It was on one of the last mornings in January that Mrs. Burney was
reading out of the newly-arrived _London Chronicle_ such paragraphs as
she thought would appeal to the varied interests of the breakfast-table.
There were a few announcements of marriages about to take place between
people whose names they knew, the amount of the bride’s dowry being
stated in each in plain figures, though Mrs. Burney took it upon her to
affirm in one or two cases that the sum was exaggerated, or to suggest
that if the father of the bride were just enough to pay his debts first,
the portion of his daughter would be considerably reduced. In the case
of one of the gentlemen, who was marrying thirty thousand pounds, she
ventured to express the hope that he would now pay at least some of his
creditors.
These were, of course, the most interesting items of news, though their
attractiveness was not greatly superior to that of the gossip respecting
Mr. F——, who had been noticed in high dudgeon because of Lady P——’s
dancing three times with Sir Julian Y——; or that which suggested that a
reconcilement must have taken place between the beautiful Mrs. G—— and
her husband, for they had been seen taking the air together in the Park.
It was also pleasant to learn that His Majesty had given great
encouragement to Mrs. Delany in the production of her ingenious mosaic
flowers, in which she was so skilled as to excite the wonder of several
critics in the Royal circle; and also that His Royal Highness the Prince
of Wales had been graciously pleased to say in public that he had always
admired the Perdita of the beautiful Mrs. Robinson, though he considered
Mrs. Abington, on the whole, the most tasteful dresser in the Drury Lane
company.
It was only when Mrs. Burney had folded the newspaper and was about to
put it away, that a few lines of an advertisement caught her eye—she
commented before she read, as though she had been a fully qualified
critic:
“More novels! More stuff for the circulating libraries! Enough to make
poor Mr. Richardson feel uncomfortable in his grave! Could he but have
known that he was turning all England into novel readers he would never
have put pen to paper. Here is another imitator in the field. ‘Evelina;
or, a Young Lady’s Entrance into the World,’ published to-day by Mr.
Lowndes—three volumes, seven and sixpence sewed, nine shillings in
covers. ‘Evelina,’ a distant cousin to ‘Clarissa’ and ‘Pamela’ I doubt
not. I hope your father will not bring anyone here to dinner to-day.
Hashed mutton is a wholesome dish, to be sure, but some visitors are
fastidious. He may bring as many as he pleases to-morrow, for Mr.
Greville’s gift of pheasants will be on the table. Why are you staring so
at your sister, Lottie?”
Lottie was becoming a hardened dissembler: she scarcely started when
asked to interpret certain furtive glances she cast at Fanny.
“I was wondering if Fanny would make a face; she never was fond of hashed
mutton,” said Lottie glibly. “If she had gone to school in France she
would soon have got a liking for it, cooked as it is there.”
“I am not partial to French kickshaws,” said Mrs. Burney. “There’s
nothing like good English fare. To my thinking, the principle of making
food tasty when in ordinary circumstances it should not be so, is a
bad one. Hash of mutton is wholesome food, and it should be eaten as
such without further question. If Providence had meant it to be tasty as
well, He would have made His intentions as plain as in the case of roast
pheasant.”
“Lottie will tell you that I made no face at the mention of hash of
mutton,” said Fanny. “What does it signify whether one sits down to a
simple platter of mutton hash or a great dinner such as father gets at
Mr. Thrale’s? A pair of geese, a leg of mutton, a tongue, a rib of roast
beef and a brace of pheasants, with two or three dishes of fish, and for
Dr. Johnson a veal pie or a piece of pork—those were on the table at one
time. What is the benefit of such abundance, when all that one can eat is
a single slice of beef?”
She spoke rapidly, for she, too, had been a great dissembler. She meant
to take away her stepmother’s attention from those questionable glances
which she had exchanged with Lottie; and she succeeded very well.
“It would make no difference to us whether we had one dish or ten; but
it makes all the difference in the world to Mr. Thrale. They say he has
a prodigious appetite, and eats of at least six heavy dishes of meat at
dinner.”
“Mr. Baretti affirms that some day he will not awake from the stupor into
which he falls after one of his heavy meals,” said Susy.
“And all the time Mrs. Thrale is entreating him to be more moderate,”
cried Lottie.
“A humiliating duty for such as Mrs. Thrale,” said her mother. “That
shows how true is all that Fanny has remarked: a simple dish should be
enough for any reasonable person. I have often wondered how the converse
at the Streatham table could be so wise and witty if the master of
the house eats like a hog, and Dr. Johnson, suffering from ill-health,
expends so much energy over his pork that the veins stand out on his
forehead and his face is bathed in perspiration.”
“I am sure that Mrs. Thrale has wit and liveliness enough to serve for
the whole company,” said Fanny.
“She is chatty enough, I doubt not,” replied Mrs. Burney. “There are
those who think she talks over-much for a woman.”
“Not for a woman of fashion,” suggested Lottie with some pertness, when
their stepmother had left the room. “It is long since Mrs. Thrale has
invited mother to one of the Streatham dinners,” she added under her
breath.
And then the three fell upon the _Chronicle_ for the announcement of the
book.
They read it in whispers, each following the other, as though it were the
_piano_ part of a catch or a glee, and glancing fearfully toward the door
now and again, lest it should open and Mrs. Burney reappear.
“How amazing it is!” said Susy. “This is the announcement of the birth of
a baby—and such a baby!”
