoke of have not yet run out. But I am not impatient, knowing that the prize will come to me in good time. I have been away at the Bath and Salisbury and Bristol and I know not where, singing, singing, singing, and now I go to Paris and Lyon for a few months, but you may be certain that I shall return to England—then the separating months shall have passed and you will welcome me—is not that so?”
“I think I can promise you—every day seems to make it more certain that I shall welcome you.”
“My angel—my dream!——”
He said the words—both long-drawn monosyllables in French—in a whisper that gave them the full force of passionate expression. He had need to whisper, for several people were in the room, and Mr. Boswell was among the number, and everyone knew that Mr. Boswell, as a gossip-monger, had no equal in town. He was always pimping and prying—nosing out germs of scandal—ever ready to make mischief by telling people all the nasty things other people had said of them. Mr. Boswell had his eye on them—and his ear. In addition, Mrs. Thrale, who had arrived late, had no idea of allowing the handsome Roman singer to waste himself with a nonentity like Miss Burney, and she was now perilously close to him whom she came to rescue.
But the whisper and the expression imparted to it were enough for Fanny Burney. He might have talked for hours in his impassioned way without achieving the effect of his whispered exclamations.
Then Mrs. Thrale hastened up to his side full of her resolution to rescue him from the conversation with the insignificant person whom his good nature suffered to engage his attention.
“Why, what is this?” cried the little lady who regarded herself with complacency as the soul of tact. “Have you explained to Signor Rauzzini that you are the unmusical member of the family, Miss Burney?”
“I believe that he is aware of that fact already, madam,” replied Fanny.
“And yet he is in close converse with you? He is the most good-natured man in town,” said Mrs. Thrale. “Does he hope to interest you when your father failed?”
“He has never ceased, to interest me, madam,” said Fanny.
“Then he did not talk about music?”
“Oh, yes; I think he said something about music.”
“Yes, touching a note here and there, as one might in passing a harpsichord. Of course you could not have lived in Dr. Burney's house without being able to understand something of music. But we must not trespass upon Signor Rauzzin's courtesy, Miss Burney. Everyone is talking of him in the drawing-room—he must gratify the company by mingling with them.”
Then she addressed Rauzzini in French.
“I promised to go in search of you, signor,” she said. “Madame Reynolds is distracted. I came on my mission famished—I had vowed, as the crusaders did, not to taste food or drink until I had succeeded in my emprise. May I ask you to have pity on me now and lead me to the tea-table?”
He turned to ask Fanny to accompany them, but he found that she had slipped quietly away. She was already at the door.
“My duty was to Miss Burney, madame, but she has been frightened away,” said he.
“Oh, she is the shy one of the family, I believe,” said Mrs. Thrale. “I am sure that all the time you were so good-natured as to talk to her she was wishing that the floor would open and allow her to sink out of sight. She would have thought it much more good-natured on your part if you had taken no notice of her. I have scarcely spoken to her half a dozen times myself, though I have frequently been to her father's house. I cannot rack my brain to discover a congenial topic with such young people. Were you successful, do you think?”
He made a gesture with his hands that might mean anything. Mrs. Thrale assumed that it meant nothing—that he felt he was not greatly concerned whether he had been successful in finding a congenial topic of converse with Miss Burney or not.
She laughed.
“Poor girl!” she said. “She may have her dreams like other girls.”
“I believe she has—poor girl!” said he. “But I know that in her knowledge of music she goes deeper—soars higher than most young ladies who have submitted to lessons from amaestro—nay, higher than themaestrohimself.”
Mrs. Thrale looked doubtfully at him.
“Is it possible that we are talking of two different people?” said she.
“Ah, that is quite possible,” said he.
“I was referring to Miss Burney, the one of the family who does nothing except sew—her mother commends her sewing very highly. I fear that you actually believed that you were in converse with one of her sisters.”
“Madame,” said he, “it is my belief that the one who sews in a family is far more interesting than the one who sings. But Miss Burney need not, in my eyes, be any more than Miss Burney to be interesting, though she has taught me more of music than I ever learned before.”
“Is't possible? Oh, yes: I should remember that her father told me that she was his amanuensis—she made a neat copy of all his notes for the 'History of Music.' It is no wonder that she knows something about it. Such a good daughter! And the father took no trouble about her education. She did not know her letters till she was eight or nine, I believe—perhaps twelve. I don't believe that I ever exchanged half a dozen words with her before this evening; and as for men—you are the first man I ever saw taking any notice of her.”
His face lit up strangely, Mrs. Thrale thought, at this revelation. He gave a laugh.
“So much the better for her—so much the worse for the men,” said he. “And now, madame, if the tea has not become too strong, and if your hunger has not made you too weak to walk to the table, I should esteem it an honour to conduct you thither.”
