It was not yet six o’clock and the sun was not due to set for more than
another hour. The evening was a lovely one. From the shrubberies around
the house came the liquid notes of countless blackbirds and thrushes, and
above the trees of the park the cawing of the rooks as they wheeled above
their nests and settled upon the branches.
“We shall sit on the terrace for half an hour, if you have a mind to,”
said Mrs. Thrale, taking Fanny through the drawing-room into a smaller
room that opened upon a long terrace above the beds of the flower-garden.
Here were several seats and a small table bearing writing materials.
“Here I do most of my correspondence in the summer,” said Mrs. Thrale.
“Sitting at that table in the open air, I have few distractions, unless
I choose to accept the birds as such; and here I hope you will begin a
new novel, or better still, a comedy that Mr. Sheridan will produce, with
Mrs. Abington in her most charming gowns—you must give your namesake a
chance of wearing a whole trunkful of gowns.” They seated themselves, and
Mrs. Thrale continued:
“Now I have confided in you how I do my simple work, and I wish to hear
from you by what means you found time to write your novel. That is the
greatest secret of all associated with ‘Evelina’—so your father thinks.
Mrs. Burney I always knew as a model housekeeper—a model manager of a
family, and how you could contrive to write a single page without her
knowledge is what baffles me as well as your father.”
“To tell you all would, I fear, be to confess to a lifetime of
duplicity,” said Fanny. “I am sometimes shocked now when I reflect upon
my double-dealing.”
“Tell me how you first came to stray from the paths of virtue—such a
story is invariably interesting,” said Mrs. Thrale.
“My story is like all the others,” replied Fanny. “I only meant to turn
aside a little way, but soon I lost myself and I knew that there was no
retracing my steps.”
“Alas, alas, the old story!” said Mrs. Thrale, with a long-drawn sigh.
“Well, happily, you were not able to retrace your steps.”
“I had no idea that the story would grow upon me as it did,” said Fanny.
“I really only meant it to be a diversion for our dear friend, Mr.
Crisp, and an exercise for myself. I wrote a scrap now and again at odd
moments—when I was supposed to be writing to Mr. Crisp, or copying out my
father’s notes for his History, at home as well as at Chessington, and
when I was staying at Lynn; and so the thing grew and grew until I was
afraid to look at what I had perpetrated.”
“You are paraphrasing _Macbeth_, my dear: ‘I am afeared to think what I
have done: Look on’t again I dare not,’” said the elder lady. “But with
all you were able to prepare your father’s great work for the press—he
told me as much; so that what your double-dealing comes to is that you
did his writing as well as your own, and at the same time neglected none
of your ordinary household duties—if you had done so Mrs. Burney would
have informed you of it, I have no doubt. An excellent housewife, Mrs.
Burney! And now you shall tell me how you contrived to bring together so
marvellous a group of characters—you who have lived so short a time in
the world, and had so small an amount of experience.”
“I should like someone to answer that question for me,” said Fanny. “It
was not until I read the book in print that I began to be surprised at
it, and to wonder how it came to be written and how those characters had
found their way into it.”
But this question was too interesting a one not to be pursued by Mrs.
Thrale; and for half an hour she put inquiry after inquiry to Fanny
respecting the characters, the incidents and the language of “Evelina.”
Mrs. Thrale was certainly determined to place herself in a position to
prove to her friends that Miss Burney had made a _confidante_ of her in
all matters, down to the smallest detail of the book.
In ordinary circumstances Fanny would have been delighted to give her
her confidence in regard to these particulars—she had always a childlike
pleasure in talking about her books—but at this time she only did so
with a great effort. For while Mrs. Thrale was plying her with questions
about “Evelina,” there was ever before Fanny the unanswered question as
to what Rauzzini meant by his coldness and formality both before dinner
and during that meal. What did he mean by looking at her with that
reproachful frown upon his face? What did he mean by averting his eyes
from her when he had a chance of exchanging confidences with her, as he
had often done before? What did he mean by sitting at the table without
addressing a single word to her?
These were the questions which she was struggling in vain to answer
to her own satisfaction all the time that Mrs. Thrale was putting
inquiry after inquiry to her upon a matter that Fanny now regarded as
insignificant compared with the one that she was trying to answer for
herself.
