... Late as it was, it was settled we should go to the ball, the last
for the season being this night. My own objections about going not
being strong enough to combat the ado my mentioning them would have
occasioned, I joined in the party, without demur.
The ball was half over, and all the company seated to tea. Mr. Wade[156]
came to receive us all, as usual, and we had a table procured for us,
and went to tea ourselves, for something to do. When this repast was
over, the company returned to their recreation. The room was very thin,
and almost half the ladies danced with one another, though there were
men enough present, I believe, had they chosen such exertion; but the
Meadowses at balls are in crowds. Some of the ladies were in riding
habits, and they made admirable men. 'Tis tonnish to be so much
undressed at the last ball.
None of our usual friends, the Shelleys, Hatsels, Dickens, or Pepys,
were here, and we, therefore, made no party--but Mrs. Thrale and I
stood at the top of the room to look on the dancing, and as we were thus
disengaged, she was seized with a violent desire to make one among them,
and I felt myself an equal inclination. She proposed, as so many women
danced together, that we two should, and nothing should I have liked
so well; but I begged her to give up the scheme, as that would have
occasioned more fuss and observation than our dancing with all the men
that ever were born.
While we were debating this matter, a gentleman suddenly said to
me,--“Did you walk far this morning, Miss Burney?” And, looking at him,
I saw Mr. Metcalf,[157] whose graciousness rather surprised me, for
he only made to Mrs. Thrale a cold and distant bow, and it seems he
declares, aloud and around, his aversion to literary ladies. That he
can endure, and even seek me is, I presume, only from the general
perverseness of mankind, because he sees I have always turned from him;
not, however, from disliking him, for he is a shrewd, sensible, keen,
and very clever man; but merely from a dryness on his own side that has
excited retaliation.
“Yes,” I answered, “we walked a good way.”
“Dr. Johnson,” said he, “told me in the morning you were no walker;
but I informed him then I had had the pleasure of seeing you upon the
Newmarket Hill.”
“Oh, he does not know,” cried I, “whether I am a walker or not--he does
not see me walk, because he never walks himself.”...
Here he was called away by some gentleman, but presently came to me
again.
“Miss Burney,” he said, “shall you dance?”
“No, sir, not to-night.”
“A gentleman,” he added, “has desired me to speak to you for him.”
Now, Susanna, for the grand moment!--the height--the zenith of my
glory in the ton meridian! I again said I did not mean to dance, and to
silence all objection, he expressively said,--
“Tis Captain Kaye[158] who sends me.”
Is not this magnificent? Pray congratulate me!
I was really very much surprised, but repeated my refusal, with all
customary civilities to soften it. He was leaving me with this answer,
when this most flashy young officer, choosing to trust his cause to
himself, came forward, and desired to be introduced to me. Mr. Metcalf
performed that ceremony, and he then, with as much respect and deference
as if soliciting a countess, said,--
“May I flatter myself you will do me the honour of dancing with me?”
I thanked him, and said the same thing over again. He looked much
disappointed, and very unwilling to give up his plan.
“If you have not,” he said, “any particular dislike to dancing, it will
be doing, not only me, but the whole room much honour, if you will make
one in a set.”
“You do me much honour, sir,” I answered, “but I must beg you to excuse
me.”
“I hope not,” cried he, “I hope out of charity you will dance, as it is
the last ball, and the company is so thin.”
“Oh, it will do very well without me; Mr. Wade himself says he dies
to-night a very respectable death.”
“And will you not have the goodness to help it on a little in its last
stage?”
“No,” said I, laughing; “why should we wish it to be kept lingering?”
“Lingering!” repeated he, looking round at the dancers, “no, surely it
is not quite so desperate; and if you will but join in, you will give it
new existence.”
I was a little thrown off my guard at this unexpected earnestness, so
different to the ton of the day, and I began hardly to know what to
answer, my real objection being such as I could by no means publish,
though his urgency and his politeness joined would have made me give up
any other.
“This is a very quiet dance,” he continued, “there is nothing fatiguing
in it.”
“You are very good,” said I, “but I cannot really dance to-night.”
I was sorry to seem so obstinate, but he was just the man to make every
body inquire whom he danced with; and any one who wished for
general attention could do no better than to be his partner. The
ever-mischievous Mrs. Thrale, calling to Mr. Selwyn, who stood by us,
said,--
“Why, here's a man in love!--quite, downright in love with Miss Burney,
if ever I saw one!”
“He is quite mortified, at least,” he answered; “I never saw a man look
more mortified.”
“Well, he did not deserve it,” said she; “he knew how to beg, and he
ought not to have been so served.”