Mrs. Thrale smiled her acquiescence, and she entered the drawing-room on the arm of the singer. Nothing could have convinced her that he did not feel grateful to her for rescuing him from the position in which his good nature had placed him—by the side of the most insignificant young woman among all Sir Joshua's guests.
She believed that she was increasing his debt of gratitude to her by keeping him with her for the next half-hour. Her sense of protecting him gave her naturally a sense of patronage, which was quite pleasant for her to experience, especially when she glanced round the room and saw several ladies of higher rank than she could pretend to, frowning in her direction. She knew how Signor Rauzzini was pestered by the attentions of such as these, and she could almost hear the well-bred sneers of her friends as they glanced at her and wondered if she never meant to release the unfortunate young man—she knew just what they would say, and she accepted their imaginary words as a real compliment to her protective powers. Her smile down the table was one of great complacency.
She also noticed that the insignificant Miss Burney was glowing as she had never seen her glow before. Her face was rosy and her eyes were actually sparkling. Mrs. Thrale had never imagined that such eyes as Miss Burney's could sparkle, no matter what their provocation might be.
“Poor girl! Poor child! Her head is turned, as I feared it would be when I saw the Rauzzini with her. She is the unhappy victim of his good nature.”
This was the conclusion come to by the little lady whose ability to pronounce an opinion on such a matter was widely acknowledged; and coming to such a conclusion, she naturally commended all the more heartily the step which she had taken for separating the foolish girl and the fascinating young man.
She would have waved aside any suggestion that might be made to her to the effect that the increase in Miss Burney's colouring and the light in her eyes was due to Miss Burney's overhearing the conversation between her mother and Sir Joshua respecting a book which he had stayed up all night to read and which he had just finished in time to receive his guests.
The name of the book was “Evelina; or, a Young Lady's Entrance into the World,” he said, and he was urging Mrs. Burney to follow his example and read it without further delay.
FANNY was at her stepmother's elbow while Sir Joshua gave her a full account of how he had been induced to send to Lowndes for this wonderful book on the recommendation of Mrs. Darner, whose portrait he was painting. Mrs. Darner had excused her unpunctuality at one of her sittings on the ground that she had become so interested in the fortunes of “Evelina” that she could not put the book down.
“Get it for yourself, sir,” she had said, “and you will quickly acknowledge that my excuse is valid.”
“Of course I did not get it then,” said Sir Joshua. “I find it impossible to keep pace with the useful books that are printed in these days, and I have long ago given up novels. But when, the next day, Mrs. Darner came to sit to me with a woebegone countenance and the traces of tears on her cheeks, so that I could only paint her draping, and that, too, had a woeful droop in its folds—for let me tell you, madam, that a woman's dress is usually in sympathy with the mood of the wearer—when, I say, the lady entered my painting-room in this guise, I ventured to inquire if she was serious in her wish that I should depict her in the character of Niobe. 'Oh, sir,' she cried, ''tis all due to that horrid Branghton—he it is that has brought me to this.' 'The wretch!' said I. 'Have you no friend who will run him through the vitals? Where is he to be found, that I may arrange for his destruction?' 'He is the persecutor of my beloved Evelina,' she replied, 'and heaven only knows what is to become of the poor girl.'
“Now, madam, when I had thus brought before me the effect that the book had produced upon so natural a lady as Mrs. Darner, what was left for me but to buy it? And now you see the effect that it has had upon me,” continued Sir Joshua, “so you must e'en buy it also.”
“Nay, Sir Joshua,” said Mrs. Burney, “your case has furnished me with the strongest of reasons for not buying it. I would not allow a book into my house that would so turn me aside from my ordinary life and my daily business. What, sir, would you have me stay out of my comfortable bed for hours, in order that I might make myself more uncomfortable still by reading of the imaginary woes of a young woman who is nothing to me but a shadow?”
“Oh, I promise you that you will find Evelina far from being a shadow,” said Sir Joshua. “She is a creature of flesh and blood, with a heart that beats so that you find your own heart keeping time with it, whether it pulsates slowly or fast. In short, Evelina lives. I have no patience with those attenuated figures that dance on the stage of so many of our new novel writers; I can see the stuffing of straw when their constant gyrating has worked a rip in their seamy side; creatures of rag and wire—they never deceive one for a moment—why, their very gyrations are not true to life. But Evelina lives. Some of the characters in the book are distasteful—some of them are vulgar, but the world is made up of distasteful and vulgar people, and a novel should be true to the world in which the characters are placed. Oh, that was where the greatness of poor Dr. Goldsmith was to be found. He would abate nothing of the vulgarity of the vulgar characters in his plays, because he meant them to live. The people hissed his vulgar bailiffs in hisGood-Natured Man, and when Colman cut them out he himself restored them when Shuter played the piece for his benefit the following year, and everyone saw that they were true to life. The vulgarity of Tony Lumpkin and the Three Pigeons made Walpole shudder, but there they remain in the best comedy of our time, and there they will remain for ever. Oh, yes; the author of 'Evelina' knows what life is, and so his book will live.”