Mrs. Thrale was just beginning a series of questions on the subject of
the comedy which she meant Miss Burney to write, when a servant appeared
with a message for the former.
“Tiresome!” exclaimed Fanny’s hostess, rising. “Here is some
insignificant household matter that can only be dealt with by the
mistress—summer frocks for two girls: the carrier has brought some
boxes—the summer has come upon us before spring has prepared us for its
arrival, and there has been a despairing cry heard in the nursery. I need
not excuse myself to you, Miss Burney. You will spare me for ten minutes.”
Miss Burney hoped that the feeling of relief of which she was conscious
did not show itself on her face, when she expressed the hope that Mrs.
Thrale would not think of her; she would be quite happy with the birds.
“And the comedy—do not forget the comedy.”
Miss Burney laughed, but before her hostess had reached the door leading
off the terrace, she was once more immersed in that question:
“What does he mean by his change of attitude in regard to me?”
It was serious—so much she knew. He had heard something that had caused
him to change. But what could he have heard? What manner of man was he
that would allow himself to be so influenced by anything that he might
hear against her, without first coming to her for an explanation?
Her mind went back to the evening when they had first met. It was in St.
Martin’s Street. He was there on the invitation of Dr. Burney: but it
seemed that he had become conscious of a sympathy existing between her
and himself, for he had remained by her side for a full hour while the
others in the room were singing and playing on the piano, and he had held
her hand at parting, expressing the hope, which his eyes confirmed, that
they would soon meet again.
And they had met again and again until one evening they found themselves
alone in an ante-room to the apartment where a musical programme was
being performed at a great house. Then he had told her that his happiness
depended on her returning the love which he bore her; and startled though
she had been, yet when he took her hand all her shyness seemed to vanish
and she confessed....
A sound behind her only served to make her memory seem more vivid, for it
was his voice that reached her ear and it was singing the same aria that
he had come from singing on that evening—the passionate “_Lascia ch’io
pianga_” of Handel. Once more she was listening to the strains—they came
from one of the rooms that opened upon the terrace—and now the chords of
the accompaniment were struck with a vehemence that had been absent from
her father’s playing to Rauzzini’s singing upon that occasion.
She listened as if in a dream while the noble, despairing strain went
on to its close, and the melody sobbed itself into silence—a silence
that the birds among the roses seemed unwilling to break, for only an
occasional note of a thrush was in the air....
She heard the sound of the door opening a little way down the terrace—of
a foot upon the flagged path. She did not raise her head, but she knew
that he was there—only a few yards away from her.
Through the silence there came the cawing of rooks far away among the
trees of the park.
Then all at once she heard his sudden exclamation of surprise. He had not
seen her at first; he saw her now.
“_Dio mio! ella è qui!_”
Still she did not turn her head toward him. More than a minute had passed
before she heard his slow steps as he approached her. He was beside her
for quite as long before he spoke.
“I did not know that you were here,” he said in a low voice. “But I am
glad. It is but right that I should say good-bye to you alone.”
Then she looked up.
“Why—why—why?” she cried almost piteously. “Why should you say good-bye?
What has made the change in you?”
“It is not I who have changed: it is you,” said he. “I loved the sweet,
modest, untarnished jewel of a girl—a pearl hidden away from the sight
of men in dim sea-cave—a violet—ah, I told you how I loved the violet
that hides itself from every eye—that was what you were when I loved
you, and I hoped to return to your side and find you the same. Well, I
return and—ah, where is the exquisite shrinking one that I looked for?
Gone—gone—gone for ever, and in her place I find one whose name is in
every mouth—not a soft, gentle girl, but a woman who has put her heart
into a book—_Dio mio!_ A woman who puts her heart into a book is like a
woman who disrobes in a public place—worse—worse—she exposes a heart that
should be sacred—feelings that it would be a gross indelicacy to exhibit
to the eyes of man!”
“And that is how you think of me on account of what I have done?” said
she.
