Sir Joshua had a maiden sister, Mrs. Frances Reynolds; a woman of worth
and understanding, but of a singular character; who, unfortunately for
herself, made, throughout life, the great mistake of nourishing that
singularity which was her bane, as if it had been her blessing.
She lived with Sir Joshua at this time, and stood high in the regard
of his firm and most honoured friend, Dr. Johnson; who saw and pitied
her foible, but tried to cure it in vain. It was that of living in an
habitual perplexity of mind, and irresolution of conduct, which to
herself was restlessly tormenting, and to all around her was teazingly
wearisome.
Whatever she suggested, or planned, one day, was reversed the next;
though resorted to on the third, as if merely to be again rejected on
the fourth; and so on, almost endlessly; for she rang not the changes
in her opinions and designs in order to bring them into harmony and
practice; but waveringly to stir up new combinations and difficulties;
till she found herself in the midst of such chaotic obstructions as
could chime in with no given purpose; but must needs be left to ring
their own peal, and to begin again just where they began at first.
This lady was a no unfrequent visitor in St. Martin’s-street; where,
for her many excellent qualities, she was much esteemed.
The Miss Palmers,[50] also, two nieces of Sir Joshua, lived with
him then occasionally; and one of them, afterwards, habitually; and
added to the grace of his table, and of his evening circles, by the
pleasingness of their manners, and the beauty of their persons.
Mrs. Frances Reynolds desired to paint Dr. Burney’s portrait, that she
might place it among certain other worthies of her choice, already
ornamenting her dressing-room. The Doctor had little time to spare;
but had too natively the spirit of the old school, to suffer No! and a
lady, to pair off together.
During his sittings, one trait of her tenacious humour occurred, that
he was always amused in relating. While she was painting his hair,
which was remarkably thick, she asked him, very gravely, whether he
could let her have his wig some day to work at, without troubling him
to sit.
“My wig?” repeated he, much surprised.
“Yes;” she answered; “have not you more than one? can’t you spare it?”
“Spare it?—Why what makes you think it a wig? It’s my own hair.”
“O then, I suppose,” said she, with a smile, “I must not call it a
wig?”
“Not call it a wig?—why what for, my clear Madam, should you call it a
wig?”
“Nay, Sir,” replied she, composedly, “if you do not like it, I am sure
I won’t.”
And he protested, that though he offered her every proof of twisting,
twitching, and twirling that she pleased, she calmly continued
painting, without heeding his appeal for the hairy honours of his head;
and only coolly repeating, “I suppose, then, I must not call it a wig?”