Dr. Burney, when the Cecilian business was arranged, again conveyed
the Memorialist to Streatham. No further reluctance on his part, nor
exhortations on that of Mr. Crisp, sought to withdraw her from that
spot, where, while it was in its glory, they had so recently, and with
pride, seen her distinguished. And truly eager was her own haste, when
mistress of her time, to try once more to soothe those sorrows and
chagrins in which she had most largely participated, by answering to
the call, which had never ceased tenderly to pursue her, of return.
With alacrity, therefore, though not with gaiety, they re-entered the
Streatham gates—but they soon perceived that they found not what they
had left!
Changed, indeed, was Streatham! Gone its chief, and changed his
relict! unaccountably, incomprehensibly, indefinably changed! She was
absent and agitated; not two minutes could she remain in a place; she
scarcely seemed to know whom she saw; her speech was so hurried it was
hardly intelligible; her eyes were assiduously averted from those who
sought them; and her smiles were faint and forced.
The Doctor, who had no opportunity to communicate his remarks, went
back, as usual, to town; where soon also, with his tendency, as usual,
to view every thing cheerfully, he revolved in his mind the new cares
and avocations by which Mrs. Thrale was perplexed; and persuaded
himself that the alteration which had struck him, was simply the effect
of her new position.
Too near, however, were the observations of the Memorialist for so easy
a solution. The change in her friend was equally dark and melancholy:
yet not personal to the Memorialist was any alteration. No affection
there was lessened; no kindness cooled; on the contrary, Mrs. Thrale
was more fervent in both; more touchingly tender; and softened in
disposition beyond all expression, all description: but in every
thing else,—in health, spirits, comfort, general looks, and manner,
the change was at once universal and deplorable. All was misery and
mystery: misery the most restless; mystery the most unfathomable.
The mystery, however, soon ceased; the solicitations of the most
affectionate sympathy could not long be urged in vain;—the mystery
passed away—not so the misery! That, when revealed, was but to both
parties doubled, from the different feelings set in movement by its
disclosure.
The astonishing history of the enigmatical attachment which impelled
Mrs. Thrale to her second marriage, is now as well known as her name:
but its details belong not to the history of Dr. Burney; though the
fact too deeply interested him, and was too intimately felt in his
social habits, to be passed over in silence in any memoirs of his life.
But while ignorant yet of its cause, more and more struck he became
at every meeting, by a species of general alienation which pervaded
all around at Streatham. His visits, which, heretofore, had seemed
galas to Mrs. Thrale, were now begun and ended almost without notice:
and all others,—Dr. Johnson not excepted,—were cast into the same
gulph of general neglect, or forgetfulness;—all,—save singly this
Memorialist!—to whom, the fatal secret once acknowledged, Mrs. Thrale
clung for comfort; though she saw, and generously pardoned, how wide
she was from meeting approbation.
In this retired, though far from tranquil manner, passed many months;
during which, with the acquiescent consent of the Doctor, his daughter,
wholly devoted to her unhappy friend, remained uninterruptedly at
sad and altered Streatham; sedulously avoiding, what at other times
she most wished, a _tête à tête_ with her father. Bound by ties
indissoluble of honour not to betray a trust that, in the ignorance of
her pity, she had herself unwittingly sought, even to him she was as
immutably silent, on this subject, as to all others—save, singly, to
the eldest daughter[43] of the house; whose conduct, through scenes
of dreadful difficulty, notwithstanding her extreme youth, was even
exemplary; and to whom the self-beguiled, yet generous mother, gave
full and free permission to confide every thought and feeling to the
Memorialist.
And here let a tribute of friendship be offered up to the shrine of
remembrance, due from a thousand ineffaceably tender recollections.
Not wildly, and with male and headstrong passions, as has currently
been asserted, was this connexion brought to bear on the part of Mrs.
Thrale. It was struggled against at times with even agonizing energy;
and with efforts so vehement, as nearly to destroy the poor machine they
were exerted to save. But the subtle poison had glided into her veins
so unsuspectedly, and, at first, so unopposedly, that the whole fabric
was infected with its venom; which seemed to become a part, never to be
dislodged, of its system.
It was, indeed, the positive opinion of her physician and friend, Sir
Lucas Pepys, that so excited were her feelings, and so shattered, by
their early indulgence, was her frame, that the crisis which might be
produced through the medium of decided resistance, offered no other
alternative but death or madness!
* * * * *
Various incidental circumstances began, at length, to open the
reluctant eyes of Dr. Burney to an impelled, though clouded foresight,
of the portentous event which might latently be the cause of the
alteration of all around at Streatham. He then naturally wished for
some explanation with his daughter, though he never forced, or even
claimed her confidence; well knowing, that voluntarily to give it him
had been her earliest delight.
But in taking her home with him one morning, to pass a day in St.
Martin’s-Street, he almost involuntarily, in driving from the paddock,
turned back his head towards the house, and, in a tone the most
impressive, sighed out: “Adieu, Streatham!—Adieu!”
His daughter perceived his eyes were glistening; though he presently
dropt them, and bowed down his head, as if not to distress her by any
look of examination; and said no more.
Her tears, which had long been with difficulty restrained from
overflowing in his presence, through grief at the unhappiness, and
even more at what she thought the infatuation of her friend, now burst
forth, from emotions that surprised away forbearance.
Dr. Burney sat silent and quiet, to give her time for recollection;
though fully expecting a trusting communication.
She gave, however, none: his commands alone could have forced a
disclosure; but he soon felt convinced, by her taciturnity, that
she must have been bound to concealment. He pitied, therefore, but
respected her secrecy; and, clearing his brow, finished the little
journey in conversing upon their own affairs.
This delicacy of kindness, which the Memorialist cannot recollect and
not record, filled her with ever living gratitude.
* * * * *