I am Dr Miss Fanny’s Most sincere Admirer and very hble Sert.
THOS. BARLOW.
I took not a moment to deliberate. — I felt that my heart was totally insensible — and I felt that I could never consent to unite myself to a man who I did not very highly value.
However, as I do not consider myself as an independant member of society, and as I knew I could depend upon my father’s kindness, I thought it incumbent upon me to act with his concurrence, I therefore, at night, before I sent an answer shewed him the letter. He asked me a great many questions. I assured him that forming a connection without attachment — (and that I was totally indifferent to the youth in question) was what I could never think of. My father was all indulgence and goodness. He at first proposed that I should write him word that our acquaintance had been too short to authorise so high an opinion as he expressed for me; but I objected to that as seeming to infer that a longer acquaintance might be acceptable: he therefore concluded upon the whole that I should send no answer at all.
I was not very easy at this determination, as it seemed to treat Mr. Barlow with a degree of contempt which his partiality to me by no means merited from myself; and I apprehended it to be possible for him to put, perhaps, another and more favourable interpretation upon my silence. I shewed Hetty the letter next day. She most vehemently took the young man’s part; urged me to think differently, and above all advised me to certainly write an answer, and to be of their party, according to my promise, when they went to Mrs. O’Connor’s.
I told her I would speak to my father again in regard to writing an answer, which I wished much to do, but could not now without his consent; but as to the party I could not make one, as it would be a kind of tacit approbation and assent of his further attentions.
I went afterwards to call on my grandmother; my sister followed me, and directly told her and my aunts of the affair. They all of them became most zealous advocates for Mr. Barlow. They spoke most highly of the character they had heard of him, and my aunt Anne humourously bid me beware of her and Beckey’s fate!
I assured them I was not intimidated, and that I had rather a thousand times die an old maid than be married, except from affection.
When I came home I wrote the following answer which I proposed sending, with my father’s leave.
Miss Burney presents her compliments to Mr. Barlow. She is much obliged for, though greatly surprised at the good opinion with which on so short an acquaintance he is pleased to honour her. She wishes Mr. Barlow all happiness, but must beg leave to recommend to him to transfer to some person better known to him a partiality which she so little merits.
My father, however, did not approve of my writing, I could not imagine why; but have since heard from my sister that he was unwilling I should give a No without some further knowledge of the young man.
Further knowledge will little avail in connections of this sort; the heart ought to be heard, and mine will never speak a word I am sure, for any one I do not truly enough honour to cheerfully, in all things serious, obey. How hard must be the duty of a wife practised without high esteem! And I am too spoilt by such men as my father and Mr. Crisp to content myself with a character merely inoffensive. I should expire of fatigue with him.
My sister was not contented with giving her own advice; she wrote about the affair to Mr. Crisp, representing in the strongest light the utility of my listening to Mr. Barlow. He has written me such a letter! God knows how I shall answer it Every body is against me but my beloved father —
They all of them are kindly interested in my welfare; but they know not so well as myself what may make me happy or miserable. To unite myself for life to a man who is not infinitely dear to me is what I can never, never consent to, unless, indeed, I was strongly urged by my father. I thank God most gratefully he has not interfered.
They tell me they do not desire me to marry, but not to give up the power of it without seeing more of the proposer; but this reasoning I cannot give in to, — it is foreign to all my notions. How can I see more of Mr. Barlow without encouraging him to believe I am willing to think of him? I detest all trifling. If ever I marry, my consent shall be prompt and unaffected.
[From MR. CRISP to Miss FANNY BURNEY.]
[May 8.]
So much of the future good or ill of your life seems now depending, Fanny, that I cannot dispense with myself from giving you (without being called upon) my whole sentiments on a subject, which I dare say you already guess at. Hetty (as she told you she would) has disclosed the affair to me. The character she gives of the young man is in these words: “A young man, whose circumstances I have heard, are easy; but am not throughly inform’d of them; but he bears an extraordinary character for a young man now a-days, — I have it from some who have known him long, that he is remarkably even-temper’d, sedate, and sensible; he is twenty-four years of age; is greatly esteem’d for qualities rarely found at his age — temperance and industry; well educated, understands books and words, better than the world, which gives him something of a stiffness and formality, which discovers him unus’d to company, but which might wear off.”
Is all this true, Fanny? — If it is, is such a man so very determinately to be rejected, because from the overflowings of an innocent honest mind (I won’t call it ignorant, but) untainted with the world (instead of a thousand pitiful airs and disguises, mixt perhaps with treachery and design) he with trembling and diffidence ventures to write, what he is unable to declare in person; and, forsooth, to raise your indignation to the highest pitch, is so indelicate, as to hint that his intentions aim at Matrimony! If you don’t put me in mind of Molière’s Predeuses Ridicules. Read it,.... you young devil, and blush! ’tis scene the fourth, and instead of Gorgibus and Madelon, read Crispin and Fanchon; and the dialogue will run thus:
Fanchon,
La belle galanterie que la sienne, quoi, débuter d’abord par la mariage,
Crispin,
Et par où veux-tu donc qu’il débute? par la concubinage? n’est-ce pas un procédé, dont vous avez sujet de vous loüer, aussi bien que moi? est-il rien de plus obligéant que cela? et ce lien sacré, où il aspire, n’est-il pas un témoignage de l’honnêteté de ses intentions?
