are known to live with us, and, your appearance at this critical time is
important to our credit. If this misfortune gets wind, the consequence
is that every dirty tradesman in town to whom I owe a shilling, will
be forming the same cursed combination those scoundrels formed this
morning, of coming in a body, and waiting for their money, or else
bringing an execution into my house.. The only way to silence report is
by putting a good face upon the matter at once, and shewing ourselves
to the world as if nothing had happened. Favour us, therefore, to-night
with your company, which is really important to us, or ten to one, but
in another fortnight, I shall be just in the same scrape.”
Cecilia, however incensed at this intelligence that his debts were still
so numerous, felt now so much alarmed at the mention of an execution,
as if she was in actual danger of ruin herself. Terrified, therefore,
though not convinced, she yielded to their persuasions, and consented to
accompany them.
They soon after separated to make some alteration in their dress,
and then, calling in their way for Mrs Mears, they proceeded to the
Pantheon.
CHAPTER vi
A MAN OF THE TON.
At the door of the Pantheon they were joined by Mr Arnott and Sir Robert
Floyer, whom Cecilia now saw with added aversion: they entered the great
room during the second act of the Concert, to which as no one of the
party but herself had any desire to listen, no sort of attention was
paid; the ladies entertaining themselves as if no Orchestra was in the
room, and the gentlemen, with an equal disregard to it, struggling for
a place by the fire, about which they continued hovering till the music
was over.
Soon after they were seated, Mr Meadows, sauntering towards them,
whispered something to Mrs Mears, who, immediately rising, introduced
him to Cecilia; after which, the place next to her being vacant, he cast
himself upon it, and lolling as much at his ease as his situation would
permit, began something like a conversation with her.
“Have you been long in town, ma'am?”
“No, Sir.”
“This is not your first winter?”
“Of being in town, it is.”
“Then you have something new to see; O charming! how I envy you!--Are
you pleased with the Pantheon?”
“Very much; I have seen no building at all equal to it.”
“You have not been abroad. Travelling is the ruin of all happiness!
There's no looking at a building here after seeing Italy.”
“Does all happiness, then, depend upon the sight of buildings?” said
Cecilia, when, turning towards her companion, she perceived him yawning,
with such evident inattention to her answer, that not chusing to
interrupt his reverie, she turned her head another way.
For some minutes he took no notice of this; and then, as if suddenly
recollecting himself, he called out hastily, “I beg your pardon, ma'am,
you were saying something?”
“No, Sir, nothing worth repeating.”
“O pray don't punish me so severely as not to let me hear it!”
Cecilia, though merely not to seem offended at his negligence, was
then again beginning an answer, when, looking at him as she spoke, she
perceived that he was biting his nails with so absent an air, that he
appeared not to know he had asked any question. She therefore broke off,
and left him to his cogitation.
Sometime after he addressed her again, saying, “Don't you find this
place extremely tiresome, ma'am?”
“Yes, Sir,” said she, half laughing, “it is, indeed, not very
entertaining!”
“Nothing is entertaining,” answered he, “for two minutes together.
Things are so little different one from another, that there is no making
pleasure out of any thing. We go the same dull round for ever; nothing
new, no variety! all the same thing over again! Are you fond of public
places, ma'am?”
“Yes, Sir, _soberly_, as Lady Grace says.”
“Then I envy you extremely, for you have some amusement always in your
own power. How desirable that is!”
“And have not you the same resources?”
“O no! I am tired to death! tired of every thing! I would give the
universe for a disposition less difficult to please. Yet, after all,
what is there to give pleasure? When one has seen one thing, one has
seen every thing. O, 'tis heavy work! Don't you find it so, ma'am?”
This speech was ended with so violent a fit of yawning, that Cecilia
would not trouble herself to answer it: but her silence, as before,
passed wholly unnoticed, exciting neither question nor comment.
A long pause now succeeded, which he broke at last, by saying, as he
writhed himself about upon his seat, “These forms would be much more
agreeable if there were backs to them. 'Tis intolerable to be forced
to sit like a school-boy. The first study of life is ease. There is,
indeed, no other study that pays the trouble of attainment. Don't you
think so, ma'am?”
“But may not even that,” said Cecilia, “by so much study, become
labour?”
“I am vastly happy you think so.”