“And who is the author of this surprising book?” asked Mrs. Burney.
“That is a mystery,” replied Reynolds. “I sent to Lowndes, the bookseller, to inquire, and he pretended that he did not know. He could only say that he was a gentleman of note living in Westminster.”
“Ah, that is one of the booksellers' tricks to make their wares seem more attractive,” said she. “They know that a man in a mask awakens curiosity.”
“That is so; but 'Evelina' stands in need of no advertisement of such a nature. It would attract attention even though the name of Mr. Kenrick were attached to it. But everyone is dying to find out the name of the author; Mrs. Darner believes it to have been written by Horace Walpole, but only because 'The Castle of Otranto' was published without his name being on the title page.”
“Not a very cogent line of argument, it seems to me,” said Mrs. Burney. “Well, Sir Joshua, I hope you will enjoy a comfortable sleep to-night, now that you have the fortunes of that young lady off your mind.”
“Oh, my dear madam, I do assure you that my mind is not yet free from the effects of reading that book,” cried Reynolds. “I am more faithful to my friends in some books than to forget all about them when I lay them on the shelf. If they live, be assured that I live with them, and the thought of them is to me at times as pleasant as the thought of the best friends I have met in my daily life. I have laid 'Evelina' on a shelf in my memory—not one of the back shelves, but one that is near to me, so that I can console myself with her companionship when I am lonely.”
“I have never heard you praise a book so heartily, sir,” said Mrs. Burney. “But I will beg of you not to mention it to any of my family, for if it has so unhinged you, what would it not do to those poor girls?”
He did not catch all she had said, for she spoke in a voice which she did not mean to travel to Fanny or Susy, who were chatting to Miss Theophila Palmer, Sir Joshua's niece.
“You may depend on my telling them all I find out in regard to the author,” said he in a tone of assent.
“No, no,” she cried, getting nearer to the bell of his trumpet. “No, no; I want you to refrain from mentioning the book to them. I discourage all novel reading, excepting, of course, the works of Mr. Richardson, and perhaps one or two of Fielding, with some of the pages gummed together to prevent them from being read.”
“Nay, to tempt people to read them,” said Reynolds. “What were we saying about the attractions of a mask? Well, my word for it, the attractions of a book without a name are as nothing compared with the attraction of gummed pages. But you will let them read 'Evelina,' and you will, moreover, read it yourself—yes, and you will all be the better and not the worse for doing so.”
Mrs. Burney shook her head.
It was no wonder that Mrs. Thrale thought that Miss Burney looked flushed at this time, or that there was an unwonted sparkle in her eyes; for she had heard nearly every word that Sir Joshua had said, and she could scarcely contain herself for delight. For all her primness, she was at heart a merry schoolgirl, ready to break into a dance at good news, and to shout for joy when things had advanced as she had hoped they would. She felt that it was very hard on her that she could not throw her hat up to the ceiling of the room, as she had heard of Dr. Goldsmith's doing with his wig in the exuberance of his spirits in this same room—when Miss Reynolds was in her bed upstairs. It was very hard on her to be compelled to restrain her feelings; she was unconscious of the sparkle in her eyes, or of the pæony flush of her cheeks that Mrs. Thrale had noticed and was still noticing.
She had never felt so happy in all her life. A short time before she had felt that everything in the world was insignificant in comparison with love; but now she realized that there was another joy worthy of recognition. She was not wise enough to perceive that the two emotions sprang from the same source—that the foundation of love is the impulse to create, and that the foundation of an artist's joy in fame is the knowledge that what he has created is recognized by the world. She was (fortunately) not wise enough to be able to analyse her feelings—to be wise enough to analyse one's feelings is to be incapable of feeling. All that she was conscious of at that moment was that all worth having in the world was hers—the instinct to create, which men call Love, the joy of obtaining recognition for the thing created, which men call Fame.
It was no wonder that Mrs. Thrale saw that light in her face and in her eyes; nor was it strange that the same observant lady should attribute that illumination to the touch of the fire of the sacred torch. She looked at the handsome face of the Roman youth, with its expression of frankness, and at his eyes, full of the generous warmth of the South, and once more she glanced at Miss Burney, and saw in her face the reflection of the southern sunny glow.