Fanchon.
Ah mon père! ce que vous dites là est du dernier bourgeois. Cela me fait honte de vous ouir parler de la sorte, et vous devriez un peu vous faire apprendre le bel air des choses.
How does this happen? Were there Fanchons in Molière’s days, or are there Madelons now? But, seriously, Fanny, all the ill-founded objections you make, to me appear strong and invincible marks of a violent and sincere passion. What you take it into your head to be displeas’d with, as too great a liberty, I mean, his presuming to write to you, and in so tender and respectful and submissive a strain, if you knew the world, and that villanous Yahoo called Man, as well as I do, you would see in a very different light, — in its true light, — fearfullness, a high opinion of you, a consciousness (an unjust one I will call it) of his own inferiority: and at last, as he thinks the happiness of: his life is at stake, summoning up a trembling resolution of disclosing in writing the situation of his mind, which he has not the courage to do to your face: and do you call or think this, — can you judge so ill, as to look on this, as an undue or impertinent liberty? — Ah! Fanny, such a disposition promises a thousandfold more happiness, more solid, lasting, home-felt happiness, than all the seducing exterior airs, graces, accomplishments, and addresses of an artful [worldly man.] Such a man, as this young Barlow if ever you are so lucky and so well-advis’d, as to be united to him, will improve upon you every hour. You will discover in him graces and charms which kindness will bring to light, that at present you have no idea of; — I mean, if his character is truly given by Hetty. That is the grand object of enquiry, as likewise his circumstances; this last, as the great sheet-anchor, upon which we are to depend in our voyage through life, ought most minutely to be scrutiniz’d. Is he of any profession, or only of an independent for
tune? if either, or both, sufficient to promise a... comfortable [income.] You may live to the age of your grandmother, and not meet with so valuable an offer. Shakespear says:
There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which taken at the heighth leads on to Fortune;
But being neglected, &c.
I forget how it goes on, but the sense is (what you may guess), that the opportunity is never to be recover’d; the tide is lost, and you are left in shallows, fast a-ground, and struggling in vain for the remainder of your life to get on, — doom’d to pass it in obscurity and regret. Look round you, Fan; look at your aunts! Fanny Burney won’t always be what she is now! Mrs. Hamilton once had an offer of £3000 a-year, or near it; a parcel of young giggling girls laugh’d her out of it. The man, forsooth, was not quite smart enough, though otherwise estimable. Oh, Fan, this is not a marrying age, without a handsome Fortune!.... Suppose you to lose your father, — take in all chances. Consider the situation of an unprotected, unprovided woman! Excuse my being so earnest you. Assure yourself it proceeds from my regard, and from (let me say it though it savors of vanity) a deep knowledge of the world. Observe how far I go; I don’t urge you, hand over head, to have this man at all events; but, for God’s sake and your own sake, give him and yourself fair play. Don’t decide so positively against it.
If you do, you are ridiculous to a high degree. If you don’t answer his letter, don’t avoid seeing him. At all events, I charge you on my blessing to attend Hetty in her visit to the O’Connors, according to your promise, and which you can’t get off without positive rudeness. This binds you to nothing; it leaves an opening for future consideration and enquiry, and is barely decent. I have wrote so much on this subject, (which is now next my heart) that I cannot frame myself to any thing else for this bout. So, adieu! you have the best wishes of your affectionate Daddy, — S. C.
Chesington, May 8.
Sunday, May 15th.
The visit to Mrs. O’Connor was made yesterday. I commissioned my aunts — though they would hardly hear me — to say that I was prevented from waiting on her by a bad cold. How the message was taken, and what passed I know not; but this morning, while we were all at breakfast, except my father who was in the study, John came into the parlour and said that a gentleman enquired for me.
I guessed who it was — and was inexpressibly confused. Mama stared but desired he might walk in. The door opened, and Mr. Barlow appeared. He had dressed himself elegantly, but could hardly speak. He bowed two or three times — I coloured like scarlet, and I believe he was the only person in the room who did not see it.
“Mrs. O’Connor — he called — my cold — he understood — he was very sorry” — He could not get on. My voice too failed me terribly — for his silence at his first entrance made me fear he was going to reproach me for not answering his letter. I told him my cold had been too bad to allow me to go out — but I was so terribly frightened lest my mother should say—” What cold! I did not know you had one!” — that I had great difficulty to get out the words; and he himself took notice that my voice spoke how bad my cold was, though in fact I have no cold at all, [but grew husky from embarrassment.] My mother then asked him to sit down, and Sukey, very good naturedly entered into conversation with him to our mutual relief — particularly to his, as he seemed so confounded he scarce knew where he was. I sat upon thorns from the fear that he would desire to speak to me alone. I looked another way, and hardly opened my mouth. In about half an hour he rose to go — Whether he was induced to make this visit from expecting he might speak to me, or whether in order to see if I had any cold or not, I cannot tell; but it proved cruelly distressing to him, and confusing to me.