“Sir?”
“I beg your pardon, ma'am, but I thought you said--I really beg your
pardon, but I was thinking of something else.”
“You did very right, Sir,” said Cecilia, laughing, “for what I said by
no means merited any attention.”
“Will you do me the favour to repeat it?” cried he, taking out his glass
to examine some lady at a distance.
“O no,” said Cecilia, “that would be trying your patience too severely.”
“These glasses shew one nothing but defects,” said he; “I am sorry they
were ever invented. They are the ruin of all beauty; no complexion can
stand them. I believe that solo will never be over; I hate a solo; it
sinks, it depresses me intolerably.”
“You will presently, Sir,” said Cecilia, looking at the bill of the
concert, “have a full piece; and that, I hope, will revive you.”
“A full piece! oh insupportable! it stuns, it fatigues, it overpowers me
beyond endurance! no taste in it, no delicacy, no room for the smallest
feeling.”
“Perhaps, then, you are only fond of singing?”
“I should be, if I could hear it; but we are now so miserably off in
voices, that I hardly ever attempt to listen to a song, without fancying
myself deaf from the feebleness of the performers. I hate every thing
that requires attention. Nothing gives pleasure that does not force its
own way.”
“You only, then, like loud voices, and great powers?”
“O worse and worse!--no, nothing is so disgusting to me. All my
amazement is that these people think it worth while to give Concerts at
all; one is sick to death of music.”
“Nay,” cried Cecilia, “if it gives no pleasure, at least it takes none
away; for, far from being any impediment to conversation, I think every
body talks more during the performance than between the acts. And what
is there better you could substitute in its place?”
Cecilia, receiving no answer to this question, again looked round to see
if she had been heard; when she observed her new acquaintance, with a
very thoughtful air, had turned from her to fix his eyes upon the statue
of Britannia.
Very soon after, he hastily arose, and seeming entirely to forget that
he had spoke to her, very abruptly walked away.
Mr Gosport, who was advancing to Cecilia, and had watched part of this
scene, stopt him as he was retreating, and said “Why Meadows, how's
this? are you caught at last?”
“O worn to death! worn to a thread!” cried he, stretching himself, and
yawning; “I have been talking with a young lady to entertain her! O such
heavy work! I would not go through it again for millions!
“What, have you talked yourself out of breath?”
“No; but the effort! the effort!--O, it has unhinged me for a
fortnight!--Entertaining a young lady!--one had better be a galley-slave
at once!”
“Well but, did she not pay your toils? She is surely a sweet creature.”
“Nothing can pay one for such insufferable exertion! though she's well
enough, too--better than the common run,--but shy, quite too shy; no
drawing her out.”
“I thought that was to your taste. You commonly hate much volubility.
How have I heard you bemoan yourself when attacked by Miss Larolles!”
“Larolles? O distraction! She talks me into a fever in two minutes. But
so it is for ever! nothing but extremes to be met with! common girls are
too forward, this lady is too reserved--always some fault! always some
drawback! nothing ever perfect!”
“Nay, nay,” cried Mr Gosport, “you do not know her; she is perfect
enough in all conscience.”
“Better not know her, then,” answered he, again yawning, “for she cannot
be pleasing. Nothing perfect is natural;--I hate every thing out of
nature.”
He then strolled on, and Mr Gosport approached Cecilia.
“I have been wishing,” cried he, “to address you this half hour, but as
you were engaged with Mr Meadows, I did not dare advance.”
“O, I see your malice!” cried Cecilia; “you were determined to add
weight to the value of your company, by making me fully sensible where
the balance would preponderate.”
“Nay, if you do not admire Mr Meadows,” cried he, “you must not even
whisper it to the winds.”
“Is he, then, so very admirable?”
“O, he is now in the very height of fashionable favour: his dress is
a model, his manners are imitated, his attention is courted, and his
notice is envied.”
“Are you not laughing?”
“No, indeed; his privileges are much more extensive than I have
mentioned: his decision fixes the exact limits between what is vulgar
and what is elegant, his praise gives reputation, and a word from him in
public confers fashion!”
“And by what wonderful powers has he acquired such influence?”