“Poor girl—poor girl!” were the words that sprung to her lips. “Only a moment's attention from him—only a word—nay, a glance from those eyes would have been enough—and she is at his feet. Poor girl! Knowing nothing of the world—incapable of understanding anything of life—having no gift to attract attention—-”
“Dear Mrs. Thrale, I have come to you for help. You are sure to have read this book that everyone is talking about—this 'Evelina'—and you can, I am certain, tell us who is the author. Pray let us know if your friend Dr. Johnson had a finger in it—I have heard that some of the writing is in the style of Dr. Johnson—or was it Mr. Anstey—they say that some chapters could only have come from the author of 'The Bath Guide.'”
It was Lady Hales who had hurried up with her inquiries. She seemed to be the representative of a group with whom she had been standing, several ladies and two or three men.
It so happened, however, that Mrs. Thrale had not yet read the book around which discussion had been buzzing; but she had no intention of acknowledging that, with her literary tastes and with her friendship for Dr. Johnson, she was behind the times. Two or three people had within the week made remarks about “Evelina” in her presence, but she had no idea that it was to become a topic of society.
She smiled enigmatically, to give herself time to make up her mind what her reply should be—whatever it might be, it certainly would not be a confession of ignorance. She came to the conclusion that on the whole she could not do better than mould her answer so as to heighten the mystery of the authorship.
“Is it possible that none of our friends have discovered the author?” she asked, still smiling shrewdly, so as to suggest that she herself had long ago been let into the secret.
“We have had many conjectures,” said Lady Hales. “And let me whisper in your ear—there is one among us who is ready to affirm that the address of the author is Thrale Hall, Streatham.”
“I vow that I am overwhelmed,” cried the little lady. “The compliment is one that any writer might envy. Pray how could it enter the mind of any of our friends to connect me with the authorship of such a book?”
“There are some touches of your style in many of the letters of Evelina,” replied Lady Hales. “And some have said that only you could have had the varied experiences described so vividly.”
“A marvellous book, truly, this 'Evelina,'” cried Mrs. Thrale. “Some people, you say, recognize the hand of Dr. Johnson in its pages, others the pen that wrote 'The Bath Guide,' and now it is suggested that the whole was the work of a humble scribbler named Mrs. Thrale—a person who has surely little in common with the two writers you have named.”
She took care that her affectation of surprise had an artificial note about it. There was no knowing how things might turn out. Mrs. Thrale had no objection in the world to have her name associated with the authorship of a book about which it was clear a good many people would be talking for some months to come.
“May I not be entrusted with something more definite?” asked Lady Hales in a low voice. “If it is a secret for the present—well, you know that I am one to be trusted.”
“I can assure you definitely that the book was not written by Dr. Johnson,” replied Mrs. Thrale, with a smile. “He has not for a single week during the past year failed to visit us at Streatham for at least four days at a time. He reads to me all that he writes—it is not much—and I can give you an assurance that the name of Evelina has not once appeared in his manuscript. I may also say that if you take my advice you will not be in too great haste to attribute the book to Mr. Anstey.”
This was not mystification, it sounded much more like revelation, Lady Hales thought.
“I dare not press you further, madam,” she said.
“Believe me, I can appreciate your reticence, if——”
“Nay, now you suggest that I have told you a secret that I have concealed from everyone else, and that is going too far,” cried Mrs. Thrale. “Now, dear madam, cannot you see that even if I were in the secret of the authorship, I should be guilty of a great breach of courtesy were I to reveal it to anyone? If an author choose to remain anonymous, is it not discourteous to try to snatch away his—or her—veil of anonymity?”
“I can but assent,” said Lady Hales. “I do not doubt that this view of the matter is the correct one. At any rate, you may depend on my acting in accordance with it. I shall make no further attempt to pry into the secret, and I shall think it right to dissuade my friends from the quest.”
“In that I am sure you will be acting in accordance with the author's wishes,” said Mrs. Thrale, smiling knowingly.
SO they parted; and Lady Hales hastened back to her friends to whisper in their ears that the mystery was as good as solved: Mrs. Thrale had as much as acknowledged that she was the author of “Evelina,” but she hoped that, as she had written the book without the knowledge of her husband, her friends would respect her desire to remain anonymous.
“Mr. Thrale, being a Member of Parliament, would not like to have the name of his wife bandied about among ordinary people as that of the writer of a novel,” Lady Hales explained, though really no explanation was needed of a fact that could be appreciated by every sensible person aware of the contemptible character of the novels of the day. “Only Dr. Johnson is in the secret,” she continued. “Dr. Johnson, as we all know, lives at Thrale Hall for five days out of every week, finding the table provided by Mrs. Thrale to suit his palate very much better than that controlled by poor blind Mrs. Williams at Bolt Court.”
