Fanny Burney had been forced, for the first time, to make her sister
aware of the fact that she knew she was looked on as the dunce of the
brilliant Burney family. She could see that her doing so had startled her
sister, for neither Esther nor any of the other girls had ever suggested
to her that they thought of her as being on a different level from
themselves, though it was tacitly allowed that it was a great pity that
Fanny did not emulate them in taking pains to shine as it was expected
the children of that estimable master of music, Dr. Burney, should shine,
so as to make the house in that narrow little street off Leicester Fields
attractive to its many distinguished visitors.
Fanny had truly defined her place in the household. She had recognized
her place for several years; but there was not the least suggestion of
rancour in her tone when talking to her brilliant elder sister, for the
simple reason that there was no bitterness in her heart against any
member of the family for being cleverer than herself. Fanny took pride
in the accomplishments of her sisters, and was quite content with her
position in relation to them. She got on well with all of them, because
she was fond of them all, and they were all fond of her. She had not
rebelled when her father had sent her younger sisters to be educated
in Paris, and had allowed her to pick up her own education as best she
might in his own library; and it had been a great happiness to her to
be allowed the privilege of copying out for the press the first volume
of her father’s “History of Music.” It was her stepmother who, finding
out that Fanny had what Mrs. Burney called “a taste for writing,” had
suggested that that was the legitimate channel in which such a taste
should flow; and it was her stepmother who had induced her to make a
bonfire of all her own writings—the scribblings of her girlhood that
represented the foolish errant flow of her “taste for writing”; and now
and again she had a consciousness of her own duplicity in failing to
resist the impulse that had come upon her to do some more of what her
mother termed her “girlish scribbling.”
One of the guilty secrets that Fanny cherished was that when it was
believed she was writing her long letters to her old friend Mr. Crisp,
she had been composing a novel which was now about to be given to the
world; the second was that Signor Rauzzini, the handsome young Roman
singer with whom half the fashionable ladies of the town were in love,
was in love with her.
These were two secrets worth the cherishing, she knew; and the thought of
them more than compensated her for the reflection that she was the dunce
of the family, and that the unconscious tone of patronage adopted toward
her by her elder sister and the dreadful compliments paid to her plain
sewing, as though plain sewing represented the highest hopes that could
reasonably be entertained in regard to her, were only to be looked for in
the circumstances.
The two secrets were closely bound up together, she knew. She had the
deepest affection for Signor Rauzzini. How could she fail to return
the feeling which the whisper of his musical voice had told her he had
conceived for her? He loved her in spite of the fact that she was the
least attractive member of the family—in spite of the fact that half
the town was at his feet, and that he might have made his choice from
among the best. He had chosen her whom no one else had ever noticed,
with the exception of her father’s old friend, Mr. Crisp, and—oh, yes
(she laughed now, perceiving that she had done an injustice to the other
person who had been attracted to her—mainly, she thought, on account of
her reputation for plain sewing)—a young man named Thomas Barlowe, the
excellent son of the well-known mercer of gold and silver lace, in the
Poultry!
Thinking of young Mr. Barlowe by the side of Signor Rauzzini, Fanny
laughed again. She had so restricted an opinion of her own attractiveness
that the tears actually came into her eyes for having given that derisive
laugh as she compared the two young men; and she felt that she had been
grossly ungrateful to young Mr. Barlowe; for even young Mr. Barlowe had
a right to look above her level for a wife. As the daughter of a simple
music master with a large family she could have no endowment so far as
worldly goods were concerned; and she knew that the practical parents of
young business men, as a rule, looked for their sons to marry, if not
great fortunes, at least young women with a few thousands to their names.
She felt that she had treated the condescending young Mr. Barlowe
very badly in laughing at the poor figure he cut by the side of the
angelic Roman singer—she had failed to resist the temptation to
call Signor Rauzzini angelic in one of her letters to Mr. Crisp—and
now, in thinking of Mr. Barlowe as a very worthy young man, she was
unconsciously relegating him to a hopeless position as a lover. It is not
the very worthy young men who are beloved by young women of a romantic
temperament: if it were there would be very few romances left. But
little Miss Burney desired only to ease the twinges of her conscience for
having laughed at the thought of young Tommy Barlowe; and she thought
that she had done the right thing in assuring herself that he was a very
worthy person.
And then she thought no more about him. She had a feeling that to give
another thought to him when she had such a man as Signor Rauzzini
to think about, would be a constructive act of treason in regard to
Rauzzini. She had received many hints from her stepmother to the effect
that all the family considered her to be a very fortunate young woman
(all things taken into account) in having a chance of marrying the Thomas
who seemed ready to pay his addresses to her; but though quite submissive
to her stepmother in household matters, she was ready to face her with
the “Never!” of the avowed rebel in the matter of consenting to wed the
highly approved Thomas, and so she dismissed him from her thoughts, in
favour of the man whom she loved.
But thinking of the man whom she loved was by no means equivalent to
passing into a region of unalloyed happiness. She had mystified her
sister by the way in which she had spoken about Signor Rauzzini, and the
seal had been put upon the mystery by her frank acknowledgment that she
did not think a union between so distinguished a man as Rauzzini and so
insignificant a person as herself was likely to be satisfactory.
She had certainly allowed Hetty to go away believing that this was in her
mind; and that was just what was in her mind when her thoughts turned
from Thomas, whom she considered so estimable, to Rauzzini, whom she
loved. She loved the Roman singer so truly that she had made a resolution
never to consent to his marrying anyone so insignificant as she believed
herself to be.
She had no illusions regarding herself. She knew just how good-looking
she was; she knew that by the side of any of her sisters she was almost
plain; but that she had a pleasing, simple face of a very ordinary type.