“By nothing but a happy art in catching the reigning foibles of the
times, and carrying them to an extreme yet more absurd than any one had
done before him. Ceremony, he found, was already exploded for ease, he,
therefore, exploded ease for indolence; devotion to the fair sex, had
given way to a more equal and rational intercourse, which, to push
still farther, he presently exchanged for rudeness; joviality, too, was
already banished for philosophical indifference, and that, therefore, he
discarded, for weariness and disgust.”
“And is it possible that qualities such as these should recommend him to
favour and admiration?”
“Very possible, for qualities such as these constitute the present taste
of the times. A man of the _Ton_, who would now be conspicuous in the
gay world, must invariably be insipid, negligent, and selfish.”
“Admirable requisites!” cried Cecilia; “and Mr Meadows, I acknowledge,
seems to have attained them all.”
“He must never,” continued Mr Gosport, “confess the least pleasure from
any thing, a total apathy being the chief ingredient of his character:
he must, upon no account, sustain a conversation with any spirit, lest
he should appear, to his utter disgrace, interested in what is said: and
when he is quite tired of his existence, from a total vacuity of ideas,
he must affect a look of absence, and pretend, on the sudden, to be
wholly lost in thought.”
“I would not wish,” said Cecilia, laughing, “a more amiable companion!”
“If he is asked his opinion of any lady,” he continued, “he must
commonly answer by a grimace; and if he is seated next to one, he
must take the utmost pains to shew by his listlessness, yawning, and
inattention, that he is sick of his situation; for what he holds of all
things to be most gothic, is gallantry to the women. To avoid this
is, indeed, the principal solicitude of his life. If he sees a lady in
distress for her carriage, he is to enquire of her what is the matter,
and then, with a shrug, wish her well through her fatigues, wink at some
bye-stander, and walk away. If he is in a room where there is a crowd of
company, and a scarcity of seats, he must early ensure one of the best
in the place, be blind to all looks of fatigue, and deaf to all hints of
assistance, and seeming totally to forget himself, lounge at his ease,
and appear an unconscious spectator of what is going forward. If he is
at a ball where there are more women than men, he must decline dancing
at all, though it should happen to be his favourite amusement, and
smiling as he passes the disengaged young ladies, wonder to see them sit
still, and perhaps ask them the reason!”
“A most alluring character indeed!” cried Cecilia; “and pray how long
have these been the accomplishments of a fine gentleman?”
“I am but an indifferent chronologer of the modes,” he answered, “but
I know it has been long enough to raise just expectations that some new
folly will be started soon, by which the present race of INSENSIBLISTS
may be driven out. Mr Meadows is now at the head of this sect, as Miss
Larolles is of the VOLUBLE, and Miss Leeson of the SUPERCILIOUS. But
this way comes another, who, though in a different manner, labours
with the same view, and aspires at the same reward, which stimulate
the ambition of this happy _Triplet_, that of exciting wonder by
peculiarity, and envy by wonder.”
This description announced Captain Aresby; who, advancing from the
fire-place, told Cecilia how much he rejoiced in seeing her, said he had
been _reduced to despair_ by so long missing that honour, and that he
had feared she _made it a principle_ to avoid coming in public, having
sought her in vain _partout_.
He then smiled, and strolled on to another party.
“And pray of what sect,” said Cecilia, “is this gentleman?”
“Of the sect of JARGONISTS,” answered Mr Gosport; “he has not an
ambition beyond paying a passing compliment, nor a word to make use of
that he has not picked up at public places. Yet this dearth of language,
however you may despise it, is not merely owing to a narrow capacity:
foppery and conceit have their share in the limitation, for though his
phrases are almost always ridiculous or misapplied, they are selected
with much study, and introduced with infinite pains.”
“Poor man!” cried Cecilia, “is it possible it can cost him any trouble
to render himself so completely absurd?”
“Yes; but not more than it costs his neighbours to keep him in
countenance. Miss Leeson, since she has presided over the sect of the
SUPERCILIOUS, spends at least half her life in wishing the annihilation
of the other half; for as she must only speak in her own Coterie, she
is compelled to be frequently silent, and therefore, having nothing to
think of, she is commonly gnawn with self-denial, and soured with want
of amusement: Miss Larolles, indeed, is better off, for in talking
faster than she thinks, she has but followed the natural bent of her
disposition: as to this poor JARGONIST, he has, I must own, rather a
hard task, from the continual restraint of speaking only out of his
own [Lilliputian] vocabulary, and denying himself the relief of ever
uttering one word by the call of occasion but what hardship is that,
compared with what is borne by Mr Meadows? who, since he commenced
INSENSIBLIST, has never once dared to be pleased, nor ventured for a
moment to look in good humour!”
