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 me _instanter_.”
“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.