“That may account for some of the touches in the book in the style of Dr. Johnson,” said one of the ladies. “You may be sure that no book could be written under the same roof as Dr. Johnson without his having something to say to it.”
“I never could understand how so fastidious a lady as Mrs. Thrale could tolerate the company of Dr. Johnson at her table, but now the secret is out—this secret and t'other,” said one of the gentlemen. “Dr. Johnson is not seen at his best at the dinner-table.”
“So far as that goes, neither is Mr. Thrale himself,” said another. “He has a huge appetite.”
“I had an inkling all along that Mrs. Thrale wrote the book,” said a lady with a huge hat. “I actually remarked to my sister, while I was reading it, 'if this story is not written by Mrs. Thrale, Mrs. Thrale is the one who would like to have written it.'”
“But mind, not a word must be breathed that would hint that she acknowledged it to me by direct word of mouth,” cried Lady Hales, beginning to have some qualms. “No; you must understand clearly that she did not say in so many words that she wrote it. Indeed, her last words to me were, that anyone who should name in public the author of a book published anonymously would be guilty of a great discourtesy.”
“She is perfectly right: to do so would be to exhibit very bad taste truly,” came more than one acquiescent voice.
And the result of their complete agreement on this point was the immediate dissemination of the report that Mrs. Thrale was indeed the writer of “Evelina.”
But that clever little lady, on getting rid of the questioner, found that Signor Rauzzini had slipped away from her side and was now making his adieux to Mrs. Burney and her stepdaughters. She noticed that the light had gone out of Fanny Burney's eyes as the young singer bent over her hand, and once again she shook her head. She had given more attention to Miss Burney during the previous hour than during all the years she had visited at St. Martin's Street. She thought that it might be her duty to say a word of warning to the young woman, who could not possibly know anything about the world or the deceitfulness of Italian vocalists.
Meantime, however, she ordered one of her three footmen to tell the coachman to drive to the shop of Lowndes, the bookseller, and there she purchased a bound copy of “Evelina,” at nine shillings.
Mrs. Thrale was, of course, well known to Mr. Lowndes, and seeing her, through the window of his office, enter his shop, he put his quill behind his ear and emerged, bowing and smiling.
“How was it that you failed to apprise me that you had printed 'Evelina '?” she inquired.
“Is't possible that you did not receive my advertisement, madam?” he cried. “Why, I posted it to you with my own hands even before the book had left the press, the truth being that I was anxious to get your opinion respecting it.”
“I never had any advertisement from you about it,” she replied.
“Oh, I was to blame for not underlining the announcement, madam,” said he. “I ask your pardon. How were you to know that it was not one of the usual novels of the season?—I do not venture to recommend such to the attention of ladies of superior tastes like yourself, madam. I shall not forgive myself, rest assured. But I am punished, in that I have been unable to sell a second edition by telling my customers how highly it was esteemed by Mrs. Thrale.”
“You assume that it would be highly esteemed by me, Mr. Lowndes; but I am not quite sure that you do not flatter yourself in believing that my judgment would be the same as that of the public. The poor public! How can they possibly know whether a book is good or bad?”
“They cannot, madam; that is why we poor booksellers must only trust to sell our books on the recommendation of ladies of taste and judgment. May I beg, madam, that you will favour me with your opinion respecting the merits of 'Evelina'?”
“It has been so great a success that I fear I shall not think highly of it. Pray, who is your modest author?”
“Positively, madam, I am unable to tell you. The MS. was brought to me with a letter purporting to come from a Mr. Grafton at the Orange Coffee House, near the Haymarket, and he desired the secret of its authorship to be kept close.”
“Ah, yes; to be sure—kept close from the vulgar public; but he could never think that you were violating his confidence by telling me his name.”
“He could not be so unreasonable, madam—nay, rather would he kneel to you—for he could scarce fail to understand the value that we set on——”
“I am not convinced either that he would benefit from the exchange of confidence or that I should; but prithee, sir, what is his name?”
“'Fore heaven, madam, I have told you so much as is known by me respecting the gentleman. Never before have I been placed in so remarkable a position. My fault, Mrs. Thrale, no doubt: I should have taken precautions against being thus surprised into publishing a book without knowing the name of the author. But although my judgment enabled me to perceive that the work was out of the common, yet I never counted on its merits being recognized so speedily. May I beg of you to favour me with your opinion as to who the writer may be, madam—that is, when you have read it, unless, indeed—” he glanced at her shrewdly with a little knowing smile— “unless, indeed, you could so favour meinstanter.”