“Surely, then,” said Cecilia, “in a short time, the punishment of this
affectation will bring its cure.”
“No; for the trick grows into habit, and habit is a second nature. A
secret idea of fame makes his forbearance of happiness supportable to
him: for he has now the self-satisfaction of considering himself raised
to that highest pinnacle of fashionable refinement which is built upon
apathy and scorn, and from which, proclaiming himself superior to
all possibility of enjoyment, he views the whole world with contempt!
holding neither beauty, virtue, wealth, nor power of importance
sufficient to kindle the smallest emotion!”
“O that they could all round listen to you!” cried Cecilia; “they would
soon, I think, sicken of their folly, if they heard it thus admirably
exposed.”
“No; they would but triumph that it had obtained them so much
notice!--But pray do you see that gentleman, or don't you chuse to know
him, who has been bowing to you this half hour?”
“Where?” cried Cecilia, and, looking round, perceived Mr Morrice; who,
upon her returning his salutation, instantly approached her, though he
had never ventured to shew himself at Mr Harrel's, since his unfortunate
accident on the evening of the masquerade.
Entirely casting aside the easy familiarity at which he had latterly
arrived, he enquired after her health with the most fearful diffidence,
and then, bowing profoundly, was modestly retiring; when Mrs Harrel
perceiving him, smiled with so much good-humour, that he gathered
courage to return and address her, and found her, to his infinite
delight, as obliging and civil as ever.
The Concert was now over; the ladies arose, and the gentlemen joined
them. Morrice, at sight of Mr Harrel, was again shrinking; but Mr
Harrel, immediately shaking hands with him, enquired what had kept
him so long from Portman-Square? Morrice then, finding, to his great
surprise, that no one had thought more of the mischief but himself
who had committed it, joyously discarded his timidity, and became as
sprightly as before his mortification.
A motion was now made for going to the tea-room; and as they walked
on, Cecilia, in looking up to examine the building, saw in one of the
galleries young Delvile, and almost at the same time caught his eye.
Scarcely now did a moment elapse before he joined her. The sight of him,
strongly reviving in her mind the painful contrariety of opinion with
which she had lately thought of him, the sentiments so much in his
favour which but a few days before she had encouraged, and which it was
only that morning she had endeavoured to crush, made her meet him with a
kind of melancholy that almost induced her to lament he was amiable, and
repine that she knew none like him.
His appearance, meantime, was far different; he seemed enchanted at the
sight of her, he flew eagerly to meet her, and his eyes sparkled
with pleasure as he approached her; a pleasure neither moderate nor
disguised, but lively, unrestrained, and expressive.
Cecilia, whose plans since she had last seen him had twice varied,
who first had looked forward to being united with him for ever, and
afterwards had determined to avoid with him even a common acquaintance,
could not, while these thoughts were all recurring to her memory,
receive much delight from observing his gaiety, or feel at all gratified
by his unembarrassed manners. The openness of his attentions, and the
frankness of his admiration, which hitherto had charmed her as marks
of the sincerity of his character, now shocked her as proofs of the
indifference of his heart, which feeling for her a mere common regard,
that affected neither his spirits nor his peace, he manifested without
scruple, since it was not accompanied with even a wish beyond the
present hour.
She now, too, recollected that such had always been his conduct, one
single and singular moment excepted, when, as he gave to her his
letter for Mr Belfield, he seemed struck as she was herself by the
extraordinary co-incidence of their ideas and proceedings: that emotion,
however, she now regarded as casual and transitory, and seeing him so
much happier than herself, she felt ashamed of her delusion, and angry
at her easy captivation.
Reflections such as these, though they added fresh motives to her
resolution of giving up all thoughts of his alliance, were yet so
humiliating, that they robbed her of all power of receiving pleasure
from what was passing, and made her forget that the place she was in was
even intended for a place of entertainment.