“The birth and the christening and all,” said Lottie. “Oh, Fanny, I
had no idea that it would be in the papers—I forgot that it would be
advertised; and when mamma read this out I thought I should sink through
the floor. So did you, I know.”
“I only wish that it had been possible,” said Fanny. “I could feel myself
getting hot all over my body. And then you gave me that look, Lottie!”
“Could I help it?” asked Lottie. “You cannot blame me. I really thought
that it was you who gave me a look, as much as to say: ‘If you let the
cat out of the bag I will never forgive you—no, never!’”
“Never mind! Among us we managed to get out of the difficulty very well,
I think. Were we not clever, guiding the conversation away from Mr.
Lowndes’s shop on to the high road to Streatham?” cried Susy.
“’Twas the hash that saved us,” said Lottie. “Have you not heard dear Jim
applying the sailors’ expression, to make a hash of something? But we
didn’t make a hash of our matter, did we, Fanny?” said Susan.
“We have become adroit dissemblers, and I am growing more ashamed of it
every day,” cried Fanny. “I have reached the condition of a man of whom
I read in a volume of history: he had committed a crime, and the effort
that it cost him to keep it hidden so preyed upon his mind that he could
stand the strain no longer, so he confessed it and was relieved.”
“But he could not have been really happy until they hanged him,” said
Susy. “And do you intend to confess and be hanged, Fanny? Please do not.
I think it is the most exciting thing in the world to share a secret like
this. I would not have missed the enjoyment for anything. Think, Fan, if
you were to confess, you would draw us into it too—you would make us out
to be as guilty as yourself.”
“I will not confess,” said Fanny. “No; it would not be honourable of me.
But I do feel that the secret is having a bad effect upon us all. It has
made us all such—such—dissemblers.”
“Psha!” said Lottie with a sniff. “That’s only another way of saying that
we are ladies of quality at an early age.”
Fanny shook her head. She thought that if any proof were needed of the
ill effects of their treasuring their secret from their parents, this
cynical pertness of Lottie supplied it. She shook her head.
“I should like ‘Evelina’ to come into mamma’s hands,” continued Lottie.
“She will go through the three volumes at a hand gallop, even though she
did take it upon her to condemn it as being on a level with the odious
stuff that comes to us nowadays.”
“And if she condemns it so heartily before she has read it, what will she
say about it when she has finished the last chapter?” asked Fanny.
“She will say that it is the prettiest story that has been written since
her dear Mr. Richardson died,” said Susy.
“I doubt it, my dear,” said Fanny.
“Well, let the worst come, she will never guess that you wrote it,”
laughed Lottie.
“It is the padre whom I fear,” said Fanny. “Surely he will not need to
go beyond the Ode on the first leaf to know that it is he himself whom I
address.”
“And if he should—smoke it?” asked Susy, lapsing into slang which she had
acquired from her sailor brother, who was in no sense a purist.
“If he should—well, either of two things will happen,” replied the
authoress. “He will either think me the most double-dealing wretch in the
world or the most dutiful of daughters.”
“And which will be right?” asked Lottie.
“Both views will be right,” said Fanny. “Although I meant every word
of the Ode, I really think now that the idea of writing it before the
dedication came to me only when I felt that I had behaved badly in
sending the book to the printer without his consent.”
“You wished the Ode to be a sort of peace-offering?” said Susy. “You
hoped that when he read it he would forget to be angry? Well, that was
cunning of you, Fanny!”
“I tell you that the whole affair has had a bad effect upon us all,” said
Fanny gently.
Once again she was conscious of someone telling her that there was no use
crying over spilt milk, and this impression was followed by one that took
the form of a resolution to be more careful in future. If she had spilt
some milk once, that was no reason why she should not, by exercising
proper forethought, refrain from doing so again.
But the book was now given to the world, if the world would have it,
but as yet a copy had not come into her hand. She wondered if she would
have to spend seven and sixpence in buying a copy. Seven shillings and
sixpence, sewed. It was a great deal of money. Was it possible that there
were five hundred people in the world ready to pay seven and sixpence for
a novel with the name of no author on the title page? (She thought it
best to leave out of her consideration altogether the possible purchasers
of the nine shilling set of bound volumes.)
Who were the people that ever laid out so much money upon books which
could be read through between the rising and the setting of the sun?
She had never met such liberal enthusiasts. Of course, it was only
reasonable that so splendid a work as the “History of Music” should be
in the library of every house wherein people of taste resided, but that
was not a book to be galloped through; some people might not be able to
read it within a month. Besides, it bore the honoured name of Dr. Burney
on the title page, and the fame of Dr. Burney was great. But as for that
poor little seven-and-sixpenny sewed “Evelina,” how should anyone take
an interest in her without reading her story? How would anyone read her
story without feeling afterwards that seven-and-sixpence (leaving the
nine shilling expenditure out of the question) was a ridiculous price to
pay for such an entertainment?
She felt that people would come to look on her as the instigator of a
fraud if they paid their money and read the book and then found out that
she had written it. The wisdom of concealing her name even from the
bookseller was now more apparent to her than it had ever been. She had
visions of indignant purchasers railing against Mr. Lowndes, and Mr.
Lowndes searching for her, so that he might rail against her; and so her
speculations ended in laughter; but even her laughter grated upon her
sensitive ears: she felt that it was the malicious jeering of a clever
cheat at the thought of having got the better of a worthy man.
Her precious “Evelina” was leading her a pretty dance. If it had not been
able to do so it would have been a paltry sort of book and she would have
been a paltry sort of author.