The Diary and Collected Letters of Madame D'Arblay, Frances Burney. Frances Burney
and so I think.
Dr. J. (laughing)—Suppose Burney and I begin together?
Mr. M.—Ah, I wish you would! I wish you would Beaumont and Fletcher us!
F.B.—My father asked me, this morning, how my head stood. If he should have asked me this evening, I don’t know what answer I must have made.
Mr. M.—I have no wish to turn anybody’s head: I speak what I really think;—comedy is the forte of that book. I laughed over it most violently: and if the author—I won’t say who (all the time looking away from me)—will write a comedy I will most readily, and with great pleasure, give any advice or assistance in my power.
“Well, now you are a sweet man!” cried Mrs. Thrale, who looked ready to kiss him. “Did not I tell you, Miss Burney, that Mr. Murphy was the man?”
Mr. M.—All I can do, I shall be very happy to do; and at least I will undertake to say I can tell what the sovereigns of the upper gallery will bear: for they are the most formidable part of an audience. I have had so much experience in this sort of work, that I believe I can always tell what will be hissed at least. And if Miss Burney will write, and will show me—
Dr. J.—Come, come, have done with this now; why should you overpower her? Let’s have no more of it. I don’t mean to dissent from what you say; I think well of it, and approve of it; but you have said enough of it.
Mr. Murphy, who equally loves and reverences Dr. Johnson, instantly changed the subject.
Yesterday, at night, I asked Dr. Johnson if he would permit me to take a great liberty with him? He assented with the most encouraging smile. And then I said,
“I believe, sir, you heard part of what passed between Mr. Murphy and me the other evening, concerning—a comedy. Now, if I should make such an attempt, would you be so good as to allow me, any time before Michaelmas, to put it in the coach, for you to look over as you go to town?”
“To be sure, my dear!—What, have you begun a comedy then?”
I told him how the affair stood. He then gave me advice which just accorded with my wishes, viz., not to make known that I had any such intention; to keep my own counsel; not to whisper even the name of it; to raise no expectations, which were always prejudicial, and finally, to have it performed while the town knew nothing of whose it was. I readily assured him of my hearty concurrence in his opinion; but he somewhat distressed me when I told him that Mr. Murphy must be in my confidence, as he had offered his services, by desiring he might be the last to see it.
What I shall do, I know not, for he has, himself, begged to be the first. Mrs. Thrale, however, shall guide me between them. He spoke highly of Mr. Murphy, too, for he really loves him. He said he would not have it in the coach, but I should read it to him; however, I could sooner drown or hang!
When I would have offered some apology for the attempt, he stopt me, and desired I would never make any.
“For,” said he, “if it succeeds, it makes its own apology, if not——”
“If not,” quoth I, “I cannot do worse than Dr. Goldsmith, when his play63 failed,—go home and cry.”
He laughed, but told me, repeatedly (I mean twice, which, for him, is very remarkable), that I might depend upon all the service in his power; and, he added, it would be well to make Murphy the last judge, “for he knows the stage,” he said, “and I am quite ignorant of it.”
Afterwards, grasping my hand with the most affectionate warmth, he said,
“I wish you success! I wish you well! my dear little Burney!”
When, at length, I told him I could stay no longer, and bid him good night, he said, “There is none like you, my dear little Burney! there is none like you!—good night, my darling!”
A Beauty Weeping at Will
I find Miss Streatfield 64a very amiable girl, and extremely handsome; not so wise as I expected, but very well; however, had she not chanced to have had so uncommon an education, with respect to literature or learning, I believe she would not have made her way among the wits by the force of her natural parts.
Mr. Seward, you know, told me that she had tears at command, and I begin to think so too, for when Mrs. Thrale, who had previously told me I should see her cry, began coaxing her to stay, and saying, “If you go, I shall know you don’t love me so well as Lady Gresham,”—she did cry, not loud indeed, nor much, but the tears came into her eyes, and rolled down her fine cheeks.
“Come hither, Miss Burney,” cried Mrs. Thrale, “come and see Miss Streatfield cry!”
I thought it a mere badinage. I went to them, but when I saw real tears, I was shocked, and saying “No, I won’t look at her,” ran away frightened, lest she should think I laughed at her, which Mrs. Thrale did so openly, that, as I told her, had she served me so, I should have been affronted with her ever after.
Miss Streatfield, however, whether from a sweetness not to be ruffled, or from not perceiving there was any room for taking offence, gently wiped her eyes, and was perfectly composed!
Mr. Murphy’s Concern regarding Fanny Burney’s Comedy
Streatham, May, Friday. Once more, my dearest Susy, I will attempt journalising, and endeavour, according to my promise, to keep up something of the kind during our absence, however brief and curtailed.
To-day, while Mrs. Thrale was chatting with me in my room, we saw Mr. Murphy drive into the courtyard. Down stairs flew Mrs. Thrale, but, in a few minutes, up she flew again, ‘crying,
“Mr. Murphy is crazy for your play—he won’t let me rest for it—do pray let me run away with the first act.”
Little as I like to have it seen in this unfinished state, she was too urgent to be resisted, so off she made with it.
I did not shew my phiz till I was summoned to dinner. Mr. Murphy, probably out of flummery, made us wait some minutes, and, when he did come, said,
“I had much ado not to keep you all longer, for I could hardly get away from some new acquaintances I was just making.”
As he could not stay to sleep here, he had only time, after dinner, to finish the first act. He was pleased to commend it very liberally; he has pointed out two places where he thinks I might enlarge, but has not criticised one word; on the contrary, the dialogue he has honoured with high praise.
Brighthelmstone, May 26. The road from Streatham hither is beautiful: Mr., Mrs., Miss Thrale, and Miss Susan Thrale, and I, travelled in a coach, with four horses, and two of the servants in a chaise, besides two men on horseback; so we were obliged to stop for some time at three places on the road.
We got home by about nine o’clock. Mr. Thrale’s house is in West Street, which is the court end of the town here, as well as in London. ’Tis a neat, small house, and I have a snug comfortable room to myself. The sea is not many yards from our windows. Our journey was delightfully pleasant, the day being heavenly, the roads in fine order, the prospects charming, and everybody good-humoured and cheerful.
Thursday. Just before we went to dinner, a chaise drove up to the door, and from it issued Mr. Murphy. He met with, a very joyful reception; and Mr. Thrale, for the first time in his life, said he was “a good fellow”: for he makes it a sort of rule to salute him with the title of “scoundrel,” or “rascal.” They are very old friends; and I question if Mr. Thrale loves any man so well.
He made me many very flattering speeches, of his eagerness to go on with my play, to know what became of the several characters, and to what place I should next conduct them; assuring me that the first act had run in his head ever since he had read it.
In the evening we all, adjourned to Major H—‘s, where, besides his own family,