“Nay, Mr. Lowndes, how would it be possible for me to give you an opinion as to the authorship of a book which I have not yet read? I am not one of those astute critics who, they say, can tell you all there is to be known about a book without cutting the leaves, or even—if you slip a guinea into their hand—without opening the covers.”
“I thought that perhaps you might be one of those who have been let into the secret, madam. I trust that Dr. Johnson's health has not been so bad as to prevent him from doing any literary work. Ah, what does not that great man—nay, what does not the world owe to you, Mrs. Thrale?”
“If you would suggest, Mr. Lowndes, that the book about which we have been conversing was written, even in part, by Dr. Johnson, I can give you an assurance that such is not the case. He is in no way inclined to engage in any form of literary labour. He grudges his friends even a note.”
“There are some gentlemen who come hither and honour me by conversing on the subject of letters, and more than one of them has pointed out passages in 'Evelina' that show signs of the great Doctor's pen; but for that matter——”
“I agree with you, sir; every scribbler in Grub Street apes the style of Dr. Johnson, but only to reveal the ape in himself. Now, Mr. Lowndes, if you really are in earnest in saying that you are unaware who is the author of your book, I have done you some service in curtailing by one the list of authors to whom it might possibly be attributed. You may strike out the name of Johnson, sir, on my authority.”
“I shall certainly do so, madam—not that I, for my own part, was ever foolish enough to fancy that he had written more of it than a page or two. I am indebted to you, Mrs. Thrale.”
“Then if you would wish to pay off the debt, you can do so by informing me of your success in discovering the writer. 'Tis quite impossible to conceive of the man's remaining unrevealed for any length of time, and I confess that I am anxious to know if he is among my acquaintance.”
“You assume the sex, madam.”
“What, have you a doubt of it?”
“There are so many literary ladies nowadays, Mrs. Thrale.”
“But you surely saw the handwriting of the script?”
“That is just the point. My printers have examined it and say that it is a lady's caligraphy only disguised to look like a man's. In my own judgment they are right. It is an upright hand, neat and clear—not in the least like that of an author. Still, that counts but little, seeing that the writer of the book would be pretty certain to have a clear copy made of his script by someone else. I have had a suspicion, from the mystery insisted on by this Mr. Grafton, that he is none other than the author of the 'Castle of Otranto.'”
“What, Mr. Walpole?”
“Even so. You recollect how delighted he was to conceal the hand he had in that book—going much farther than I thought any gentleman would in honour go, to make people believe it was what it pretended to be?”
“Mr. Lowndes, I know not what your experience has been; but mine is that when a gentleman becomes an author he lays aside whatever sense of honour he possesses as a gentleman.”
“I have had little to do with gentlemen authors, madam. Most of my writers are simply authors.”
“And Mr. Walpole very properly put himself in line with them, and so had no hesitation in carrying out his fraud in 'Otranto.' Well, if it be so, you may count on his revealing himself now that the book has become a success. In any case, you will not forget to keep me informed, and I shall esteem it a favour, Mr. Lowndes.”
Mr. Lowndes renewed his promise and bowed the lady to the door. The three volumes of “Evelina” had been brought out to the chariot by one of the footmen, a second following in his footsteps to see that he deposited them fairly upon one of the cushions, and a third standing by the open door in case of the breakdown of either of the others.
Mrs. Thrale got into the splendid machine, the three lackeys swung themselves up on their platform behind, and clung on to the heavy straps, looking, in their brilliant livery, as the chariot lurched away over the uneven cobble-stones, like mighty butterflies of a tropical forest swaying together on the rim of a gigantic flower.
NO chance had Rauzzini of saying more than the most conventional words of farewell to Fanny. Mrs. Burney was beside her and her two sisters also. He yielded to his impulse to pronounce a malediction on Mrs. Thrale, who had so interrupted his conversation with Fanny—the last he could possibly have until his return from France after fulfilling his engagements. But this was when he had seen the Burney family out of the door of the house in Leicester Fields and to the entrance to St. Martin's Street. He was then alone, and could give in some measure expression to his feelings in his own tongue.