“How can I think anything else?” he cried. “I told you that I loved you
because you were so unlike others—because you were like a child for
timidity and innocence of the world. I told you on that last evening we
were together how greatly I admired the act of Miss Linley in turning her
back upon the platform where she had sung and vowing never to return to
it—that was what I told you I loved—I who have seen how the nature—the
womanly charm of every woman suffers by reason of her appealing to the
public for money—for applause. That beautiful creature forsook the
platform before it was too late—before the evil influence could work her
ruin. But you—what do I hear the day I return to England?—you have put
your heart—your soul, into a book that causes your name to be tossed
about from mouth to mouth—Fanny Burney—Fanny Burney—Fanny Burney—I hear
that name, which I regarded as sacred, spoken as freely as men speak the
name of their Kitty Fisher—their Polly Kennedy—their Fanny Abington!
These are public characters—so are you—oh, my God! so are you. You should
have heard how you were discussed in that room behind us before you
arrived to-day—that gross man Johnson—he called you by a dozen pet names
as if he had a right—‘Fan’—‘Fannikin’—I know not what—‘a shy rogue’—that
was another! They laughed! They did not see the degradation of it. You
were a toy of the public—the vulgar crowd! Ah, you saw how that gross
man, who fed himself as a wolf, tucked you under his arm and the others
only smiled! Oh, I was shocked—shocked!”
“And I felt proud—prouder than I have felt in my life,” said she. “But
now I see what I have lost—forfeited. Listen to me and I will tell
you what my dream was. I had written that book, but I had no hope of
printing it until I met you and heard from your lips—all that I heard.”
“It was the truth—then: I loved you—then.”
“I knew that it was the truth. But who was I that I should be beloved by
you? I felt that it would be unendurable to me to hear people refer to
us—as I knew they would—the great singer who had stooped to a nonentity.”
“Ah! that was the charm!”
“Who except you would have said so? I knew what they would say, and I
made up my mind that I would not go to you except as an equal. I wanted
you to marry someone of whom you would feel proud, and I thought that
I had a little gift which I would lay at your feet. I did my best to
perfect it for your sake; but even when the book was printed I would not
give you my promise until I had assured myself that the gift would be
pronounced worthy of your acceptance. That was why I put you off for so
many months.”
“Ah, that was your mystery—you called it a mystery.”
“That was my secret—my mystery. Never mind; I thought that my hope was
realized when everyone about me was talking of the book and when people
whose opinion was valuable had said it was good—my one thought, God
knows, was that I could go to you—that I could make you happy, since I
should be thought by the world to be in some measure at least, worthy of
you.”
“My poor child! you have not made me happy, but miserable. No one can
make me happy now. I do not love you now—you are a different person now,
and you can never return to be what you were. That is the worst of all:
you can never return to your former innocence.”
“I can bear to hear you say even that; for now I perceive the mistake I
made. I should not have, thought of the difference between us: I should
only have had one thought—that you had offered me your love and that I
was ready to offer you my love. That should have been enough for me. You
were right, I was wrong. Good-bye.”
He looked at her for a few moments—tears were in his eyes and on his
cheeks—then he turned away with a passionate gesture, crying in his
native tongue:
“Mother—mother in heaven! I loved her because she was of a nature the
same as yours—saint-like as a lily—shrinking from the world—in the
world but having nothing in common with the world. I loved her because
I thought that she was as you were. I will not be a traitor to your
ideal—to your memory.”
He returned to her.
“I am alone in the world; but I know that the spirit of that saint, my
mother, looks down upon me from her heaven, and will comfort me. My heart
is broken. _Addio! Addio!_ I do not mean to be cruel—tell me that you do
not accuse me of being cruel!”
“I do not accuse you. I think I understand you—that is all.”
“_Addio—addio—addio!_”
The sound of his voice grew less with every word.
She was alone in the silence of the twilight.
* * * * *
Not for long, however. She heard the voice of Mrs. Thrale in the room
behind her, followed by the protests of Dr. Johnson.
“Miss Burney and I want to have an undisturbed talk together about
writing books,” Mrs. Thrale was saying as she came out upon the terrace.
“Books, madam; any fool can talk of books, and a good many fools avail
themselves of the licence,” cried Johnson. “Miss Burney and I are going
to talk about life. Books are not life, Miss Burney.”
“No, sir,” said Miss Burney slowly; “books are not life—books are not
life.”
THE END
End of Project Gutenberg's Discovering "Evelina", by F. Frankfort Moore