Young Delvile, after painting in lively colours the loss his house had
sustained by her quitting it, and dwelling with equal force upon the
regret of his mother and his own, asked in a low voice if she would do
him so much honour as to introduce him to Mr Harrel; “As the son,”
added he, “of a brother guardian, I think I have a kind of claim to his
acquaintance.”
Cecilia could not refuse, though as the request was likely to occasion
more frequent meetings, she persuaded herself she was unwilling to
comply. The ceremony therefore past, and was again repeated with Mrs
Harrel, who, though she had several times seen him, had never been
formally made known to him.
The Harrels were both of them much pleased at this mark of civility in a
young man whose family had prepared them rather to expect his scorn, and
expressed their wishes that he would drink his tea in their party; he
accepted their invitation with alacrity, and turning to Cecilia, said,
“Have I not skilfully timed my introduction! But though you have done me
this honour with Mr and Mrs Harrel, I must not yet, I presume, entreat
you to extend it to a certain happy gentleman of this company;” glancing
his eyes toward Sir Robert Floyer.
“No, Sir,” answered she, with quickness, “yet, nor ever!”
They were now at the door leading down stairs to the tea-room. Cecilia
saw that Sir Robert, who had hitherto been engaged with some gentlemen,
seemed to be seeking her; and the remembrance of the quarrel which had
followed her refusal of his assistance at the Opera-house, obliged
her to determine, should he offer it again, to accept it: but the
same brutality which forced this intention, contributed to render it
repugnant to her, and she resolved if possible to avoid him, by hurrying
down stairs before he reached her. She made, therefore, a sudden attempt
to slip through the crowd, and as she was light and active, she easily
succeeded; but though her hasty motion separated her from the rest of
her party, Delvile, who was earnestly looking at her, to discover her
meaning in the disclaiming speech she made about Sir Robert, saw into
her design, but suffered her not to go alone; he contrived in a moment
to follow and join her, while she was stopping at the foot of the stairs
for Mrs Harrel.
“Why what a little thief you are,” cried he, “to run away from us thus!
what do you think Sir Robert will say? I saw him looking for you at the
very instant of your flight.”
“Then you saw at the same time,” said Cecilia, “the reason of it.”
“Will you give me leave,” cried he, laughing, “to repeat this to my Lord
Ernolf?”
“You may repeat it, Sir, if you please,” said Cecilia, piqued that he
had not rather thought of himself than of Lord Ernolf, “to the whole
Pantheon.”
“And if I should,” cried he, “half of it, at least, would thank me; and
to obtain the applause of so noble an assembly, what would it signify
that Sir Robert should cut my throat?”
“I believe,” said Cecilia, deeply mortified by a raillery that shewed
so little interest in her avowal of indifference, “you are determined to
make me as sick of that man's name, as I am of his conversation.”
“And is it possible,” exclaimed Delvile, in a tone of surprise, “that
such can be your opinion, and yet, situated as you are, the whole world
at your command, and all mankind at your devotion--but I am answering
you seriously, when you are only speaking by rule.”
“What rule, Sir?”
“That which young ladies, upon certain occasions, always prescribe
themselves.”
Here they were interrupted by the arrival of the rest of the company;
though not before Cecilia had received some little consolation for
her displeasure, by finding that young Delvile still supposed she was
engaged, and flattering herself his language would be different were he
informed of the contrary.
Morrice now undertook to procure them a table for tea, which, as the
room was very full, was not easily done; and while they were waiting his
success, Miss Larolles, who from the stairs had perceived Cecilia,
came running up to her, and taking her hand, called out “Lord, my
dear creature, who'd have thought of seeing you here? I was never so
surprised in my life! I really thought you was gone into a convent, it's
so extreme long since I've seen you. But of all things in the world,
why was you not at Lady Nyland's last assembly? I thought of asking Mrs
Harrel fifty times why you did not come, but it always went out of my
head. You've no notion how excessively I was disappointed.”
“You are very obliging,” said Cecilia laughing, “but I hope, since
you so often forgot it, the disappointment did [not] much lessen your
entertainment.”
“O Lord no! I was never so happy in my life. There was such a crowd, you
could not move a finger. Every body in the world was there. You've no
idea how delightful it was. I thought verily I should have fainted with
the heat.”
“That was delightful indeed! And how long did you stay?”