Had I sent an answer, this would not have happened; but it is now too late. I am very sorry to find this young man seems so serious; — however, an attachment so precipitately formed, so totally discouraged, and so placed — cannot be difficult to cure.
May.
We have had a charming Concert; I am very glad that, after their long cessation, these entertainments are revived amongst us.
Our party consisted of the Baron Deiden, the Danish Ambassador and the Baronness his lady, who is a sweet woman, young, pretty, accomplished, and graceful. She is reckoned one of the best lady harpsichord players in Europe. Miss Phipps, a charming girl whom I have mentioned before. Sir James Lake, who, as heretofore, was sensible, cold, and reserved. Lady Lake who as heretofore was all politeness and sweetness. Miss Lake, sister of Sir James, who is a very obliging and sweet-tempered, oldish maid * * * * and Sir Thomas Clarges, a young baronet, who was formerly so desperately enamoured of Miss Linley, now Mrs. Sheridan, that his friends made a point of his going abroad to recover himself: he is now just returned from Italy, and I hope cured. He still retains all the school-boy English mauvaise honte; scarce speaks but to make an answer, and is as shy as if his last residence had been at Eaton instead of Paris Mr. Harris, author of the three Treatises on Music, Poetry, and Happiness, of Philosophical Arrangements, Hermes, and several other tracts. He is at the same time learned and polite, intelligent and humble. * * * * Mrs. Harris, his wife, is in nothing extraordinary. Miss Louisa Harris, his second daughter, is a modest, reserved, and sensible girl. She is a singing-scholar of Sacchini’s, and has obtained some fame as a lady-singer Mrs. Ord a very musical lady and agreeable woman. Miss Ord, a fine girl, but very insipid. Mr. Earl, a very musical gentleman. Mrs. Anguish, a keen, sharp, clever woman. Miss Harrison, daughter of the unfortunate Commodore, a haughty and uninteresting sort of girl. Mr. Merlin, the very ingenious mechanic. He is a great favourite at our house. [He is very diverting also in conversation.] There is a singular simplicity in his manners.... He speaks his opinion upon all subjects and about all persons with the most undisguised freedom. He does not, though a foreigner, want words; but he arranges and pronounces them very comically. He is humbly grateful for all civilities that are shown him; but is warmly and honestly resentful for the least slight....
Mr. Jones, a Welsh harper, a silly young man, [was also present.] We had a great deal of conversation in parties, before the Concert began. I had the satisfaction to sit next to Mr. Harris, who is very chearful and communicative, and his conversation was instructive and agreeable. Mr. Jones, the harper, began the Concert. He has a fine instrument of Merlin’s construction; he plays with great neatness and delicacy; but as expression must have meanings he does not abound in that commodity. After him, at the request of the Baron ness Deiden, Mr. Burney went to the harpsichord. He played with his usual successful velocity and his usual applause. When he had received the compliments of the nobility and gentry, my father begged the Baronness to take his place; but she would not at first hear of it. She said in French, which she almost always speaks, that it was quite out of the question; and that it would be like a figurante’s dancing after Heinel However, Miss Phipps joined so warmly in my father’s request, that she was at length prevailed with. The character she has acquired of being the first of lady harpsichord players, as far as I have heard or can judge, is well merited. She has a great deal of execution and fire, and plays with much meaning. She is, besides, extremely modest and unconscious. She declared she had never been so much frightened before in her life. When she had played a Lesson of Schobert’s, my father asked her for another German composition, which he had heard her play at Lord Mulgrave’s. She was going very obligingly to comply, when the Baron Deiden, looking at my sister, said, “Mais aprés ma chère.”
“Eh bien!” cried Miss Phipps, “après Mrs. Burney.”
The Baroness then rose, and gracefully gave her place to my sister, who, to avoid emulation, with great propriety chose to play a slow movement of Echard’s, because the Baroness had been playing music of execution. She could not, however, have chosen any thing, by which she could have given more pleasure; for it is a lesson which is almost unequalled for taste, elegance, and delicacy, and she played it with so much feeling and expression, that the whole company listened with delight
ed attention. She afterwards played a very difficult lesson of my father’s; but she was so much flurried, that she neither did that nor herself justice.
After this, we had a song from Miss Louisa Harris. She has little or no voice; but sings with great taste and in a high style. She was accompanied by her father, and sang some recitative and an air of Sacchini’s, which were never printed; but we remembered having heard him sing them: the music is beautiful. She said she had rather have sung at a theatre than before such an audience! She afterwards sung a most charming Rondeau of Rauzzini’s, from Piramo and Thisbé: Fuggiam dove secura.
Complete Works of Frances Burney Page 485