His imagination was quite vivid enough to suggest to him all that the officiousness of Mrs. Thrale had interrupted—the exchange of vows—the whispered assurances of fidelity—perhaps a passionate kiss—a heaven-sent chance during a marvellous minute when the painting-room should be emptied of all but herself and him! It was distracting to think of all that had been cut out of his life by that busybody. While he had been talking alone with Fanny his eyes had taken in the splendid possibilities of the painting-room. There were three immense easels on different parts of the floor, and each carried a glorious canvas for a life-size portrait. Two of them were already finished, and the third contained a portion of the Greek altar at which a fair lady was to be depicted making her oblation to Aphrodite, or perhaps Artemis. The young man, however, did not give a thought to the glowing work of the great painter on the canvases, he thought only of the possibilities of a moment or two spent in the protecting shadow of one of them with that gentle, loving girl yielding herself to his clasp—only for a moment—he could not reasonably hope that it should be for longer than a single moment, but what raptures might not be embraced even within that brief space! A moment—one immortal moment worth years of life! That was what he saw awaiting him in the friendly shade of one of Sir Joshua's portraits—that was all that the sublime picture meant to the ardent lover—it was not the immortal picture, but the immortal moment that was before his eyes—but just when, by a little manoeuvring on his part, the joy that should change all his life and console him for being deprived of the society of his beloved for three months, was within his reach, that foolish woman had come bustling up with her chatter and had separated them!
For which he now implored heaven and a heathen deity or two that still linger in the language of malediction in their native Italy, to send her soul to the region where Orpheus had sought his Eurydice. Down—down with her to the lowest depths of the Inferno he implored his patrons to bear her and to keep her there for ever.
His imploration was quite as lyrical as his “Waft her, Angels, to the Skies,” only its bearing was upon the fate of the lady in just the opposite direction, and he was even more fervent in its delivery. But having delivered it, he felt some of that relief which is experienced by a true artist who has a consciousness of having done some measure of justice to his theme. He felt that if beatitude had been denied to him, the one who had separated him from it would not escape scathless, if the intensity of an appeal to the high gods of his native land counted for anything in their estimation.
And then he went more or less contentedly to his lodgings to prepare for his appearance in the opera of the night.
He sang divinely as an angel, and again if any of his audience remained unmoved by the enchantment of his voice, they certainly could not but have yielded to the charm of his presence. Some women might be incapable of appreciating the exquisite character of his vocalism, but none could remain impervious to the appeal of his smile.
As for the girl who alone had appealed to his heart, she went home with her mother and sisters without a word, for she had not perceived the glorious possibilities lurking behind the grand canvases in Sir Joshua's painting-room. She could even bring herself to believe that the coming of Mrs. Thrale had been rather opportune than otherwise; for if she had not joined her stepmother at that time she would not have heard all that Sir Joshua had said about “Evelina.”
All that she had heard had made her supremely happy, not, she thought, because she was greedy for fame, but because it meant to her that she was a step nearer to the arms of the man she loved. The fame which Sir Joshua's words implied was dear to her because she knew that she need not now hesitate to seat herself by the side of this king of men, as his equal—no, not quite as his equal, but certainly not as a beggar maid. She knew that when it was announced that she was the writer of a great book, or, what was better still, a book that everybody was talking about, people would not shrug their shoulders when they heard that Rauzzini> the Roman singer, whose name was in everybody's mouth, was about to marry her. The event that she scarcely dared hope for had actually happened: she was no longer the nobody which she had been, she was a woman the product of whose brain had been acclaimed by the best judges, and so the barrier that she had seen separating her lover from herself had been thrown down. The same voices that had acclaimed her Rauzzini as a singer had acclaimed her as a writer; for though she had hesitated to receive her cousin Edward's reports from the libraries as conclusive of the mark that the book was making, she could not now have any doubt on the subject: a book that was spoken of by Sir Joshua Reynolds as he had spoken of “Evelina” must be granted a place high above the usual volumes to be found on the shelves of a circulating library. She was convinced that in a short time everyone would be talking about it in the same strain, and though people might be incredible on the subject of its authorship, the fact would remain the same—she had written the book, and the fame that attached to the writer would assuredly be hers. There would now be no sneering references to King Cophetua. Everyone within their circle would admit that there was no disparity between her position as the writer of the book that everyone was talking about and that of the singer whom people crowded to hear.
She felt supremely happy. Though Mrs. Burney had not shown any particular wish to repeat what Reynolds had said to her about the book, she knew perfectly well that this was only because of her general distrust of anything in the form of a novel, and her fear lest something unreadable should get into the hands of the girls. But Fanny also knew that the fact of Mrs. Burney's shunning the novels of the circulating libraries would not interfere with the reputation that must accrue to the author of “Evelina”; so she was not affected by the indifference shown by her stepmother to all that Reynolds had said. She awaited without impatience the day when her father should take up the book and read the Ode at the beginning. She felt that, although his name was not at the head, he would know that the verses were addressed to him, and that it was his daughter Fanny who had written them. She knew that however firmly he might assert himself on the side of his wife in preventing the entrance to the house of all novels excepting those of Richardson—Fanny herself had never had a chance of reading even “The Vicar of Wakefield”—he would be proud of her as the writer of “Evelina.” She was not quite sure if he would be as proud of her as if she had developed a wonderful musical capacity; but she never doubted that his affection for her—assisted by his knowledge of the impression the book had made upon the most important of his own associates—would cause him to take her into his arms with delight and to forgive her for running the chance of being classed among the Miss Minifies of the period—the female writers whose ridiculous productions were hidden beneath the sofa cushions in so many households. Fanny Burney was a dutiful daughter and she had nothing of the cynic about her, but she was well aware of the fact that success would be regarded by her father as justifying an experiment that failure would have made discreditable.