She knew that she could love with the truest devotion and she could trust
herself not to change with time. But she felt that these were not beyond
the traits of the ordinary young woman, and that they did not lift her
from the level of insignificance to the level of Signor Rauzzini.
She knew that she was at that moment an insignificant person; and she
made no attempt to think of herself as otherwise.
Yes; but she had heard of people—even young women—being insignificant
one day, and the next springing to a pinnacle of fame to which all eyes
looked up. How would it be if she were destined to reach in a moment a
position that would place her on a level with the man of her thoughts—the
man whose fame as a singer had caused him to be the centre round
which every conversation in the most notable circles turned? Everyone
was talking in praise of Rauzzini; and she herself thought of him as
occupying a place on a height as far above her as King Cophetua’s throne
was above the marble steps at the foot of which the beggar maid had
crouched; but in her mind there was the possibility that her name might
one day be spoken by the world in connection with an achievement that
would raise her from the insignificance of Fanny Burney to the importance
of Signor Rauzzini, and prevent people from asking what on earth had
induced so glorious a person as he to make her his wife!
That was the secret dream which filled the imagination of this
imaginative young woman—the same dream as comes to so many young women
who have written the last chapter of a book and sent it forth for the
world to receive with acclaim—the dream of fame—of immortality! She had
written a novel and it was about to be given to the world, if the world
would have it, and upon its success her happiness depended. If it brought
her fame, it would place her by the side of the man whom she loved;
but if it failed, then she would remain a person of no significance,
and quite unworthy of sharing the honours which were showered upon her
lover. She had imagination, and this faculty it was that made her more
than doubtful of the success of King Cophetua’s rash experiment. She
felt sure that King Cophetua had now and again, turning suddenly round,
caught one of his courtiers with his tongue in his cheek when his Majesty
was entering the throne-room with his shy and insignificant Queen by
his side, and that the Queen had occasionally overheard the whispers
of her maids of honour, when they did not know she was at hand, asking
one another what on earth the King had seen in her that induced him to
make her his consort. Little Miss Burney had long ago made up her mind
that the union of King Cophetua and his beggar maid was far from being a
happy one—that the King looked around him and saw several princesses of
great beauty and quite devoid of shyness who were fully acquainted with
the convenances of his court and would not, if he had married any one of
them, have made the mistakes which she was sure the young person whom he
had elevated had fallen into, causing him constant irritation.
Little Miss Burney had resolved that she would never play the part of a
crowned beggar maid. The man whom she loved had won fame for himself, and
she would not go to him unless she, too, had at least made such a name
for herself as should prevent her from feeling herself in the position
of the beggar maid whom King Cophetua had raised to his side. Little
Miss Burney resolved that although she could scarcely expect to go to
her lover wearing purple robes embroidered with gold, she could, at any
rate, refrain from wearing beggars’ rags. She had her ambitions, and she
felt that they were not ignoble, but that they made for the happiness of
the man she loved, and who had been gracious enough to love her—the least
attractive member of the family.
But after she had sat for some time with her hands lying idle on the
sempstress’ work at which she had been engaged on the departure of her
sister—after her imagination had carried her much farther away than she
intended it should, she was sensible of a return to the cold world from
which she had soared. Her heart, which had begun to beat quickly when
Hetty had told her how the divine Rauzzini had spoken of her, sank within
her as she seemed to hear a voice asking who was she that she should hope
to reach by the publication of that story which she had been writing by
stealth and at odd times during the past three years, even the smallest
measure of fame that would compare with that of Signor Rauzzini? What
fame attached to the writing of a novel in comparison with that achieved
by the enchantment of a singer who had power to move the hearts of men
and women as it pleased him? Orpheus—ah, what fame could compare with
the fame of Orpheus, the singer? His was a heaven-sent gift. What was
her little talent compared with such a gift? If she had the ability even
to make music such as one of her sisters could bring forth from the
keys of the piano, she would have a better chance of being accounted
worthy of a place beside Signor Rauzzini than if her novel found its
way to the shelves of many readers. The writing of a novel was a poor
achievement—nay, in the opinion of a good many people, including her own
stepmother—a most practical woman—it was something to be ashamed of; and
Fanny herself, thinking over all the novels written by women which she
herself had read—most of them surreptitiously—was disposed to agree with
her. That was why she had kept as a secret for more than three years the
fact that she was trying to write a novel. Her father knew nothing of
it, and her stepmother was equally uninformed. Even her old friend Mr.
Crisp, to whom she wrote voluminous letters week after week, and to whom
she gave her confidence on many matters, had no suspicion that she had
written her novel.
She had thought it prudent to keep this matter hidden from them, for she
did not doubt that if she had told any one of them of her project, she
would never have a chance of realizing it. They would certainly have
pronounced against such a proceeding even before a page of her novel came
to be written.
And yet it was the thought that this novel was shortly to be published
that had caused her to feel that she was drawing nearer to her lover.
As she reflected upon this, sitting idly over her work when her sister
had left the house, her tears began to fall, not in a torrent, but slowly
dropping at intervals upon the fabric which she had been sewing. She felt
very sad, very hopeless, very lonely.
Nor could it be said that the sudden return of Mrs. Burney meant a return
of happiness to the girl.
Mrs. Burney did not consider that Fanny had made satisfactory progress
with her work, and did not hesitate to express her opinion to this
effect. But she was not imprudently unkind; for young Mr. Barlowe had
just written to her, begging permission to pay his respects to Mrs.
Burney and her daughter that evening, and she meant that Fanny should be
in a good humour to entertain him.
Mrs. Burney had great hopes that the question of Fanny’s future—a
constant topic of conversation and consultation between her and her
husband—might be settled by a series of visits of young Mr. Barlowe.