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 manœuvring 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 Hersehel’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—_is_
silent. 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 an irresistible desire 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.