Once more, then, the three sisters met that night in Fanny's bedroom. The two younger could now look on her without their feeling of awe. They were on the verge of being indignant with Mrs. Burney for having made no reference whatever since returning from the Reynoldses to the subject of Sir Joshua's eulogy.
“Not once did she mention the name of 'Evelina' to the padre; Sir Joshua might just as well have talked of Miss Herschel's comet to her,” said Susy.
“And after our schooling ourselves so rigidly to give no sign that we were in any measure connected with the book too—it was cruel!” said Lottie.
“It was not as if the padre did not give her a good chance more than once,” continued Susy. “Did he not ask if anyone had given her any news? And what did she answer?—Why, only that someone had said that Mr. Fox had lost a fortune a few nights ago at faro! As if anybody cares about Mr. Fox! I was prepared for her opening out at once to him about the book—maybe begging him to send Williams to buy it at Mr. Lowndes'.”
“What, at seven-and-sixpence!” cried Fanny. “My dear child, do you know mamma no better than to fancy that?”
“What I don't know is how she resisted it,” said Lottie. “Oh, you heard how Sir Joshua talked about it; and Miss Reynolds too—she praised it up to the skies.”
“Other people in the painting-room as well as in the drawing-room were talking of it,” said Susy. “I heard the beautiful Miss Horneck speak of it to the lady with the big muff and the rose taffeta with the forget-me-not embroidery.”
“I am sure that everybody was speaking of it—I could hear the name 'Evelina' buzzing round the rooms,” cried Lottie.
“Yes; everyone was talking about it, and only mamma was silent—issilent. I don't think that at all fair,” continued Susy.
Fanny laughed.
“You are silly little geese,” she cried. “Could you not see that she would not mention it lest it should reach our ears and we should be filled with anirresistibledesire to possess it—it—a modern novel! Think of it! Oh, my dears, you are too unreasonable, Mamma knows her duty too well to allow even the name of a novel to pass her lips and maybe reach the ears of such a group of fly-away young things as ourselves! She understands the extent of her responsibilities. Go to your beds and be thankful that you have so excellent a guardian.”
“But when we were prepared——” began one of them, when Fanny interrupted her.
“You may conserve your preparations—you will hear her say the name soon enough—you may depend upon that,” she said. “You may prepare to hear yourselves summoned into her presence to give a full and true account of your complicity in the thing which was perpetrated under this sacred roof—nay, in the very room where the great philosopher Newton wrote his thesis! A novel written in the room in which the divine 'Principia' was produced! Why, 'twere as bad in mamma's eyes as acting one of Mr. Foote's farces in St. Paul's Cathedral. Oh, yes, you'll have to face her soon enough, and after that you'll never wish to hear the name Evelina again. Now, good-night, and thank heaven for your respite.”
They left her, glum and dissatisfied. It was plain to her that they were disappointed at not being given the opportunity of showing how admirably they had themselves under control in regard to the secret—of showing Fanny how they could hear Mrs. Burney talk at length about “Evelina,” while neither of them gave the least sign of ever having heard the name before. It was indeed disappointing that all their studied immobility should go for nothing.
But Fanny knew that their secret could not possibly remain hidden for many more days. If the book was going into everybody's hands, her father would be certain to have it, and then—would he not know? Would not she be summoned into his presence and that of his wife—the lady of many responsibilities—and required to defend herself?...
She fell asleep before she had come to any conclusion as to the line of defence that she should adopt.
And in spite of the readiness of her sisters for any inquisition to which they might be summoned, they were startled—as was also Fanny herself—when, immediately after a rather silent and portentous breakfast, Mrs. Burney said:
“Susy and Lottie, you may go to your duties. You, Fanny, will remain, as your father wishes to speak to you on a matter of some gravity.”
So the long-expected hour had come, the three girls thought. By some accident unknown to them their secret was exposed, and Fanny was about to be called upon to explain, if she could, to the satisfaction of her father and her stepmother, how it came that she so far forgot the precepts of her upbringing as to write a novel quite in the modern spirit, though adopting a form which the master-touch of Mr. Samuel Richardson had hallowed.